Jane Goes Batty

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “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.”

  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 twins 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.”

  The actress was holding a glass of red wine in her hand and talking to a handsome man with dark hair and a solid build.

  “Is that Tucker Mack or Riley Bannister she’s talking to?” Jane asked, throwing out the names of the actors she recalled were playing the two male leads.

  “Tucker Mack,” said Lucy. “That’s Riley over there.” She pointed to a man who was in every visible way slightly less than Tucker Mack. He was slightly shorter, slightly thinner, slightly younger, and slightly less dark. However, he was arguably more handsome.

  “He’s playing Charles,” Lucy said. She sighed. “He’s my movie husband.”

  “Your what?” asked Jane.

  “My movie husband,” Lucy explained. “You know, when you pick one guy from the movies who you would want to marry? I also have a TV husband, a music husband, a sports husband, and a book husband.” She looked at Jane. “You and your girlfriends never did that?”

  Jane was about to say that no, they never had, but then she remembered something. “Well, I did have rather a crush on William Pitt the Younger when I was about fifteen or so.”

  Lucy looked at her. “You’re joking. William Pitt the Younger?”

  “He was prime minister,” Jane said defensively. “He had lovely eyes. Also, he worked to abolish the slave trade. I imagine that’s more than you can say for your imaginary husbands.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” said Lucy. “But Riley Bannister has a cuter butt.”

  Jane peered at the young man, whose backside was facing her. “I must agree with you on that point,” she said. “So that means Mr. Mack is playing Jonathan. I believe he’ll do admirably as a villain. He has the eyebrows for it.”

  “Then we have Cecilia Banks,” Lucy continued. “She’s Minerva.” She indicated a thin girl with olive skin and short black hair that reminded Jane of the style popular with the flappers of the 1920s. She resembles Josephine Baker, Jane thought, her mind briefly flashing back to a raucous evening spent with Baker, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and a trio of French modernist painters. How that girl had loved to laugh.

  Cecilia was talking to another young woman who was her opposite in coloring, having unnaturally blond hair and skin like milk. The blonde was smoking a cigarette, and Jane could smell its acrid fumes from across the yard. “And she is?” she asked.

  “That would be Chloe,” said Lucy.

  “Chloe who?” Jane inquired.

  “Just Chloe,” Lucy answered. “Like Madonna. Or Cher. She’s a pop star. The pop star at the moment.”

  “She can’t be more than seventeen,” said Jane. “Can she act?”

  Lucy shrugged. “We’ll find out,” she said. “This is her first movie.”

  “Tell me she’s playing a small part,” said Jane, watching the singer toss her cigarette butt into the grass and regarding the girl with dislike. “A very small part.”

  “Barbara Wexley,” Lucy informed her. “So not all that big. Besides, isn’t Barbara supposed to be something of a troublemaker?”

  “Well, yes,” Jane admitted. “Still, a pop singer?”

  “She’ll put butts in seats,” said a male voice.

  Jane and Lucy turned to see Ant Doolan standing behind them. As always, he was holding his camera. “Chloe’s a real piece of work,” said Ant, taking a handful of potato chips from a bowl of them on the counter. “Just between us, I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled a Richie on us.”

  “A Richie?” Jane repeated. “Is that a film term?”

  Ant laughed loudly, potato chip crumbs dropping from his mouth. “Leslie Richie,” he said. “You know, she was the rising star of Hollywood a few years ago. Won an Emmy. Was on the cover of every magazine in town. Dated one of them Italian princes. Only she got a little taste for the nose candy and vodka. That�
��s not a big deal—most of them do—but she got out of control. Six trips to rehab in two years, but it never stuck. One night she and her boyfriend got into a fight and he beat her head in with her Emmy.”

  “What a delightful story,” Jane remarked. She glanced out the window at Chloe. “I hope she won’t come to quite so unfortunate an end.”

  “Probably not,” said Ant. “She doesn’t have an Emmy. Anyway, Cecilia is the one with the talent. That girl is pure magic. Wait till you see her on set. Unbelievable.”

  Jane heard genuine admiration in Ant’s voice and was surprised by it. He seemed all too typically jaded by his life in Hollywood. Yet Jane could tell that he really was moved by Cecilia Banks, and not from any lecherous motivations. It would be interesting to see what the girl could do with her character. It’s too bad she isn’t playing Constance, Jane thought. She was not at all confident that Portia Kensington could do the role justice.

  “At any rate, Chloe will bring in the teenyboppers, and they’ll come with their mothers,” said Ant. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter how bad she is. They can fix all of that in editing.” He looked at Jane. “So where’s the can?”

  “Can?” Jane asked.

  “Bathroom,” Ant explained.

  “Of course,” said Jane. “It’s down the hall, on the right.”

  Ant took another handful of chips and walked away. Jane looked at Lucy. “Remind me not to eat anything he’s had his hands near,” she said.

  The ding-dong of the doorbell broke through the sounds of the party. Jane left Lucy in the kitchen and went to see who had arrived. She was pleased to discover that it was Ben Cohen and his daughter standing on her doorstep.

  “I’m afraid it’s all going to be a bit casual tonight,” Jane said as she welcomed them inside. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” said Ben. “The more the merrier.”

  “You must be Sarah,” Jane said, extending her hand to the little girl.

  “And you must be Jane,” the girl replied, taking Jane’s hand and shaking it firmly.

  “You mean Ms. Fairfax,” Ben said, correcting his daughter.

  “Why?” asked Sarah. “She didn’t call me Ms. Cohen.”

  Ben looked at Jane and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe his child’s impertinence.

  Jane laughed. “It’s all right,” she said. “As long as you don’t mind me calling you Sarah.”

  Sarah grinned, revealing a neat row of teeth with a single gap where one of her incisors had fallen out. “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” said Jane. “Now why don’t we go into the kitchen and see about getting you something to eat. I hope you like hamburgers.”

  “I love them,” Sarah told her. “Is there corn on the cob too?”

  “There just might be,” said Jane, winking. “And apple pie.”

  As Sarah darted ahead, Ben took Jane’s arm and stopped her. “Are Walter and his mother here yet?” he asked. “I can’t wait to see what Miriam is like.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get the chance,” Jane told him. “They aren’t able to make it.” She felt a little guilty telling the rabbi an untruth, but she wasn’t in the mood to discuss her and Walter’s relationship. She would tell him later what was really going on. Once I figure it out myself, she thought glumly.

  Ben smiled kindly. “Another time, then.”

  He knows something is up, Jane realized as Ben continued on into the kitchen. She was amazed at the man’s ability to pick up on the feelings of others.

  In the kitchen Sarah was talking to Lucy, with whom she had apparently already made friends.

  “Daddy, there are movie stars out there,” Sarah exclaimed, pointing out the window.

  “Is that right?” said Ben. He looked at Lucy. “I’m afraid I’m not really up on my movie stars.”

  “You’re not missing anything,” said Lucy. “By the way, I’m Lucy Sebring.”

  “Ben Cohen,” said Ben.

  “Ben’s the rabbi I’ve been meeting with,” Jane reminded Lucy. To Ben she said, “Lucy is the manager of my bookstore. More important, she’s my best friend.”

  “An enviable position to have, I’m sure,” said Ben.

  “It has its moments,” Lucy joked. “Would you like something to drink? We have soda, wine, beer—pretty much everything.”

  “A beer would be great,” said Ben. “Thanks.”

  “And how about you?” Lucy asked Sarah.

  “Ginger ale,” she answered immediately. “Please,” she added when she noticed her father watching her.

  “One beer and one ginger ale,” said Lucy. She opened the refrigerator and handed a bottle to Ben and a can to Sarah.

  “Wow. Great service you have around here,” Ben said to Jane.

  Lucy laughed and tucked a stray length of hair behind her ear. Ben leaned against the counter and popped the cap from his beer. “So, you manage a bookstore. Who are some of your favorite authors?”

  Jane, who was opening another bag of chips, suddenly felt a tingling down her spine. She looked around, half expecting to see another vampire standing there. But only Lucy, Ben, and Sarah were in the room. Sarah was sitting on the floor playing with Jasper, who was busily snuffling about looking for any dropped food that might be lying around. Then Jane’s gaze moved to Ben and Lucy.

  Around both of them there was a slight rippling in the air, barely noticeable. Tiny sparks, infinitesimal and glittering like diamonds, swirled and spun. Jane’s skin tingled with millions of electric pinpricks. For a moment she had no idea what was happening. Then it hit her.

  They’re attracted to each other, Jane realized. But how was that possible? They’d just met. Surely she was imagining things.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Byron’s voice startled her. She looked at him. “I’m not what?” she asked.

  “You’re not wrong,” Byron whispered. “They’re falling in love. Well, they’re interested, at any rate. But it’s looking pretty sparkly.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” asked Jane, annoyed.

  “Relax,” Byron said, smiling mischievously. “I’m not reading your mind. Although I can if I try very hard. I just saw the expression on your face, saw the energy field around those two, and made a good guess.”

  “Energy field,” said Jane. “Is that what that is?”

  Byron nodded. “Your powers must be getting stronger if you can see it. Congratulations.”

  He picked up a bottle of red wine, poured himself a glass, and started to leave. Jane grabbed his elbow.

  “Wait a minute,” she said, dragging him away from the kitchen. “You mean I can see when people are falling in love?”

  “Falling in love, really angry, in despair,” said Byron. “Overcome by lust,” he added, taking a deep drink from his glass and winking at her.

  “What a lot of bother,” Jane remarked. “I’m not at all sure I want to be able to do that.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to,” said Byron. “You can learn to turn it off. But that will mean more practice. Until then, don’t be surprised if you see this sort of thing now and again.”

  Jane sighed deeply. “Just when I think I have one thing mastered, another rears its ugly head.”

  “I would hardly call falling in love ugly,” Byron remarked.

  Jane glanced back into the kitchen, where Lucy and Ben were still surrounded by a cloud of sparks. “You’re right,” she told Byron. “It’s beautiful.” Suddenly she realized fully what was going on. “Lucy!” she exclaimed. “And Ben!” She grabbed Byron’s hand. “It never occurred to me,” she babbled. “I mean, I never thought …” She couldn’t form a complete sentence. “Lucy,” she said. “And Ben. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Byron warned her. “It could be temporary.” He watched the electrical storm surrounding the two humans. “But that is a pretty spectacular display.”

  Before Jane could
respond the doorbell rang.

  “Who could that be?” Jane said. “Everyone who could possibly be here is already here.”

  She walked to the door. As she approached it her skin began to tingle again. She stopped, waiting to see if the sensation ceased. It didn’t. She took a few more steps toward the door and the tingling increased. Whoever was waiting behind the door was feeling something incredibly strong. But what? She had no way of identifying the specific emotion.

  For heaven’s sake, I’ve only been able to do this for ten minutes, she thought.

  The bell rang again. Jane reached for the doorknob but found herself afraid to turn it. Her fingertips rested against it, the electric sparks of emotion coursing through the metal and up her arm. The feeling was more intense than the one she’d gotten from Lucy and Ben, and somehow less pleasant.

  There was a sharp, impatient rapping on the door. Jane hesitated a moment longer and then opened it, revealing a petite woman whose closed fist was coming toward Jane with great purpose. It stopped just short of hitting her in the face.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. “You weren’t answering.”

  The woman was thin, with pale skin and black hair that was pulled into a tight chignon. She was wearing a smartly tailored skirt and jacket—also black—and a scarlet silk blouse open at the neck. Her shiny black leather pumps had heels that meant business and added another three inches to her height. Small, perfect pearls adorned her ears. Her eyes were impossibly blue.

  “Hello,” Jane said tentatively. She was distracted by the aura of particles emanating from the woman. They were moving rapidly, as if agitated, and they were as scarlet as her blouse.

  “You wouldn’t come to me, so I came to you,” the woman said, her pert red lips forming what would only very generously be called a smile. Something about her voice was vaguely familiar, but Jane was unable to place it. She was feeling slightly sick. Then it came to her.