Reign, p.12
Reign, page 12
Sid Harper and Donna Franklin had been making love to each other for ten years. It was a relationship of convenience in which expediency of passion was the key. They had had few relationships with other people during the time they had been together, and had never spoken of the four-letter word, love.
"I just don't know," Sid mused, "what's gotten into Dennis lately. He's not his old self, that's for sure."
"There was something else," Donna said, and he felt her stiffen beside him. "I just remembered. He didn't blink. I don't think I saw him blink one time, even when I shone my flashlight right in his face . . .”
Scene 9
The next morning, Ann Deems came to the Venetian Theatre to begin her new job. Donna Franklin gave her a tour of the building, and then showed her to a small office on the second floor just down the hall from Donna and Steinberg's two-office suite. There, she began to fill out the first of the forms that would become such a large part of her life. Dennis had not been there to greet her, nor had she expected that he would, and she was relieved not to have to see him again so soon after their last meeting.
Halfway through lunch, which Ann ate at her desk, Donna appeared at the door. "You have a visitor," she said. "Your daughter?"
Donna stepped back, allowed Terri to enter the tiny room, and left them alone. "Sit down," Ann said. "Here, let me move these papers."
"You look like you've settled in," said Terri, who remained standing. Ann noticed that she had her portfolio with her. "Are you feeling particularly fulfilled yet?"
"Terri dear, when you are all grown up and married, I hope you have a daughter exactly like mine."
"Thank you, mother. Now. Who do I have to . . . bribe to meet Marvella Johnson?"
Ann thought for a moment. She had made whatever loose arrangements she had with Dennis, and had no idea if he had even mentioned the situation to Marvella Johnson. Then she looked at the phone on her desk, at the initials next to the push buttons, in particular the one marked DKH, and made up her mind. "Hold on," she said, picked up the receiver, and pushed the button. Sid answered, but in less than a minute she was talking to Dennis, who sounded happy to hear her voice, and told her to bring Terri to the costume shop, where he would introduce them to Marvella.
Terri followed Ann silently down the hall and up the stairs. The place was such a labyrinth that Ann felt secretly proud that she remembered her way there. When they entered, Dennis was standing next to Marvella, his beaming face in harsh contrast to her wrinkled and frowning countenance. After the introductions, during which Marvella did not speak one intelligible word, Dennis walked Ann back to her office, leaving Terri and the costumer alone.
"I don't think they hit it off," said Ann, as she sat behind her desk.
Dennis chuckled as he leaned against the door frame. "Marvella doesn't hit it off with anyone. The costume shop is her domain, and she sees everyone else as interlopers — at least until they've worked with her for a while and she realizes they don't have smeared chocolate on their fingers or sabotage on their minds. Don't worry, they'll get along. And if Terri's good, she'll get the job."
"I hope so. I'd like to see her happy again."
"Again? How long has it been?"
"Oh, since she was six."
They laughed, and Ann realized she felt comfortable with Dennis. Maybe, she thought, this could work out after all. They seemed to be friends now, and there was no reason they could not remain so, no reason they had to become anything more.
~ * ~
Marvella Johnson's frown was a forced one. It took a great deal of effort to make her facial muscles press the sides of her mouth down so far, but, she thought, it was worth it. If she could get them crying, or at least get that lower lip trembling, then she knew they were busted, and would go away thanking sweet Jesus that they weren't going to work with the tyrannous Marvella Johnson.
But this girl — this Terri — was one tough cookie. She gave Marvella back stare for stare, and slapped her designs on the work table as though daring her prospective boss to criticize them. Marvella liked that. It meant the girl wasn't prepared to put up with bullshit. Marvella hadn't put up with bullshit for years. "This all you brought?" she asked Terri, her steely black fingers flipping through the contents of the portfolio like a harrow through weeds.
"You want more, I can get more. But I don't have it here." She sounded, Marvella thought, just pissed off. There wasn't the trace of a sob.
"No, I guess this's enough to show me what you can do. The designs are fine, but what about the construction? You good with a machine?"
"I've built everything you see there." The girl took a colored envelope from her purse. "Here are the photos." She tossed the envelope so that it spun twice before it hit the table.
Marvella snorted, picked it up, and looked through the pictures inside. They were damn good, she thought, with the disappointment she always felt when she found someone she knew was good enough to work for her. It had to be done. She needed someone even now, for the bulk of the work was creeping up on her. Alone, she would be in no condition to costume the show due to open in the spring. Nope, no way around it. She could hire some of the people she'd worked with before, and when the time came, probably would. But she needed someone now, someone who would work like hell and take no shit except from her, and was damn good at what she did. Who knows, she thought, maybe I might even learn to like the little bitch.
Marvella tossed the pictures on the table and looked up at the girl. "You start next Monday. Work out the salary with Miss Franklin."
~ * ~
Sweet Jesus! Terri thought, and felt the smile burst across her face before she could contain it. She thought about pushing it back, then decided what the hell, Marvella Johnson had already seen it. The only thing more uncool than losing your cool was doing it and then pretending you hadn't. "Thanks, Ms. Johnson."
"Don't load any of that 'Miz' crap on me. That's what my mama used to call the ladies she did floors for. Marvella'll be fine. We're on an equal footing here, except for what I say goes." She nodded her head several times as she looked at Terri appraisingly. "Yeah, you're gonna be fine. But get outta here now, I got work to do."
"Sure. And thanks." Marvella waved a hand in reply and turned back to her work. Terri couldn't call her Marvella. Not yet.
She felt jubilant as she walked down the hall to the elevator she had passed on the way up. For a moment she thought of finding her mother and telling her that she had gotten the job, but decided not to. She would drop it at the dinner table tonight, subtly, as though it was no big thing, just something that she deserved. Although Terri was surprised Marvella had chosen her, she didn't want Ann to know that. No, she would let Ann think that the real surprise would have come if Marvella had not offered her the job. That would piss her off royally.
The elevator doors opened, and Terri got on and pushed 1. The three story ride was slow, and Terri started to think about Dennis Hamilton. He was good looking, there was no doubt of that, and the way that he carried himself was a real turn-on — like someone born to be rich and famous. And too, when he had looked at her in the costume room, was she imagining it or had he examined her with more than ordinary interest? His smile had been very warm, and she was sure she had caught him, just for a moment, looking at her legs.
She giggled as the elevator doors opened, then stepped out into the large, elegant lobby, too busy with her thoughts to see the vast and priceless oriental rug over which she walked, the marble arches that spread over her, the Emperor looking down on her from the mezzanine balcony above.
~ * ~
I shall have this one. Perhaps the mother later, but first the young one. I'll have her flesh, and with it I shall do whatever I want.
Whatever the Emperor wants.
Scene 10
That evening Marvella worked late in the costume shop. She wouldn't have normally, but Robin had sent a script down from New York by Federal Express. It was the script, the one that looked like the best possibility for production by the New American Musical Theatre Project, and Marvella decided immediately that she would have to see what pieces already existed for the 1930's American city milieu in which the show was set.
She had gone to the costume shop after dinner, climbed up the rickety stairway to the fifth-floor loft, and begun to go through the racks of unironed (and in many cases uncleaned) clothes that she had not yet explored. When she found a costume she thought might be serviceable, she threw it over the edge of the loft and let it float down to the floor of the shop below. By nine o'clock, when she paused to look over the edge, she discovered that she had quite a pile below, and decided to take a break.
Marvella always took her own coffee grinder and drip coffee maker wherever she went. To offer her coffee from a machine was tantamount to giving pork to a rabbi. It simply wasn't done, and no one did it twice. Now Marvella ground six scoops of Blue Mountain beans, one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, poured fresh water in the reservoir, turned the switch to on, and sat back for a minute while the coffee brewed and the air filled with its deliciously bitter-smelling steam.
The ragged bubbling had nearly stopped when the door to the costume room opened. "Looks like I'm just in time," said Sid, ushering Whitney, who was clad in pajamas and clutched a stuffed zebra, ahead of him.
"You want a cup?" Marvella asked.
"No thanks."
"Then what brings you here? And what brings the child?"
"I couldn't sleep, Grandma," Whitney said, going to her grandmother and attempting to put her little arms around her. "I missed you too much.”
“What's wrong with Sid?" asked Marvella, trying to sound stern.
"He's not as soft to hug."
"I guess I'll take that as a compliment. Okay, you can stay here for a while. I'll be through soon. Thanks, Sid."
"My pleasure. I can watch your TV as easy as mine. G'night." He gave Whitney a peck on the cheek and left.
"So what are you gonna do now?" Marvella asked her granddaughter.
"Just watch you. I'll watch you work, and then I can see what you do, and then when I'm old enough I can be your helper, like that new lady you hired." The girl walked over to the pile of clothes and started rummaging through them. "When can I meet her, Grandma?"
"Oh soon," Marvella sighed, sipping her black coffee with pleasure. "Real soon now."
~ * ~
Soon, Grandma said. Everything was always soon, and Whitney was tired of "soon." Grandma would be done in the costume shop "soon," Whitney was going to go back to her mother "soon," Grandma would teach Whitney to sew "soon" as she had some time. Whitney gave a big, deep sigh, just the way she had seen the little girl on The Cosby Show do it, but Grandma didn't say anything, didn't ask her, like Bill Cosby always asked his little girl, what was wrong.
Maybe this new lady would be nice, Whitney thought. Maybe she'd want to do things now and not "soon." Grandma had said she was nice, and Whitney was anxious to meet her. So was soon tomorrow or next week or the week after, or . . .
No. Oh no. Soon was right now.
Whitney looked at her Grandma and saw that her back was to the lady, so she couldn't see her. But Whitney could, and knew that it had to be this Terri who Grandma had told her about at dinner. She had bright red hair, cut just below her ears, and glasses, but really pretty glasses that didn't make her look like an owl like some glasses did to people like Miss Franklin. She looked just like Grandma had said, only she wasn't crabby-looking at all. She was smiling at Whitney, a big, wide smile that showed all her teeth, and Whitney was surprised at how white her teeth were, almost like they were glowing.
The woman put a finger to her lips, as though she didn't want Whitney to tell her grandma that she was there, and winked at Whitney with her bright green eyes. Whitney winked back, and the woman smiled even more then, gestured over to the narrow stairway that led up to the loft, and began to tiptoe in that direction. She was a great tiptoer. Everybody made noise when they walked around the costume shop because the floor was so creaky, but Whitney couldn't hear the woman's footsteps at all, not even when she started up the stairway and beckoned to Whitney to follow her.
Whitney, in her own opinion, was a great tiptoer, since she was so light the floorboards refused to give beneath her. She held her breath as she followed the woman, around the pile of clothes, across the floor, and up the steps. Whitney couldn't see her now. She must have gotten to the top and turned to the left and was waiting for Whitney. What was she going to do? Some surprise for Grandma, that was it. Maybe they could scare her.
"Hello?" Whitney whispered, and clapped her hand over her mouth dramatically, the way she had seen the little girl on Cosby do it when she said something she shouldn't have.
"Whitney?" came her grandma's voice from below. "Where are you, honey?"
She had to answer. "Up here, Grandma. Just exploring."
"Well, you be careful and stay away from the edge. That banister's not much to speak of, so you stay back."
"I will, Grandma," she said. She was at the top of the stairs now, but still couldn't see the redheaded woman she had followed. On the left was the open area of the loft and a small work table, while to the girl's right were three racks of clothing parallel to the wall, so that only the front one was visible to Whitney. Where was the woman? Was she hiding behind one of those rows of clothes? Did she want Whitney to come and hide with her too? And then they could get Grandma to come up and look for them and jump out at her and scare her? That had to be it, and Whitney suppressed a giggle as she tiptoed across the boards of the loft, peering between the costumes that hung like dozens of scarecrows on the fat, steel pipes.
"Hello?" Whitney whispered again, softly enough this time so that she didn't have to put her hand over her mouth. But there was no answer. Okay then, Whitney would just have to find her.
Slowly she made her way down the rack of costumes, pausing after every half dozen or so to separate and look behind them for the lady. At worst, she expected Grandma's helper to lean forward, make a face, and whisper Boo. But when she pulled the costumes apart at the exact middle of the rack to reveal who was standing behind them, no one said Boo. No one said a thing. And what Whitney had expected to be the worst would have been merely playful in comparison to the reality.
It was not a young, redheaded woman with kind green eyes and glasses who now stood a yard away from Whitney. Instead it was a creature out of a worse nightmare than any little girl could imagine. Everything was bad, but the eyes were the worst of all, or rather the absence of eyes. Where they should have been were two black pits, their utter darkness in vicious contrast to the icy whiteness of the skin and the long hair that, shroud-like, framed the face. Yet deep within the sockets Whitney saw red specks burning brightly, like coals when you blow on them.
The mouth opened slowly, as if cranked, and the exhalation that rippled over Whitney was more foul than anything she had ever confronted in her eight years of life. She felt a sudden warm dampness, knew that she had wet her pajamas, and for an instant shame swept over her before the fear bludgeoned its way back.
Now something moved at the bottom of her field of vision, and she saw that the hands, sharp talons from which gray flesh was flaking, were coming up toward her across the surface of the thing's blood-red dress, and the monstrous head was growing closer as well, the nightmare face nearing her own.
Whitney's hands fell to her side, and the costumes closed together, blocking the woman from her sight, breaking the spell the lich had laid upon her, giving her just enough time to back away a few steps before the gray, rotting claws darted from between the costumes, pushed them violently to either side, and the woman came toward her again, quickly now, her legs unseen beneath the long red dress she wore, the red coals of the eyes blazing as though buffeted by a tornado.
"Grandma!" Whitney screamed, still backing away, unable to turn her gaze from the thing bearing down on her. Then her head hit the railing of the loft, and she was through, falling backward, toward the floor of the costume shop far below, falling, the ceiling receding, and all she could do was hope that the woman didn't come over the edge, didn't fly down after her where she was falling, falling, hearing the air rush past her, hearing Grandma's cry, and falling . . .
~ * ~
It was Whitney's scream that alerted Marvella, then the sharp crack of her head hitting the rail that brought her to her feet and turned her around just in time to see the girl fall. Too far away. There was nothing she could do, only stand frozen and watch the girl falling, falling in an eternity of time during which Marvella could not move a muscle, in that split second knowing the futility of it, praying for angels to bear the child up, ease her to the floor.
But the prayers were unanswered. The girl did not slow in her descent, but fell down, down, directly onto the heap of clothing that Marvella had been throwing over the edge of the loft for hours, and disappeared into them.
"Oh Jesus," Marvella breathed, a prayer, not a curse, and ran to the heap of costumes, where weak, thrashing movements told her that her granddaughter was alive. "Lie still!" Marvella barked, fearing that if harm had been done the girl's movements would only worsen it. "You lie still, Whitney!"
But the girl did not obey. Soon she was out of the soft pile, and if the strength of the embrace with which she held her grandmother was any indication of her general health, Marvella had nothing to worry about. Still, she grasped the girl's shoulders to disengage her as gently as possible and hold her at arm's length. "Are you all right?" she said firmly.
The girl, tears in her eyes and trembling, nodded. "Oh Grandma," she said, lowering her head and pointing upward, as though she feared what she might see. "That lady up there, she turned into something . . . into a witch . . ."
"What?" Marvella frowned. "What are you talking about. What lady?"
"The lady! The lady you said was helping you, the lady with the red hair and the glasses, she was here."
