Antiques Knock-Off (25 page)

Absent were Senator Clark (who was back in Washington), Peggy Sue (in seclusion and anyway not up to it), and the chief of police (still on leave until Monday). I’d been hoping Tony would come, because I hadn’t seen him since he’d stopped by my hospital room. Several phone calls, yes, but nothing in person….

The stage at one end of the room was small, consisting of risers borrowed from the high school, and the scenic direction simple, the only props being five plastic chairs placed in a row. Next to the stage, on the floor, was a large game wheel with an arrow, its pie-shaped sections each sporting a word, “REGRET,” “HAPPINESS,” “SHAME,” “LOVE,” and so forth.

There was no program pamphlet. Mother detested printed programs and whenever possible with held them from her audiences, disdaining anything that might take
the audience’s eye off of her or her production. Once, when she was playing Lady Macbeth, a woman in the front row was so engrossed in her program booklet, rustling the pages, that Mother paused mid-Bard to walk to the footlights and declaim, “Madam! I am about to die. You might not want to miss it.”

(Lady Macbeth dies off-stage in Shakespeare, but Mother’s interpretation has her dying on stage. She once explained, “I find that audiences always enjoy my death scenes, dear,” to which I could only comment, “It is a crowd pleaser.”)

While Mother had kept this, her first penal play, under wraps, she
had
told me that the format was unusual: one act, free-form, and in part improvisational. I say “in part” because, knowing Mother, she would not leave everything to chance.

I was sitting toward the back (so I could watch people’s sure-to-be-amusing reactions), next to Tina, who had baby Brandy strapped inside her oversized shirt, up against her skin.

Have you heard about the new procedure for preemies called “kangaroo care?” If the baby is otherwise healthy, he/she could go home as long as the infant remained attached to the Mother’s warm chest. Anyway, so far it has worked for Tina and Kevin.

(Admission:
If you think it’s easy to give birth and then hand the baby off to someone else—even a dear friend—think again. While it gave me joy to see Tina with little Brandy, I couldn’t see that sweet small creature without my heart swelling with pride, and then breaking a little.)

At precisely eight
P.M.
(according to the white-faced, black-handed institutional clock), a security door to one side of the stage opened, and five female inmates in their orange prison jumpsuits filed in, with Mother—dressed like a gypsy—following behind.

Wow,
I thought.
A gypsy! This would be rich….

The inmates walked up the few steps to the stage, took their chairs, while Mother assumed her position on the floor in front of the big wheel.

I recognized the women from what Mother had told me about her short incarceration—young, blond, slender Jennifer; stocky crew-cut Carol; tall, curvaceous red-haired Sarah; dark-complected, pudgy, curly-haired Angela; and the only one I’d seen before, the woman who’d given the hypnosis testimony—brown-haired, attractive if hard-featured Rhonda.

One odd (but I think interesting) side note: Carol was due to be released for her assault charge days before the performance, but she had shoved poor jail deputy Patty just to get her sentence increased. (I don’t know if this was Mother’s idea or Carol’s. But I suspect Mother of aiding and abetting.)

The ceiling lights dimmed.

I contemplated clapping, so that Mother would be assured of
some
applause, but no one else seemed so inclined.

The room fell silent, and you could hear the proverbial pin drop, though I had a feeling if one did, a guard would go for a gun. Suddenly a spotlight fell on Mother (I wondered if they were using the same one usually reserved for third-degree-type interrogations).

“Come one, come all!” gypsy Mother called, like a flamboyant circus barker. And wasn’t this a circus, after all?

She gestured to the round prop. “Come spin the wheel of fortune!” (I would have to remind Mother that she might be open to a lawsuit from the popular game show, should she, as promised/threatened, take her play out on the prison circuit.)

Mother pointed animatedly to Mrs. Hetzler, an ancient
gal pal in the front row. “You, madam—come forward and spin the wheel!” I suspected Mrs. Hetzler was a shill, to get the ball rolling (or wheel spinning).

The former high school English teacher, who had given me a “D” on my essay final for bad composition (readers who pause here to say, “I’m not surprised!” should be ashamed!), stood uncertainly and took the few steps to the wheel.

Now frail and stooped, her navy pantsuit looking two sizes too large, Mrs. Hetzler had trouble giving the wheel a good whirl, and I wondered if it had to go all the way around to qualify, like in
Match Game
reruns.

Apparently not, the arrow quickly pointing to the word, “SHAME.”

As Mrs. Hetzler returned to her seat, Mother turned ever so slowly toward the stage. “Who among you feels shame?”

The spotlight shifted from Mother to the seated inmates. Like in BBC’s
Whose Line Is It, Anyway?,
the women looked briefly at each other, then Sarah stood, and strode to the edge of the stage.

Looking out over the audience for a moment, she said, “My name is Sarah Coulter, and a year ago I had everything going for me….”

I was impressed with her casual manner as she told of her road to the county jail; yet her tale of woe—freely admitting her guilt—was neither maudlin nor self-serving. Once Sarah seemed to lose her train of thought, but the women behind her uttered words of encouragement, and she finished her frank monologue to loud applause.

A second audience participant was selected to spin the wheel, followed by another inmate performance, and so on; sometimes the monologues were lengthy, other times short. And not all the admissions were downers. Humor peppered throughout to lighten the mood, as when Rhonda
came forward with the word, “REGRET,” and said what she really regretted was getting caught. Everyone laughed at that (well, not everybody—Sheriff Rudder seemed less than amused).

I thought the format of the play was very clever: each woman had a story ready for each of the possible words that might come up, and yet it was spontaneous as to which word was landed on, and who felt like taking it. Brilliant.

But it was Carol who stole the show, when she came forward when the wheel stopped on “LOVE.”

“I think I first knew I was different was when I was in middle school. I told my mom about it and she promised she wouldn’t tell Daddy, but she did. He whupped me for it. He said I was trash, but I knew he was trash for hitting me. That’s when I left home. I had to live on the street and it was hard. If that wheel stopped on ‘SHAME,’ I wouldn’t talk about being gay, because I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not proud of it, either. I just am. And I know that for all the stupid choices I made in my life—and bein’ here in the county jail sure shows I made my share—I know my partner will stand by me. Because she loves me.”

No matter how the audience felt about alternative lifestyles, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house (yup, even the sheriff).

After the performance ended—to a standing ovation—I had never been prouder of Mother … nor more ashamed of myself for looking forward to her making a fool of herself.
I
felt like the fool. I felt like going up there, spinning that wheel to “REGRET” or maybe “SHAME,” and telling that audience what a lousy daughter I could be.

After the performance, while the audience was milling, offering their congratulations to Mother and the cast (the guards keeping a watchful eye), Denise Gardner approached me. She was wearing a pale green pantsuit, her
bloodred lips and nails replaced with a softer shade of pink.

“Well, that was … interesting,” the aide said.

Feeling magnanimous in light of Mother’s success, I said, “Thank you for coming, Denise.”

“It wasn’t exactly my idea,” she said, intimating that my father had something to do with it. “But I did want to see you again and, well … apologize for jumping to the conclusion that you and Senator Clark—”

“Forget it,” I cut in.
Really
feeling magnanimous.

She went on. “In my defense, the anonymous note the Grimes woman sent said only, ‘I know about the pregnancy.’ The senator never clarified that, said he wouldn’t ‘dignify it.’ So naturally I, uh, well … Any time you want to let me off the hook, that would be great.”

“I was kind of enjoying watching you dangle,” I admitted. “You know, Denise, we might be seeing each other from time to time, so it would be better for my father if we made an effort to get along.”

“By that, do you mean you’ll be going public with your relationship to the senator?”

I gave her a hard stare. “Being somebody’s kid isn’t a ‘relationship,’ except in the biological sense. Which is the only kind of relationship I have with him right now.”

“I didn’t mean to sound quite so blunt. But
are
you coming forward?”

“That’s up to him. You might put a little more faith in the common decency of people. Not
everyone
is trying to bring him down. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to congratulate the cast.”

And I left her to contemplate that.

Monday afternoon, I decided to surprise Tony by dropping in on him at the police station. The back-from-leave chief would have had the morning to settle in again at
work, and he should be happy to see me in the flesh after a month of phone-call-only contact.

I took special care getting ready, wearing a new fall outfit—DKNY dark-washed jeans, tan blazer over a crisp white shirt, and brown-suede Pliner loafers. A girly pink Betseyville shoulder bag offset the preppie look.

Soon I was heading out the door (leaving Sushi in Mother’s care) and hopping into my burgundy Buick. The oppressive August heat had changed to cooler September days, and some of the leaves were already beginning to turn bright yellow, burnt orange, and ruby red. Fall was my favorite time of the year, the season that represented the waning, bittersweet years of one’s life, seeming more sweet than bitter to me at the moment. But maybe that was the Prozac.

At the station, I asked the female dispatcher if I could see Chief Cassato, so I was pleased when the ponytailed woman with glasses said, “Yes. He said you might try to see him today—I’ll buzz you through.”

The hallway—normally alive with office sounds—seemed unusually quiet. As I passed by the break room, Officer Munson, eating a late lunch at the table, didn’t acknowledge my glance. Was he pretending not to see me?

Suddenly I wondered if word had gone round the station that Bob had most likely killed Connie, and there wasn’t anything they could do about it. And I was this loose end blithely invading their territory.

But I wasn’t about to let that thought dampen my mood. I intended to make a commitment to Tony today, and tell him how much I’d missed being with him, that I wanted to go forward with our relationship, danger be damned. Or anyway darned. And it was on this lofty cloud that I sailed into Tony’s office.

Where I found Officer Brian Lawson seated behind the chief’s desk.

At first I thought Brian was filling in for Tony, out on an investigation; then I noticed Brian’s personal photos framed and on the desk.

“Brandy,” he said, glancing up from paperwork. His smile seemed tentative.

And I knew.

“Tony’s … He’s not coming back, is he?”

“No,” Brian said softly.

“Ever?”

“That I don’t know.”

“Where is he?”

“That I don’t know, either.” He shrugged. “Witness Protection Program.”

My legs felt weak, and I found a chair.

Brian opened a desk drawer, withdrew an envelope, stood, then came around the desk. “The chief asked me to see that you got this….”

I took the envelope and opened it.

I read enough to realize that it shouldn’t have been addressed “Dear Brandy,” but “Dear Jane.”

I refolded the single sheet and slipped it back in the envelope, saving the rest for a more private moment.

Brian put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Brandy, really sorry. If there’s anything I can do—”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, a little too defensively, as if trying to convince myself. “Thank you for offering.”

I stood and faced him, his puppy-dog brown eyes laced with concern.

“You know I
do
care about you, Brandy.”

I summoned a smile. “I know. You’re a good friend, Brian.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “There was a time when I was more than that. Can you remember back that far?”

“It’s … uh … not quite the right timing for
that
kind of reminiscing.”

Brian nodded. “I understand—as long as
you
understand….”

“I do.”

“If you need me. Just call.”

“Thanks.”

In my car, in the parking lot, I finished reading the letter, in which Tony confessed that he loved me, saying that he would return some day—
if
he could “safely settle things” back East.

But he would understand if I didn’t wait.

Driving home with the windows down, the cool, fall air blowing my hair around, I thought about all the crazy adventures I’d been through since moving home fifteen months ago; they seemed so improbable. Even impossible.

And if the impossible could happen, so could the possible. Tony could come back one day. Suddenly, I felt hopeful.

I was at another crossroads in life. Where would it take me? Not to mention Mother and Peggy Sue (and Sushi), and assorted other eccentrics here in Serenity.

You’re welcome to come along for the ride.

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

When buying an antique or collectible over the Internet, protect yourself from knock-offs by making sure the site has a good return policy and positive feedback from other customers. You want to always be able to get your money back on a knock-off. But remember—if you read a whole book and don’t like it, there’s no money-back guarantee!