A Hundred Thousand Worlds (21 page)

“I’d always wondered if you’d read Gail’s article on your work,” says Russell, trying to engage the subject in a calm, salon fashion, a marketplace of ideas where Sangster and Gail are both merchants.

“I never bothered,” says Sangster. “The French have a saying: The spit of the toad does not touch the white dove.”

Gail realizes she was off by one: he’s turned her into a toad.

“But I’ve noticed,” says Gail, “that since you came out of retirement, your work’s been a lot less rapey. Well done on that, by the way.”

“My work was never ‘rapey,’” says Sangster, affecting a nasal American accent. “It dealt with transgressive forms of sexuality, which tends to make puritans like yourself uncomfortable. But only through confronting our puritanisms can we be liberated from them.”

“So in
R-Squad,
when the Perilous Pentad held down Medea and took turns fucking her bloody,” says Gail, straining to keep her voice even, “that was intended to be liberating? Because it seemed to me, at the time, more like wish fulfillment from the kind of kid who didn’t see tits that weren’t on a page from the time he was weaned till he became the anointed Greatest Writer in Comics.”

Gail steels herself for a smiting. She expects Sangster to rise up and expand, his sport jacket billowing out with arcane energies as he strikes her down with a lightning bolt. But he simply looks at Russell calmly and says, “I think, in the interest of civility, that one of us should leave.”

“Yeah,” says Gail, “I should probably get out of here before someone drops a house on you.”

Russell puts a hand on her shoulder before she can get up.

“It’s been good to see you, Alistair,” he says. “Have a safe trip back.”

There is a quiet moment at the table, while the piano plays a maudlin rendition of Billy Joel’s “Captain Jack.” And as Brett, Fred, and Ferret Lass get up to let Sangster out of their booth, huffing as he goes, Gail thinks that if her man-kissin’ days weren’t well behind her, she would plant one on Russell right then and there.

H
is mother is being strange. It’s because he didn’t talk to her last night, and now it’s like she isn’t talking to him because she doesn’t want him not to talk to her. Alex can’t think of anything to say, so neither of them talks. This morning when they checked out of their hotel room, they put all of their stuff into the back of Babu’s truck. They’re going back to her house for the night and taking the train to L.A. in the morning.

The nice thing about riding in the truck is that he gets to sit in the front seat, but it makes it more uncomfortable that they’re not talking. Alex turns on the radio and fiddles with the dial. There’s a song he likes on one of the stations. People were playing it in the park back in New York. But he turns it to NPR, because he knows she likes that. The sun is setting as they leave Chicago, the sky full of reds and oranges.

They’ve been driving for half an hour when Alex reaches forward, straining against the seatbelt, and clicks the radio off.

“Mom,” he says, “can you tell me a story?”

She looks over at him and smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “You all done being upset with me, Rabbit?”

He’s not sure he is. There’s still something angry inside him and it hasn’t gone away. “Yeah,” he says, looking at his shoes.

“How about I tell you one once we get to Babu’s?” she says. “Then we can catch up on some cuddles.”

“Could you tell me one now?” he says.

“It’s tough to story-tell and drive, Rabbit.”

It’s beginning to get dark, and he thinks maybe she’s right. But he decides this is important enough.

“Tell me how it ends,” he says.

“I’ve never told you that one, have I?” She sighs and adjusts herself in her seat. There is always this moment, where she gathers the story, pulls it into herself. But now it’s like she is going there, to the place where the story is, and where Alex is waiting for her.

“The last episode,” she says, eyes focused on the road, both hands on the wheel, “wasn’t planned to be the last episode. There was supposed to be another year. But it was as good a place as any to end it.

“Anomaly is in ruins. The Leader has finally attacked, and it is devastating. He wipes agents out of existence, back to the moment they were born. He zaps dinosaurs into the offices and sets them loose—not huge ones, but the ones that are people-sized and vicious.”

“Velociraptor,” Alex says.

She nods. “Campbell and Frazer try to fight him, but it doesn’t work. He puts Frazer in the hospital with broken ribs, and he steals her baby.

“Campbell goes crazy. He tracks down an agent who’s been working for the Leader in secret since season one and tortures him. When he finds out what he wants, Campbell kills him.

“Back at the hospital, the Leader shows up in Frazer’s room, with the baby. He gives the baby back to Frazer, saying he only wanted to see him, saying he misses him so much. Then he takes off his mask. You can’t see it, but Frazer sees who he is, who he’s been the whole time.

“Campbell searches out the Leader’s hideout, and the Leader is there waiting for him. The Leader tells him it’s already too late: Frazer and the baby are both dead. Campbell shoots him, again and again, and the Leader’s mask flies off. Underneath, it’s Campbell.

“As he’s dying, the Leader tells Campbell it’s not too late. The Leader’s suit and mask are laced with time-travel technology like Anomaly has never seen. Campbell can take them, go back, and stop all this from happening. The Leader dies, and Campbell picks up the mask.

“In the hospital parking lot, Frazer puts the baby into the car seat. She doesn’t know what else to do. She is so scared. Being around Campbell at all would put her baby in danger. He’ll be safer if they run. The only way he’ll ever be safe is if they run away.”

“That’s a good ending,” says Alex. He knew when he asked that her ending would be different from the real one. The one that was on television, anyway. You couldn’t say that one made-up story was more real than another. But driving away is always a good ending, because you can go anywhere. It’s way better than people standing somewhere. More than that, it’s a good ending because he knows she made it for him, to tell him things she can’t tell him any other way. He thinks back on all the other stories she’s told him and wonders how many are real and how many she made up for him. It’s like the masks the superheroes wear that become more important than the faces under them: the story hides something so it can reveal the thing more clearly.

As the light fails and stars pinprick through the canvas of the sky, Alex thinks about the boy and the robot, and what his story is trying to reveal to him, and what it’s trying to hide.

Val checks the time on her phone and again on the clock in the kitchen, hoping maybe they’re different. There’s no rush, yet. At the little table, Alex eats a heap of Annie’s mac and cheese, watching her the whole time.

“What time’s the play?” he asks.

“Not for another hour and a half,” she says. She tries to sound casual.

“If you need to go, I can be by myself till Debra gets here,” says Alex. Lately he’s been more strident about his independence. She tries to pinpoint when it started, but it seems like it’s been since she took this role. The prospect of a babysitter every night for a month convinced him that supervision is no longer necessary. But there are still nights he wakes up, upset about a dream or just lonely. She can’t stomach the thought that he might wake up and find no one there.

“It’s all right, Rabbit,” she says. “She should be here any minute.”

“Are you all warmed up?” he asks. A baseboard heater wheezes to life. The kitchen is the only room that’s stayed warm this winter. They’ve abandoned the living room entirely. Alex has put all of his Arctic-themed toys in there: a stuffed woolly mammoth on the couch, a tribe of plastic Inuits stalking the cold hardwood floor.

“Not yet,” she says, checking the clock again. “You want to help?”

Alex stands up and answers by taking the neutral stance and pursing his lips. His feet hip distance apart, his hands limp at his sides. Val mirrors him, trying not to grin. The minutes running down toward equity call are forgotten.

“I know New York,” she says, over-enunciating each sound.

“I know New York,” he says.

“I
need
New York,” she says.

“I
need
New York,” he says.

“I know I need unique New York,” she says.

“I know I need unique You Nork,” he says and busts out giggling. With some effort, he brings himself under control and resumes his proper stance. Val begins to hum, a light buzzing that shakes her teeth. She moves the sound around in her mouth, vibrating molars and incisors. Then the mirror trick, where they move in synchronicity with each other, neither of them leading the other. The decision to open their mouths, to expand the hum into a low “maaaah” that resonates through the hard palate, is made together; one set of lips pulls almost imperceptibly apart, and the other follows and cracks a little further until they are both making gaping lion yawns, jaws stretching muscles in the neck and along the temples. The sound slowly morphs into “meeeee,” teeth nearly together, the breath forced through the nose.

Before they can move into the chest and stomach, the buzzer goes off and Alex shoots away to ring Debra in. He likes his usual sitter fine, as much as a kid can like someone whose primary role in his life is putting him to bed. But he loves Debra. She lived next door to the first apartment Val had gotten for them when they came to New York six years ago. She was finishing a law degree at NYU and would come over to watch Alex when Val was teaching acting classes. Sometimes she’d read him long passages out of whatever textbook she was studying, and for a few months when he was five, Alex would spout off in a weird form of legalese, informing Val that his decision not to clean his room was based on established precedent, or that, because it was based on a magical story, the Alice statue in Central Park was
ipso fatso
magical.

“I’m so sorry,” says Debra as she takes her boots off in the hall. “I should admit to myself that it’s impossible to get out of work on time on a Friday night.” There are snowflakes perfectly arranged on her black coat that twinkle like stars as they melt. When they were neighbors, Val had thought of Debra as a bit of a little sister. She’d been in a constantly harried state,
usually in pajamas by the time she came over to watch Alex. But this woman she sees now is so poised and composed, Val feels self-conscious about the salty footprints on the hallway floor, and the dishes in the sink, and the fact that she’s about to leave the house wearing leggings. By some measure of maturity, Val has been surpassed.

“It’s fine,” says Val. “You’re saving my ass.”

“I told my car service to wait for you,” she says, hanging up her coat. “He can get you into Manhattan in like fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t have to do that,” says Val.

“Please,” Debra says, “it’s like the only thing I can expense. I call the service when I go out for coffee now. I’m never taking the subway again.”

“Why don’t you like the subway?” asks Alex. He’s been leaning against the wall, watching Debra go through the process of arriving.

“I’m kidding, kiddo,” she says.

“Oh,” says Alex.

“He’s eaten,” says Val. “And if you want to watch a movie, it’s fine, but the living room is freezing. There are blankets.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Debra. “You should get going.”

“You need to pick a night to come see it,” says Val. “I’ll get comps for you and your boyfriend.”

“I think it might be a little over his head,” says Debra.

“It’s a little over
my
head,” says Val, pulling on her heavy coat. “Rabbit, come here.” Alex runs to her and presses his face against her cheek.

“Maaaaaahh,” he says, and it rings through her whole skull.

“You be good?” she says.

“He’s always good,” says Debra, and Val smiles because it’s true enough. She grabs a knit hat from off the hook on the wall, the one with mittens tucked into it, and, trying not to look as if she’s rushing, rushes down the hallway, down the stairs to the sleek black car collecting snow out front. She climbs into the backseat.

“Miss Torrey,” says the driver, with an accent that sounds like a tropical beach and feels out of place in the snow and the dying January light.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m going to West Forty-third.”

“Okay, Miss Torrey,” he says. The car is warm, and Val begins to take off all of the accessories she just put on.

“Oh, sir?” she says.

“Jacob,” he says.

“Jacob,” she repeats. “I should warn you, so it doesn’t weird you out. I hum.”

“Like a little song?” he asks.

“More like a beehive,” she says. “It’s a warm-up exercise. I’ll probably hum and moan the whole drive.”

She watches him smile in the rearview. “I’ve driven in this city ten years,” he says. “Humming and moaning’s no big deal.” He pulls the car into traffic, and Val leans back into the leather seats, tilts her head back, and begins to buzz, lips together, teeth apart.

When they arrive at the theater, Jacob refuses a tip, insisting it’s included in the billing. Val can remember when her life was like this, the few years in L.A. when she floated in a moneyless world. All cash transactions were handled elsewhere; cars and drinks and food appeared and were consumed and everyone was properly compensated as if by magic. It always struck her as funny how having money made money obsolete.

She checks her phone one last time as she opens the stage door. Forty-five minutes until curtain, fifteen until call. She’d hoped for more time, but the part requires minimal makeup, and anyway, she’s here and there’s no point regretting minutes that are already gone. The stage manager, Miller, greets her with a gruff “Valuables?” before her coat’s even off. She checks her pockets and hands over her keys, phone, and purse. He nods and huffs at her. An hour after the curtain’s closed, he’ll be the friendliest drunk in the city, but before the show Miller exists in a state of constant inconvenience.

“Should I still sign in?” she asks.

“I’ll sign you in,” he says, making it sound like a great imposition.

“I’m going to have a lie-down,” Val calls after him. “Ten minutes, maybe?”

“We’re about to test the rotation,” he says. “Try not to get seasick.”

Val throws the rest of her things in the dressing room she shares with the Angel. It’s too big for the two of them, but they’re the only women in the cast. The Angel plays a half-dozen roles throughout the night, made up and costumed differently enough each time to be barely recognizable. It gives the play a feeling of claustrophobia and coincidence, which is especially important because they’re only doing the first half, and many of the storylines don’t pull together until the second. Val’s got it easy playing Harper. There’s not an overwhelming amount of stage time, and she’s in house clothes throughout. Three makeup girls are busying themselves with the Angel already, attaching a scraggly gray beard and a fake nose that could be considered anti-Semitic. The fishy odor of spirit gum hangs in the dressing room.

“Cutting it close,” says the Angel. It’s not a reprimand, exactly.

“My babysitter was running late,” says Val. “I’m going to go have a lie-down. Finish arriving.”

“See you in a bit,” says the Angel, straining her chin upward so the makeup girls can attach strands to its underside.

The stage has already begun to rotate slowly like a drugged carousel. She sits on the floor in the section of the set that will be her apartment. It has a table with two chairs and the fridge that Mr. Lies will step out of. Mr. Lies is also playing Belize in this staging, but that only means throwing a nurse coat on over his slick travel-agent suit and adopting an accent similar to Jacob the driver’s. Val lies down, easing her head back onto the plywood. “You have time to run one-seven?” she asks Prior, who’s lying on the floor nearby.

“You mean because you flubbed it last night?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” she says.

“I’m arriving,” says Prior, drawing out the word, “but I’ll be happy to help with your shortcomings once I get here.” Prior got an absolutely glowing review in the
Voice
and since then has been pretending to be insufferable. He can be very convincing at it.

By thirty out, the makeup girls are done with the Angel and can fix up Val. She’s always relieved that they have to dull her down. One day she’ll
come in already looking like a Valium-addicted shut-in housewife, and the makeup girls will look at her and shake their pretty young heads. But tonight, they paint bags under her eyes and adjust her costume to give the impression it’s been slept in.

Miller pokes his head in the door. “Twenty minutes, ladies,” he says.

“Thank you, twenty,” says Val.

“So who’s coming out with me after?” says Louis, the baby of the cast, plopping into their couch. The men have their own dressing room, but they’ve decided it’s too crowded, so they spend their pre-show in the women’s.

“How can you even think of going out after?” asks Mr. Lies. “I’m exhausted already. I’m still working through exhausted from three days ago. I’ll never catch up.”

“That’s because you’re ancient,” says Louis. “The theater’s no place for relics.”

“Dear, did you want to go through one-seven?” Prior asks Val. He seats himself on Louis’s feet.

“What are you doing in my
hallucination
?” says Roy Cohn, who knows everyone’s lines by heart. Last night Val said, “What are you doing in my dream?” It botched Prior’s next line, which should have been “It’s not your hallucination, it’s my dream.” Prior made a quick recovery, but for the rest of the scene they both sounded wary each time they used the words
hallucination
and
dream
,
not sure which was which.

“I’m fine,” says Val.

“You were great in three-three last night,” says Mr. Lies.

“She always hits her stride in the third act,” says Prior.

“You know Lookingglass in Chicago’s going to do the whole thing this summer?” says Louis. He’s paging through his script.

“Fifteen minutes,” says Miller from the door.

“Thank you, fifteen,” they all chant.

“Christ, how long is that?” says Mr. Lies.

“Six and a half hours,” says Roy Cohn. “Seven with the intermission.”

“Speaking of the whole thing—” says the Angel.

“Don’t start,” says Val.

“Has someone not signed on for
’Stroika
?” says Prior, making a face of mock horror.

“Someone has not,” says the Angel.

“Oh, now, Valerie,” says Prior, “you can’t leave us. Don’t you know Grant has a vision?” He says this word so its second syllable thumps down onto the floor like a dead body, exactly the way Grant, their director, says it. “How could you abandon Grant’s vision?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be up for leaving Alex alone for another run,” says Val.

“Bring him to the shows,” says Prior. “We’re all excellent role models for a kid.”

“They run too late,” says Val. “He’s in bed.”

“He could sleep on the couch in our dressing room,” says Mr. Lies.

“Er,” says Prior, “maybe not on
that
couch.”

“You’re disgusting,” says Roy Cohn.

“You’re jealous,” says Prior.

“Ten minutes,” says Miller.

“Thank you, ten,” they chorus.

“Anyway, you can’t leave it half-finished,” says Prior. “Imagine your Harper forever in the freezer at the end of three-three.”

“Or some other actress getting her grubby fingerprints all over your Harper,” says Mr. Lies.

“And you’d miss us,” says Louis.

“Terribly,” says Prior.

“I’ve got the contract,” says Val. It’s been on the kitchen counter all week. “I just haven’t signed.”

“We’ll forge her signature while she’s on stage,” says the Angel.

“We’ll kidnap her and lock her in the theater forever,” says Prior.

“’
Stroika
lasts about forever,” says Roy Cohn.

“Whatever,” says Prior. “I’ll play Harper, too. I’ll do the whole play on my own, all seven hours.”

“Calm it down, boys,” says Mr. Lies.

“Five minutes,” says Miller.

“Thank you, five,” they say. The five-minute call serves as the death knell for horseplay. Louis and Prior lean over each of Val’s shoulders and check themselves in her mirror. Mr. Lies stands and smooths out the creases that have formed in his pants.

In the low thrum of these last minutes of prep, Val lets her mind scatter and diffuse. When she thinks of Harper, she thinks of an abscess, a hole slowly growing at the center of a self, with bits of the person toppling in over its edge.

“Remember,” says Roy Cohn, “it’s a hallucination, not a dream.”