it back to me," I said. "And my JASNA bag."
"Maybe the bag's in my car." She threw her cigarette on the cement; I stopped walking and faced her as she stepped on it.
"I'm serious, Bets. That necklace is one of the few things I have to remember my mother. She gave it to me; she's dead. She can't ever give me another necklace." It made me sick to think I might never see that necklace again, not only a necklace; but her wedding band, a gold pin she won in high school, and a baby ring, all melted down and reformed into the shape of a cross, a reminder for my sister and me of what our mother found to be important at the end of her life. Not a necklace; but my mother.
"Tell you what," Bets said, lighting another cigarette. "If I can't find it, I'll give you my mother."
∗ ∗ ∗
Suzanne, the tiny wardrobe lady, presided over the damp and musty second floor warehouse of costumes inherited from various sources, various sources being a euphemism for dead volunteers in period attire. She pulled an armful of dresses for Bets to try, while another actress changed behind a screen, throwing gowns into separate "take" and "no take" piles. Bets handed me her six-hundred-dollar designer purse and disappeared behind a screen. Maybe Bets could persuade the Wallet to rent china for our tea. Or sentence Bets to another season of Literature Live in exchange for china.
"I can't wear this." Bets laughed. "I look like Granny in Little Red Riding Hood."
The phone rang in Bets's purse.
"Would you mind answering that?" Bets yelled, throwing a rejected gown over the screen.
"She can't come to the phone right now," I said, rifling through the contents of her purse for anything I might recognize as my own.
"Who is it?" Bets asked.
I put the phone away. "Tommy," I said.
"Shit, give me the phone." Bets charged out from behind the screen, reaching for her bag, the dress around her waist.
The wardrobe lady said, "Oh dear," covering her mouth with her little hand.
Bets swiped her purse from my hands. Her body featured artwork that no Jane Austen character had ever sported: a Celtic cross tattoo permanently inked above her left breast. "Forget this," she said, stepping completely out of the dress and leaving it on the floor while she pulled her shirt over her head.
The wardrobe lady reached into a drawer and pulled out several very large white kerchiefs. "You'll have to wear these," she said, "like a shawl," but too late. Bets zipped her jeans, slid feet into her shoes, and ran out the door.
"What about the dresses?" Suzanne called after her.
Suzanne hauled the dresses out and between the two of us, we compared the remaining dresses to the one Bets had tried on, deciding which to take. I held each dress to my shoulder and looked in the mirror, pretending to admire the style and artistry but slyly appraising my own fit, calculating how much time Bets would need to reach the parking lot. I left with an armload of dresses, most of which would surely fit me, imagining Bets in her car. Walking back to my room, Igauged how long it would take her to get through the main drag of Hedingham. Opening the door to my room, I said a little prayer: Please let my roommate be AWOL.
Inside, there was no sign of Bets.
∗ ∗ ∗
To proceed with my plan, I needed a copy of the script. For this, I walked to Newton Priors, all the while considering my favorite scenario: Bets goes to London, gets totally smashed, and sleeps through opening day. I would play Mary Crawford in her place, they would all realize how much better I was, and reassign Bets to play Chapman, the maid. The more I imagined, the more possible it seemed that with a little maneuvering from me, her part might be available tomorrow. But first, I must learn her lines. In the office, I lifted a script off Claire's credenza when she wasn't looking. Next, I needed a quiet place to memorize.
I set off for the great church at the other end of the town where I had planned to go anyway for a little
"Maybe the bag's in my car." She threw her cigarette on the cement; I stopped walking and faced her as she stepped on it.
"I'm serious, Bets. That necklace is one of the few things I have to remember my mother. She gave it to me; she's dead. She can't ever give me another necklace." It made me sick to think I might never see that necklace again, not only a necklace; but her wedding band, a gold pin she won in high school, and a baby ring, all melted down and reformed into the shape of a cross, a reminder for my sister and me of what our mother found to be important at the end of her life. Not a necklace; but my mother.
"Tell you what," Bets said, lighting another cigarette. "If I can't find it, I'll give you my mother."
∗ ∗ ∗
Suzanne, the tiny wardrobe lady, presided over the damp and musty second floor warehouse of costumes inherited from various sources, various sources being a euphemism for dead volunteers in period attire. She pulled an armful of dresses for Bets to try, while another actress changed behind a screen, throwing gowns into separate "take" and "no take" piles. Bets handed me her six-hundred-dollar designer purse and disappeared behind a screen. Maybe Bets could persuade the Wallet to rent china for our tea. Or sentence Bets to another season of Literature Live in exchange for china.
"I can't wear this." Bets laughed. "I look like Granny in Little Red Riding Hood."
The phone rang in Bets's purse.
"Would you mind answering that?" Bets yelled, throwing a rejected gown over the screen.
"She can't come to the phone right now," I said, rifling through the contents of her purse for anything I might recognize as my own.
"Who is it?" Bets asked.
I put the phone away. "Tommy," I said.
"Shit, give me the phone." Bets charged out from behind the screen, reaching for her bag, the dress around her waist.
The wardrobe lady said, "Oh dear," covering her mouth with her little hand.
Bets swiped her purse from my hands. Her body featured artwork that no Jane Austen character had ever sported: a Celtic cross tattoo permanently inked above her left breast. "Forget this," she said, stepping completely out of the dress and leaving it on the floor while she pulled her shirt over her head.
The wardrobe lady reached into a drawer and pulled out several very large white kerchiefs. "You'll have to wear these," she said, "like a shawl," but too late. Bets zipped her jeans, slid feet into her shoes, and ran out the door.
"What about the dresses?" Suzanne called after her.
Suzanne hauled the dresses out and between the two of us, we compared the remaining dresses to the one Bets had tried on, deciding which to take. I held each dress to my shoulder and looked in the mirror, pretending to admire the style and artistry but slyly appraising my own fit, calculating how much time Bets would need to reach the parking lot. I left with an armload of dresses, most of which would surely fit me, imagining Bets in her car. Walking back to my room, Igauged how long it would take her to get through the main drag of Hedingham. Opening the door to my room, I said a little prayer: Please let my roommate be AWOL.
Inside, there was no sign of Bets.
∗ ∗ ∗
To proceed with my plan, I needed a copy of the script. For this, I walked to Newton Priors, all the while considering my favorite scenario: Bets goes to London, gets totally smashed, and sleeps through opening day. I would play Mary Crawford in her place, they would all realize how much better I was, and reassign Bets to play Chapman, the maid. The more I imagined, the more possible it seemed that with a little maneuvering from me, her part might be available tomorrow. But first, I must learn her lines. In the office, I lifted a script off Claire's credenza when she wasn't looking. Next, I needed a quiet place to memorize.
I set off for the great church at the other end of the town where I had planned to go anyway for a little
Similar Books
