Crosstalk (27 page)

“You're welcome,” Graham said, and Traci leaned across him to say, “We should be the ones thanking you, with everything you're doing for the—” She stopped as a man in a tuxedo came onstage. “Oh, good, it's starting,” she whispered, and turned to look attentively at him.

The man walked to center stage and raised his hand, and the audience grew quiet. “Welcome to tonight's performance,” he said. “Before it begins, we'd like to remind you to turn off your phones or switch them to silent mode, if you haven't already done so.”

“Fucking rules!” someone said disgustedly, so loudly and so nearby that Briddey automatically glanced back to see who was being so rude, and realized, too late, that the announcer was continuing his spiel uninterrupted.

She looked over at Trent, afraid he'd noticed her glancing back, but he and the Hamiltons were busy turning off their phones.

“If you must take an emergency call,” the emcee said, “we ask that you please go out to the lobby.”

Yeah, and miss half the goddamn show!

“No flash cameras or recording devices are allowed in the theater. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Cooperation, my eye!
The voice cut sharply across the emcee's.
It's a fucking dictatorship!

“What's the matter?” Trent whispered, looking anxiously at Briddey.

“Nothing,” she managed, trying to smile even though the voice was shouting,
I didn't pay two hundred dollars so some fag can tell me what I can and can't do!

How am I going to stand
that
for a whole evening?
Briddey thought. And how was she going to hear the play? The announcer was being applauded, which meant he must have said something else, but she hadn't heard it.

I'm not turning it off,
the rude man said, and simultaneously, a female voice said,
He's really hot. He looks like that actor…what's his name?
and the blind-date woman said,
I don't care
how
old the theater is. I just want this date to be
over
!
But even though all three were speaking, they didn't mask one another like spoken voices would have. Briddey could hear each one distinctly.

She'd never heard voices speaking at the same time before. She'd assumed when C.B. said she'd hear more voices that he'd meant one after another, but what if he'd meant all at once?

Can you be any more boring?
the blind-date woman said.
Come on, please, raise the stupid curtain so he'll stop talking!
and at the same time the first woman was musing,
He was in that Avengers movie. What
was
his name? Alex? Aaron?

Other voices chimed in:
I should have peed before it started…wonder if Marcia Bryant's here…hope this is good…

What a fucking waste of money!
the rude man bellowed so loudly he should have drowned all the other voices out, but Briddey could still hear them perfectly, one on top of the other.
Two hundred bucks a ticket, and they can't even start the fucking show on time!…Is that the Youngs?…shouldn't have parked the car there…got to get out of this stupid date…maybe I could pretend I have an urgent phone call and go out to the lobby…

“Briddey,” Trent said, shaking her arm, “I said, you need to turn off your phone.”

“What?” she said blankly. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot.” She fumbled with the clasp of her evening bag.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I've already told you twice, and you didn't hear me.”

“I'm fine. I'm sorry. My mind was somewhere else.”

That was an understatement. The voices had shut out all awareness of Trent, of the Hamiltons, of being here in the theater. She hadn't been conscious of anything but them talking. And threatening her, even though only the rude man had shown any anger, and it hadn't been directed at her. But they were all
there,
pushing at her, forcing their voices on her.

“Don't worry about Maeve,” Trent said. “She's probably fine, and your crazy sister is just—” He broke off and began clapping as the conductor appeared and took his bow.

Maeve may be fine,
Briddey thought,
but I'm not. I have to get out of here before the voices get any worse.
And before the play starts
. Which would be any moment now. The conductor was entering the orchestra pit. In a moment he'd raise his stick and the overture would begin. She had to go
now.
But how?

Her phone. The blind-date woman had talked about saying she had to go take an emergency call out in the lobby. But Briddey'd already turned her phone off.

Trent doesn't know that,
she thought.
I could have set it to vibrate.
She put her phone up to her ear. “Oh, my gosh,” she said, grabbed her evening bag, and stood up.

“What are you
doing
?” Trent asked, looking horrified.

She flashed the phone at him. “I've got to take this. Something's come up. It's Maeve.”

“But you can't just—can't it wait till intermission? You know your family. It'll turn out to be nothing, and you'll have ruined—”

“I'll just be a minute,” Briddey said. “No, don't come with me.” She motioned him to stay in his seat. “It'll be faster if I go alone.”

She pushed past him toward the side aisle before he could get up or stop her. “But the play's about to—” Trent began.

“I know,” she whispered, squeezing past the person sitting next to him. “If I don't make it back in time, I'll watch from the back till intermission.”

He shot a nervous look at the Hamiltons and then back at her. “Can't you—?”

“No. Stay where you are. I'll text you,” and made her way down the row before he could object, squeezing past knees, stepping on toes, murmuring, “Sorry.”

“Talk about rude!” someone said, and for a heart-clutching moment she was afraid the voices were starting up again, but it was the middle-aged woman she'd just edged past.

“Sorry,” she whispered, squeezing past the woman's equally irate husband, and was finally out in the aisle.

The lights went down, stranding her in darkness, and she gave a startled glance back, as if Trent had done it to stop her, and then realized it must be the play starting.
It needs to start
now
,
she thought,
because I can't see,
and, thankfully, there was a sliver of light and a wave of applause as the curtains began to part.

She started up the side aisle, her phone in one hand to wave at the ushers and her evening bag in the other, walking as briskly as she could without making people think there was a fire or something and causing a panic, though panic was what she was feeling.

I've
got
to make it out of here before the voices start up again,
she thought, and when she heard a man call, from somewhere behind her, “You there, where do you think you're going?” she jerked like a hooked fish.

“Nowhere, Dad,” a boy's voice said, and she went limp with relief.
It's only the play,
she thought, and walked faster, ignoring the voices from the stage:

“Miriam, I'm at my wit's end. I simply can't communicate with the boy.”

“That's because you don't
listen
to him, Henry.”

She was nearly to the back of the theater. Another dozen rows, and then all she had to do was walk to the center and go out through the double doors where two ushers stood with playbills held against their chests.

“This is so exciting!” a voice said, so close she looked over at the row she was passing, even though she knew no one would talk that loudly during the opening scene. It had to be one of the voices.
I love the theater!
it went on, and someone else exclaimed,
I hate these seats!

Where does she think she's going?
the rude man boomed, and a new voice said,
How rude!

You've got to keep walking,
Briddey thought through the barrage of voices.
It's only a few more yards to the back
.

…should've used valet parking…can't see anything…taking us for supper afterward…,
the voices said, the thoughts coming through in fragments as they multiplied.

The audience was clapping again, but she couldn't hear it at all.
I'll never be able to talk to the ushers,
she thought, looking over at them as they stood guarding the doors.
What if they ask me where I'm going?

One of them was already looking at her. He bent his head toward the other usher and then pointed.
I
have
to get out of here,
Briddey thought. She looked wildly around for a route of escape and saw, only a few feet away, a curtained alcove with a green Exit sign above it.

…surprised to see them here…heard they were getting a divorce…leg's asleep…hope this doesn't mean something's wrong with…maybe they'll take us to Luminesce…

One of the ushers was starting toward her. Briddey dived for the alcove and through the heavy curtains. They swung together behind her, and the voices stopped instantly, as if they'd been smothered by the heavy velvet.

Thank goodness. Now all she had to do was find a way out to the lobby. She was on the dimly lit landing of a stairway leading down.
To the ladies' lounge,
she thought, hoping the ushers would conclude that was where she was going and not follow her.
And from there I should be able to get to the lobby.

She ran down the carpeted steps.
I hope there isn't anyone still in there,
she thought, remembering the line on the stairs, and then:
Oh, no, sometimes there's a restroom attendant
.

But if there was, she'd gone on break when the curtain went up because the marble-walled room—with its row of sinks and long, mirrored makeup counter—reflected nothing but Briddey's image. She looked as if she was about to faint. No wonder the usher had been concerned.

I'd better put on some lipstick before I go out to the lobby,
she thought, but her hands shook as she opened her evening bag, and after a minute of fumbling in vain, she gave up, put her hands down flat on the marble counter, and leaned against it, trying to pull herself together.

This is ridiculous,
she told herself. They were only voices, and what they were saying—except for the rude man—wasn't even particularly bad. But there were so many of them, and no way she could escape them. It was like being mobbed by paparazzi shouting questions at her and jostling to get close to her to take her picture—bullying her, blinding her with their flashes, crushing her.

I never felt properly sorry for schizophrenics,
she thought,
unable to escape the voices in their heads and fighting for their sanity with a maelstrom of noise all around them, making it impossible to think.

No wonder C.B. had told her not to go anywhere crowded. She wished she'd listened to his warning. She had to get out of the theater before Trent got worried and decided to come looking for her—and before the voices started up again. And she needed to go
now,
while the stairway and lobby were deserted, even though she hated leaving the safe haven of the ladies' room.

She stuck her phone in her pocket and then pulled it out again. If she ran into an usher, she might need it as an excuse. She picked up her evening bag, took a deep breath, and opened the door of the ladies' room a crack. There was no one outside. She hurried down the hall, looking for the stairway leading up to the mezzanine. Here it was. She started up, resisting the impulse to run.

She made it almost to the landing before the voices started in again
….I knew I should have faked a phone call,
she heard the blind-date woman say.
Now it's too late.

Too late,
Briddey thought, grabbing for the stair railing, and the other voices lunged at her:
…total rip-off…should've escaped while I had the chance…if I go out there and find the rear end bashed in…could jeopardize the whole project…and now I'm stuck with him…want to go home…

So do I,
Briddey thought.
Please let me go home!
she pleaded, but they yammered on, assaulting her, deafening her, blocking the way up, and she turned and started back down the stairs, stumbling, groping for the handrail she could no longer see, desperate to get away from them.
You were right, C.B.,
she said.
I shouldn't have gone someplace with so many people,
but he didn't answer.

He's not there,
she thought, clinging to the handrail.
He's gone for good.

“I'm sorry I told you to go away and leave me alone,” she called aloud. “I didn't mean it.” But she
had
meant it, and he knew that. He could read her mind.

The voices grew louder and more insistent. She clapped her hands to her ears, but it didn't help, they were still just as loud.
C.B., please, you have to tell me how to make them stop
.

Just rip the damn thing open,
a male voice said, and for a split second, long enough to think,
Oh, thank goodness!,
she thought it was C.B.

There's no time to unbutton it,
the man went on.
I've got to be back on that stage in exactly two minutes
.

That's somebody in the play,
Briddey thought.
I'm starting to hear even more voices,
and it was as if that thought had opened some sort of floodgate. The voices rained down on her:

…who moved these props?…get that scrim up…not surprised they're splitting up…cheating on her since the day they got married…should have gone to see
The Rainmaker
…that's your cue, you moron!…bow tie's killing me…hate sushi…don't put your arms around me!…no, no, no, stage right!