Crosstalk (29 page)

I know. I'm sorry. I had trouble convincing the usher I wasn't trying to sneak into the play for free. And then we had to find the right bathroom.

“I'm sorry I didn't believe you, and I'm sorry I—”

Shh, not out loud,
he cautioned. He was afraid someone outside the bathroom would hear them.

I'm sorry I said I never wanted to speak to you agai—

And I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. Do you know how many bathrooms they've got in this place? There's one on every level. They must be expecting a lot of business during intermission. Which is when?

I don't know,
she said, but he must not have heard her because he asked, “When's intermission?” out loud.

“After Act Two, about forty-five minutes from now,” a woman's voice said, and Briddey realized with a shock that there was someone else in the bathroom with them.

It's one of the ushers,
C.B. explained.
So go along with whatever I say, okay?

Okay.

“Is she all right?” the usher was asking. “Should I see if there's a doctor in the house?”

No!
Briddey thought.

“No,” C.B. was saying calmly to the usher. “It's just an anxiety attack. She gets them when she's in crowded places.” He turned back to Briddey. “I told you you had no business coming to the theater by yourself, Lucy.”

By myself?
Briddey thought, confused.
Lucy?

“I was afraid this would happen,” he said.
Now you say, “I know, Charlie. I'm sorry.”

I don't under—

If Trent starts asking questions, you don't want the usher to know your name, do you? And to tell him she found you in here in this state?

Oh, God, Trent!
We have to get out of here before—

Exactly. So say, “I know, Charlie.”

“I know, Charlie,” she said. “I'm sorry,” and to C.B.:
I forgot all about Trent.

Did you tell him about the voices?

No! He'd—

What about when the voices overtook you? Did you call to him for help?

“Overtook,” that was the right word. They'd overtaken her, like wolves pursuing her or a mob of bloodthirsty—

Briddey!
C.B. said sharply.
Did you call to him?

Yes, but he couldn't hear me.

What about your phone? Did you try to call him on your phone?

No, I took it out,
she said, remembering,
but then I remembered his phone was turned off. They make you turn it off when the play starts.

Did you call anyone else? Your sisters or somebody at Commspan?

She shook her head.
The voices—

I know,
he said.
And you didn't text him or try his number, so that it'll show a missed call?

No.

Good. That means we've got till intermission to get out of here. But we need to go now.

Okay.

Which means you need to let go of the pipe.

Pipe?
she thought.
What's he talking about?
It wasn't a pipe, it was a railing, and she couldn't let go of it, or she'd be swept over the falls.

No, you won't,
he said.
I've got you. Can you come out?

Out?
she said blankly, and realized she was underneath the counter that held the sinks. She was wedged into the back corner and hanging on to the curved chrome drainage pipe with both hands.
Like a cornered animal,
she thought, ashamed.

Don't worry about it,
C.B. said.
The voices would have that effect on anybody.
He reached under the counter and extended his hand to her.
Can you come out?

She nodded.
I think so,
but when it came down to it, she found she couldn't. Her hands were frozen to the pipe.

It's okay,
C.B. said, and crawled in after her, hitting his head on the underside of the sink. “Ow,” he said.

“What happened?” the usher asked. “Did she hit you?”

“No, I cracked my head, that's all.”

The usher didn't sound convinced. “Are you sure you don't want me to call 911? Or an ambulance?”

“I'm sure,” he said. “I've already called her therapist. She'll be fine once I get her home.” He extended his hand to Briddey.
I won't let you go over the falls, I promise. But we've gotta go, darlin', or she's gonna call the cops.

And Trent will find out everything,
Briddey thought, and let go of the pipe.

There wasn't even a nanosecond between her letting go and C.B.'s snatching her hands up in his. “I've got her,” he said to the usher, and to Briddey:
I knew you could do it. That's it, darlin'. Come on. Almost there.

He backed out, pulling her slowly toward him with both hands, then using one hand to push her head down, saying,
Don't crack your head,
as they emerged from under the counter. He put his arm around her waist and helped her awkwardly to her feet. “Do you think you can walk?”

She turned to him to say yes and caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sinks. She looked terrible, her updo half fallen and her beautiful green dress wrinkled beyond recognition. Her white face stared back at her, haggard and frightened.
I look completely deranged,
she thought.
No wonder the usher wanted to call 911.

And she still might,
C.B. said,
which is why you need to say, “Yes, I can walk, Charlie. I just want to go home.”

“Yes, I can walk, Charlie,” she said, even though she wasn't at all sure she could. “I just want to go home.”

“She's fine,” C.B. said to the usher, who still looked skeptical. “Ready?” he asked Briddey aloud, and she nodded.

He picked up her evening bag from the floor and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans.
Have you got your phone?
he asked.

Yes,
she said, reaching into the pocket of her skirt for it, but it wasn't there.
I must have dropped it.

But you had it with you when you left the theater. You said you tried to call Trent. Were you in here when you did that?

I don't know,
she said, trying to remember if she'd been in here or on the stairs.

It's okay,
he said to her, and to the usher: “Could you go check and make sure there's nobody around? I need to get her out to the lobby, and the sight of other people might set her off again.”

The usher nodded and went out. The moment the door closed behind her, C.B. let go of Briddey's waist and darted over to the counter.

No! Don't leave!
she cried, unable to stop herself from lurching after him, hands out.

I'm not leaving,
he said, peering under the counter.
I just need to find your phone. It'll only take a second.

He was just looking for her phone, she told herself. He wasn't leaving her. He was only a few feet away, and he had to find it before the usher came back. If she grabbed on to his arm, it would only slow him down. She needed to let him look and not panic, but that was impossible, because behind her, in the mirror, the roar of the falls was already splintering into individual voices, hundreds of them, thousands of them, into a million shrieking pieces flying at her, slashing her—

Aren't some of them pirates?
C.B. asked her, looking under the doors to the stalls.

Some of what? The voices?

No, some of the Lucky Charms marshmallows. Aren't some of them shaped like pirates?
He opened the door of the first stall.
Or am I thinking of Cap'n Crunch?

Cap'n Crunch doesn't have marshmallows.

Oh.
He opened the door to the next stall.
What's the one with the toucan on the box?

Froot Loops,
she said,
but it doesn't have marshmallows either.

Well, one of them does,
he said, going on to the next.
Count Chocula or FrankenBerry or Zombie—aha!
He lunged inside the second-to-the-last stall, snatched up her phone, dropped it into his pocket, and had his arm back around her waist when the usher opened the door.

“All clear,” she told C.B.

“Good,” C.B. said to her. “Can you hold that door for Lucy and me? Thanks.”
Okay,
he said to Briddey,
let's blow this pop stand,
and they started over to the door.

“Are you sure you're all right?” the usher asked Briddey anxiously.

“Yes, I'm fine,” she said, managing a smile, and let C.B. lead her out the door.

Speaking of getting out of here, how'd you get here tonight?
he asked, helping her up the steps.

I took a taxi. The voices were starting to break through—

Good. That gives us one less thing to worry about. You're doing great, darlin',
he encouraged her.
We're almost to the landing—

I can't,
Briddey said, pulling back against his grip.
That's where the voices—

I know,
he said, tightening his hold on her.
We're not going anywhere near the falls. We're going to focus on those marshmallows, and before you know it, we'll be out of here and someplace quiet.

Someplace quiet,
she thought. It sounded heavenly. But to get there, they had to get past the landing—

Don't think about that,
C.B. ordered, continuing to walk her up the stairs.
Think about someplace quiet. And dry. Arizona. Or Death Valley. How would you feel about going to Death Valley for our honeymoon?

She didn't answer. She was looking at the landing. The voices were just beyond it, they were already pouring down the steps—

And speaking of moons, honey and otherwise, I seem to remember the yellow marshmallows were stars, which means the moons must have been blue, as in “once in a blue moon.” What did you say green was?

Shamrocks.

Ah, yes. Shamrocks. The symbol of Ireland. That's singularly appropriate, considering our situation.

What situa—?

I'll tell you later. What are the other colors? Orange? Orange pumpkins?

Pumpkins aren't Irish.

You're right. Okay, what is? Whiskey? IRA sympathizers?

No, it's got to be something like rainbows. Or a pot of gold.

Also singularly appropriate, since here we are,
he said, and she looked up to see that they were nearly all the way across the empty lobby, and the usher was outside on the sidewalk, holding the door open for them.

“You're sure Lucy will be okay?” the usher asked.

“Positive,” C.B. said, walking Briddey to the door.

“I'll be glad to give you a refund. Or to exchange your ticket for another night.”

She's afraid you're going to sue them and she'll get in trouble,
C.B. said.
Tell her you're not, or she's likely to call 911 just so she's covered.

“A refund's not necessary,” Briddey told her. “This was all my fault. I should have known better.”

The usher looked relieved.
Good girl,
C.B. said, and walked her through the open door and outside.

Away from the voices,
Briddey thought, limp with relief. But they were still there on the sidewalk, in the dark street. “Do you need help getting her out to your car?” the usher was asking anxiously.

“No, I'm fine,” Briddey managed to say. “Really.”

The usher looked doubtful, but she went back inside.
Very good girl,
C.B. said.
Now, let's hope they didn't tow my car. Oh, good, they didn't.

He indicated his battered Honda, which was parked at the curb where the taxi had let her out, between two large No Parking signs. “This is my lucky day,” he said aloud, walking her around to the passenger side of the car and opening the door. “It must be those green shamrocks. Here you go.” He eased her inside.

“Okay, now,” he said, trying to extricate himself from the arm she still had around his neck. “You've got to let go so I can get in the driver's side.”

“No—”

“It'll only take a second, I promise,” he said gently. “And then I'll get you out of here and away from the voices. Okay?”

She shook her head. As soon as he let go of her, the voices would come back.

“Look, we can't stay here,” he said. “If Trent shows up, it could seriously interfere with our honeymoon plans.”

He was trying to get a rise out of her so she'd let go of him, but she couldn't. The voices would swamp her, they'd wash over her—

“No, they won't,” C.B. said. “Look, I'll open the driver's door right now so I won't have to stop and do it when I go around.” He reached across her, pushed down on the door handle, and shoved the door slightly open. “And I'll be really fast, I promise. You just concentrate on that last marshmallow. Okay?”

No,
she murmured, but he was already starting for the front of the car. “C.B.!”

I'm right here,
he said, dashing across the front of the car, talking as he went.
The fifth kind of marshmallow, wasn't it a top hat? No, wait, I'm thinking of the Monopoly game. An iron? No, that's Monopoly, too, and anyway, didn't I read they got rid of the iron?

He was opening the door on the driver's side, sliding in. She grabbed for him the instant he was inside, clinging tightly to his arm.
Like some idiotic Victorian heroine,
she thought, but she couldn't help herself.

And he didn't seem to notice. He just kept on talking. “What did they replace the iron with? It was something more modern. Like a Kindle. Or a drone.”