Playing for Keeps (3 page)

To her surprise, half of her students seemed to have African heritage. The rest were a mixture of South American, North American Anglo and one, she didn't even dare to guess. One of the woman looked barely out of high school with unnatural red hair and dark roots, making her wonder how someone's daughter ended up here. Stacy knew they hadn't heard of her, but that wasn't a surprise. She made a lot of money, but wasn't a household name. She liked it that way. She didn't want to be known. She liked being able to go where she wanted, without being recognized.

"I'll watch your stuff for you," an older woman said meeting her at the door. The woman looked haggard--like life had punched her in the face and stepped on her just to make a point. She had a flat face, with hanging jowls, puffy eyes and gray, wiry hair. But under the sagging skin Stacy could detect a lovely bone structure and imagined that she'd once been quite a looker in her youth.

"My stuff?" Stacy asked.

"Yes, you can't be too trusting around here. My name's Priscilla."

"Thanks."

Stacy soon found out that, in addition to not trusting them, she couldn't even be heard. For the first fifteen minutes the women continued several conversations and totally ignored her. The correctional officer was of no use, and made no attempt to assist her in gaining control. After trying to get their attention by introducing herself, Stacy finally sat down and just looked at them. The women soon became quiet.

"Are you going to just sit there?" one called out to her as if she were sitting across a stadium instead of only a few yards away. Her words were coarse, traced with a Brooklyn accent, but she had the command of a queen and the looks to match. She had the East African beauty of a tribal princess. Her black hair was shaved short, her eyes rimmed with dark lashes and her slender frame lounged like a lazy cat.

Stacy rested her chin in her hand and fought back a yawn. "Isn’t that what you want?"

"Hell, this is supposed to be some kind of writing class," another women shouted.

"And I thought I was going to get students who understood English, but I was wrong," she mumbled.

The cat sat up straighter and narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"What?"

"You think we don't speak English. Are you making fun of us?"

Stacy looked around the room. Damn, she hadn't expected to be overheard. "I was just talking to myself, but now that I've got your attention let's talk about the power of a story."

"No, first we want to hear what you meant."

Stacy just stared at her, knowing that silence was her best weapon. This cat wasn't going to let this mouse go, she smelled a kill.

"Come on," Priscilla said. "Let her talk or she'll send us back to our cells."

The cat sent Stacy an ugly look then sat back.

Stacy breathed a sigh of relief then started the first lesson.

***

At home, Stacy went straight to the kitchen, remembering the email from her housekeeper Kelly Bremmer, giving her instructions for dinner. She went to the fridge and popped the premade meal into the microwave. As she waited for it to warm, she looked around her enormous kitchen, which was about the size of her first apartment. She never thought she'd live so well when she'd gone to New York to get her career off the ground. She’d had an average middle class upbringing in a quaint Maryland suburb before she'd met Marshall Harrington, an aspiring actor. She'd gone to New York to write plays. She was only twenty-two, he was twenty-six and a budding stage star. They'd met at an Improv class. She'd been dazzled by how different he was from everyone else. He wasn't loquacious and had the wounded hunger of a true artist. At times moody, but mostly passionate. Passionate about life and art. He made her see life in a whole new way. He shared his hopes and dreams and she felt privileged that he'd chosen her as a confidante. She quickly became protective of him--this talented man who'd kicked a drug and alcohol addiction at twenty-one determined to be the greatest actor of his generation.

She didn't want his genius to be ignored. She even wrote a play for him. Little knowing that soon writing would be the only thing that would save them both. She'd married him too soon, now that she thought about it. Just five months after a whirlwind affair. It wasn't long before she realized that his wounded hunger was more an act than a reality. She learned a year after they'd married, that the life he'd told her about had been a lie. He'd never done drugs or alcohol and his parents had disowned him. Yet, in spite of this, she still convinced herself that she was the only one who could help him, the one person who truly understood him. She accepted and believed that his lies were a cover for a gifted man with a fragile spirit.

But as that fragile spirit grew more demanding of her time, attention and energy-- sucking her joy like an emotional vampire--Stacy turned to her writing as a means of escape. During the first several months of their marriage, he had looked for work and managed to find small parts, but then drew into himself, because the roles weren't big enough and didn't showcase his talent. She got him auditions, but then learned that talent wasn't enough.

He didn't want to put in the effort. He'd been a child of privilege and expected everything to come easily to him. He hated criticism, so he started to sabotage her efforts. She'd left the theater and gotten a 'real job' to support them both, since he wouldn't lower himself to do anything but commit full time to his art. He'd die for his art and at times chastised her for not feeling the same. "It's because you don't' know what it's like to be a true artist. A writer can hide behind her words, a musician behind his music, but an actor must give it his all. My body is my instrument."

She pushed her dreams of writing aside and worked various jobs--waitress, administrative assistant, cashier--because she'd convinced herself that he was more talented. Then she wrote a play that got produced by a local stage company. He dismissed her acclaim by mentioning it was 'easier for a woman'. Especially a pretty one. To combat his painful remark she produced an indie film for him to play the lead in. It received global recognition when she entered it in an international competition--the script and direction getting a lot of notice--to Marshall's annoyance--but when the role didn't lead to the exposure Marshall expected, he deemed the success a failure.

She offered to write another script for him, but he refused saying that her cheap commercial tricks were undermining his true artistic aspirations. He soon began wearing a halo of bitter dreams--hopes deferred. Every conversation becoming as painful as stale dialogue in a static 50's movie with only one subject: his wasted genius.

He was good at making her feel guilty for her success. Reminding her, often, that she was just luckier than he was. Not talented, just luckier. Not harder working, just lucky. Three years into the marriage, when he refused to do anymore small films or theater work or even go on auditions, Stacy decided to pour her misery into a novel. A novel, the first in a mystery series, about a cold case and a detective with ties to a ruthless South African gang. She sent the manuscript off and was surprised when she'd given up hope that it would ever sell, a small publisher made her an offer. The novel didn't take off right away. Sales were barely visible at first, but the publisher was willing to build her career, which she later found out was rare in the world of publishing, which spits out writers like a hungry monster spitting out the bones of its prey. It wasn't until the fourth book in the series when her financial future turned around. Soon she was licensing foreign and movie rights and signed a contract for a TV show based on the characters. But, the brighter her light became, the darker his moods.

They briefly moved to Washington, DC and found the artistic community welcoming. But after only six months Marshall felt it was a waste so they returned to New York. She tried to make him feel better by dedicating books to him, mentioning his support. But he continued to make dismissive remarks about her accomplishments the more success and praise came her way. Little did she know that he'd use those efforts against her. He'd said he'd make her pay if she ever divorced him and he'd been true to his word. In court he said he had done extensive research for the books, and managed all the money. Everyone she thought she could call a friend had testified against her and supported his claims. He'd been charming and she'd been left friendless.

During the divorce, they'd painted her as a diva belittling her husband because he hadn't been as successful as she had. She'd learned how many of their friends had been jealous and delighted in seeing her fall. They'd all gone on the side of the winner and Marshall had definitely won. He'd never have to work another day in his life. And he could get credit for her success. She also knew that a supportive man was very en vogue and women would clamor after him. He appeared so loving and caring, when all he really was, was a parasite. And she'd loved him, that's what burned her the most. She'd loved him and wondered if he'd ever loved her.

Stacy tried to eat, but then started to taste her tears and pushed the plate away. There was no use feeling sorry for herself, although she felt like a failure in everything; her career, her love life. She used to feel so sure of herself and now she didn't know who she was anymore. She'd made a mistake and chosen the wrong man and the wrong life and wished she could be given a second chance with someone else--a chance to be someone else. She looked around at her opulent surroundings. The grand estate had been for him; the cars, the clothes just so he could show off to people. She never needed it. Now he had the money and all the toys he wanted and she paid the bills. She wasn't broke, she'd invested well, but she couldn't write. That had been something that had made her feel whole and alive. Her creative side felt dead and had been so for three years.

She lived like a recluse. But she wouldn't anymore. She would sell the grand house, she didn't even know why she'd kept it this long.

Instead of finishing her dinner, Stacy decided to go up to the attic and look through some of her things. Maybe she could find something that could help her inspire and motivate the women in her class. She was tired of feeling down. She wanted a change, but didn't know how to make it happen. Everything seemed set. She was in a rut, her life turning into a living grave. She searched through a stack of papers packed in a small wooden box, when a small, green leather diary fell out. Stacy looked at it with amazement. She hadn't seen it in years. She couldn’t believe she'd kept it. She hurried back downstairs and sat on her bed and opened in.

"He loves me so much. Today he took me ballroom dancing...and later, in the evening, we had a romantic dinner on a river cruise and..."

"One of my scripts was made into an award winning production and he treated me to a five-star dinner at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City."

"T.P. asked me to marry him."

Stacy wiped her tears away and laughed. T.P? She wondered who she'd been thinking about then. What she had written seemed so far away. Had she made up someone or had it been someone she'd really imagined being with? She remembered creating this fake diary when she'd felt that her real life was no longer something to write about. She'd started writing in it after moving to DC, embellishing the entries the more unhappy she became. In this diary she had a man who loved and cherished her and supported all her efforts. They traveled together and laughed and loved. Oh, how she wished she could have lived this life instead. She closed her eyes and hugged the diary to her chest. She wanted a second chance. She wanted to fall in love again and learn how to laugh again. She wanted to reclaim the woman she'd once been. She wanted to prove that she could be a success, without Marshall, and prove to everyone that what he'd said about her had been a lie. Stacy opened her eyes and sighed then tossed the diary in a side drawer and closed it. She had to be realistic. Nothing would change.

Hell not only had a smell, it had a queen. And her name was Laurice Hanover. She disrupted the class even more than last time, leaving Stacy feeling the weight of her sentence. She left the cafeteria eager to put the day behind her and made a wrong turn. She was about to correct herself when she heard barking puppies. She looked across the courtyard and saw a group of inmates walking with several dogs.

"Grab him!" a woman shouted.

Stacy saw a brown ball rush past her and then into the parking lot, narrowly missing getting hit by a car backing out. The busy parking lot was a dangerous place and Stacy knew the brown Labrador mix was going to get hit if someone didn't grab it. Stacy raced after it then stopped. If she chased it, it may think it was a game. She stopped and whistled loud. The puppy stopped. "Stay”, she said. To her surprise, the puppy didn't move. She approached it. The puppy’s tail began to wag, but she ignored it. She didn't want to reward bad behavior by petting it, although it was adorable. She bent down and took its leash then said, "Come," and the puppy followed.

The woman looked at her grateful. "I can't believe I let Houdini get away again."

"Houdini?"

"Yes," the woman said with a laugh. She had silver hair and a thin Nordic look with beautifully manicured fingers. "He wants to get out of this place just like most of the women, but I'm not sure he's suited for this course. I found him and wanted to give him a chance, but he's too much to handle."

"He's smart and knows commands," Stacy said impressed by how calm the puppy stayed beside her.

"Maybe you have a better knack with him than we do. He actually looks good on you."

Stacy shook her head. "Oh no, I couldn't have a dog."

"Why not? You're a natural."

"I’d like to hear more about your program," Stacy said eager to change the subject.

"Sure, by the way, my name’s Nila. This program helps to give the women skills they can use on the outside. Some work in shelters, animal hospitals, vet clinics and other places. Having skills like relating to others and patience, can be useful in any line of work. It gives them something to do and something to love. Both animal and human heal."