 
## Meanwhile in the World where Kennedy Survived

### Lacey Ann Carrigan

Published by Lacey Ann Carrigan at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Lacey Ann Carrigan
Chapter One

Manhattan, March, 1962

Jacy was looking forward to her three days off. Until now, it had been an uneventful Tuesday morning. The sun was shone vibrantly through her skylight, and she bathed scrumptiously in its warmth. Though it had been three years since she'd moved from California, she felt that she could never get used to the cold, gray New York winters. It seemed this one was just about over. To celebrate, she brewed herself a fresh pot of Asian tea, luxuriating in the rich atmosphere launched by the spicy, exotic scent.

Then the telephone rang. In the quiet of her penthouse high above Regency Street the bell sounded insistent, ominous. She picked up the French porcelain handset and said "Hello?"

"Are you dressed?" were the anxious words from the other end, spoken quickly by a male caller. At first she couldn't place the voice.

Looking down at her silk apricot lounge pajamas with navy blue piping at the collar, sleeves and hem, she felt embarrassed. "I hope I know you," she said. "Can you please tell me who you are?"

"Sorry, hon, I'm just really upset."

"Sidney?"

"Yes! Now, are you dressed or not?"

She looked at the grandfather clock beside the mirror, catching a glimpse of her increasingly incredulous expression and her sleep-tousled shoulder length brunette hair.

"It's eight o'clock in the morning and I'm on holiday. What do you think?" She put a hand against her hip and squinted.

"I think that if you're not dressed now that you'd better get dressed tout suite!"

"This tough talk doesn't suit you at all. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"Some government type just called a few minutes ago. He wanted to know when your shows were this week and where. He asked me if I could verify your address..."

"For God's sake, why?" she interrupted him.

"He wouldn't tell me!" he said in his temperamental, stage manager shrill voice. It was the same tone he used when he said "Two minutes! Places! Places!"

"Well how did he reach you?"

"How should I know, Miss Stilts? He could have gotten it from Loews himself. I'll scratch his eyes out the next time I see him. Anyway, this doesn't sound good. Are you some kind of a spy? This guy, Turnlaker, I think he said his name was, kept asking if you lived alone, did you have an understudy. You know what I'd do if I was you? I'd get myself dressed and get my little patootie out the door."

"I'm sure it isn't as bad as all that," Jacy said.

From the other end of the line, there was a hush and a long, exaggerated sigh. If she had been with Sidney, she'd also have seen him running his fingers through his receding, light brown hair. "I don't know sweetheart," he replied. "Sue me, but these really don't seem to be the kind of people who like dealing over the phone."

"Well, did you give them my number?" she asked.

Sidney had always loved to pause for dramatic effect. This time he inhaled loud and long, then let loose with one of his haggish howls of laughter. "We've got the entire male population drooling over you, fighting each other to be front and center, just so that they'll get a ringside seat if the stitches on your tight little costume come undone. And you think that I'm going to give some schmoe who claims to be a government operative your phone number?" He snorted in derision.

"Okay, okay, I wasn't thinking." She glanced over in the direction of her walk-in closet, and chose one of the outfits that required no planning. "You think they know where I live, right?"

"Yes. I know they know," he hissed.

Jacy thought the matter over for a few moments and took a couple of deep breaths. Then she straightened up and shrugged. "You know I think that we're making a big to-do over nothing. I've done nothing wrong. I've got nothing to hide."

"You sure? This guy sounded heavy duty. And I don't think it's about income taxes, either. The McCarthy hearings are over and done with."

Then Jacy remembered that she had been to Cuba in 1958. "Oh God," she whispered.

"What, you suddenly remembered you're a spy?" Sidney chuckled.

"Almost," she said. "Look, I've got to get off this phone. Sidney, you've got to promise me something. This conversation we're having never happened. And you never got this phone call."

"So you're going to take my advice and get your little patootie out the door?"

She sighed. "We're just going to have to take this one thing at a time."

"If you don't call me in two hours, I'm going to report you missing."

"Okay, okay." She hastily hung up the phone and it took her three tries to drop the handle neatly between the two delicate golden forks. From there she scurried about the small but elegant apartment, hastily making the bed, putting away the tea. She drew a bath, turning off the water when it had filled to six inches within the rim of the tub. After dropping bath salts in she gathered up her hair with two plastic combs, shed the silk pajamas and delicately entered the water. While she sponged herself and enjoyed the bath's freshness she thought about what had happened three years earlier, during her trip to Cuba.

It had been Norma Jean's idea. Before then, all Jacy knew about the Caribbean island before then was that it was horrendously hot during the summer months and that lots of jet setters and questionable underworld types liked to use it as a playground during the winter. On a crackly long distance call last January, Norma had invited her to come down. "It's fabulous," she gushed. "The weather's fantastic. Lots of people we know are down here. You need a break, you've been doing nothing but working for the past three years."

The last part wasn't quite true, but Jacy decided to take her friend up on the offer anyway. Within two days she boarded a luxurious turbo prop that would carry her 13,000 feet into the air down to Miami. After Miami, a rickety, claustrophobic commercial airliner that brought her to Havana. When she landed she noticed that a limousine had traveled onto the tarmac. From her small airplane window she could see Norma Jean's blond head in the back seat. Curiously, she could see swarthy skinned men holding musical instruments, all sitting in the front seat of the limo. Somehow they'd squeezed a conga band into the front seat of the long vehicle.

As Jacy descended the stairs from the airplane, the skycaps brought down her five pieces of luggage. A dignified looking man in a butler's uniform cordially greeted her. He helped her into the rear seat with Norma and a couple of starlets she didn't recognize. Norma Jean was holding a champagne flute and the bubbly liquid inside it sloshed around as she laughed. "Ainsley Frye has given us the run of his villa for the whole time we're here. Boy are we going to have a blast!"

Jacy had watched Ainsley when she was a kid during Saturday afternoons at the movies. He would swing from chandeliers and fight off droves of sultans in a wide array of swashbucklers. She imagined that he must be getting up there in years and that it might be one reason for his desire to surround himself with youth.

His exotic Spanish stucco villa was large enough to provide a private room for her, Norma Jean, and each of the other guests. Jacy remembered gold bathroom fixtures, and verdant tropical plants throughout, giving the building a lush, vibrant atmosphere. The black and white marble tile in the foyer and receiving room set off the greenery nicely, each room large enough large enough for an elegant ball.

The second night she was there the host, who was still dashing but with hair gone completely gray and using a cane to help himself walk, threw a black-tie formal. Jacy had pinned her hair up and wore a white, spangled strapless gown that had been slit and gathered on one side. It showed off her trim figure to a tee. When the orchestra began a tango, a tall, broad chested Latin man with intense eyes approached her. "Senorita," he said, "I am Fidel. May I have the honor?" Halfway through their dramatic, sensual dance which included a long, languid dip, the other guests parted for them. All eyes watched intently.

Fidel had asked her to dance twice more throughout the evening. Each time he proudly, soulfully gazed at her while expertly leading her around the floor. Between tangos or rumbas she noticed that a small cadre of stone-faced gentlemen in military uniforms surrounded him. With the quiet confidence and power he displayed, she knew he was important. Years later, she would see him on television and learn his last name-Castro.

They'd only danced, she thought. For the life of her, she couldn't even remember whether they'd had even a brief conversation. Could that be the reason the president was interested in speaking with her?

There was a knock at her door. She muttered quietly to herself and climbed out of the tub. Pulling the drain, she wrapped herself in a towel. She paused, reflecting on the irony that for fifteen minutes onstage during her current show, her wardrobe _was_ a towel. With a shrug she blotted her legs and feet dry before she ventured onto the lacquered hardwood floor. She gingerly approached the door. Peering through the security peephole, she recognized the familiar bald head and graying hair of Stan, the gruff building superintendent. There were several other men in dark suits flanking him. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"It's me, Jacy. There're four gentlemen here asking to see you. They say they're from the government."

"Just give me a moment, please," she said, trying to hide the escalating, inexplicably rising panic she felt. Jacy's heart raced in her chest.

"I'm sorry about all this darling," Stan said from the other side of the door. "Take your time. We ain't going nowhere."

For a few seconds she pondered what to wear. She settled on a conservative yet glamorous kimono robe that might give her an air of defenselessness and vulnerability. Though she didn't consciously know why that kind of a stance was important, her instincts told her that it was. After donning the robe, she quickly let her hair down and brushed it out so that it fell against her shoulders with gently sweeping curls. A quick check in the mirror for dark circles or shiny spots revealed that there were none and, after taking a deep breath, she was ready to unlock the door and open it.

Stan looked slightly sheepish when she saw him at full size, undistorted by a peephole lens. Four unsmiling men in various hues of dark suits accompanied him, all sporting standard issue shaved-sidewall short haircuts.

The super was the first one to speak. "I'm sorry, Jacy," he said. "This must be a rude awakening."

The tallest of the government men, one with auburn hair, fair skin and a boyish face took one cautious step toward her. Bless him, she thought, he's trying to be non-threatening. "Miss Jacy Rayner?" he asked.

"Yes?" she replied, getting worried.

"Chet O'Halloran with the Secret Service," said the boyish looking government agent, who couldn't have been any older than her twenty-eight years. In a swift, snappy motion, he extracted a billfold from his pocket and flipped it open, showing her a badge and a photographic identification card. The three other agents were a short, stocky thick-necked one, a swarthy one with a mustache, and the eldest, who was graying at the temples and had a cleft chin. They all followed suit. She quickly glanced at all the badges and photo identifications. "We're here at the behest of the President concerning a matter of national security," Mr. O'Halloran continued.

The word "behest" seemed at odds with this context, she thought. "Well what do you want from me?" she asked, trying to maintain her calm.

Chet raised his eyebrows before responding, tilting his head to one side. "Our president has requested an audience with you at the White House. We've been assigned to escort you to Washington."

Jacy glanced at Stan, who shrugged, looking down at the floor. He had backed away from the four of them.

"But I've got a show on Thursday night," was all she could think of to say.

"That has been discussed with the theater manager. All the arrangements have been made to assure that you will return to New York in time for your theater engagement Thursday evening," the older officer responded to her obvious fear in a fatherly way.

She looked at the four of them, in disbelief. None of them looked physically threatening, including the swarthy Mediterranean-looking one, who smiled slightly at her out of kind eyes. "Can you do this?" she said, feeling her arms go to her hips. "After all, it's kidnapping. This isn't the Middle East, last time I checked."

"I understand how you feel," the Italian agent spoke at that point. "This may seem terribly inconvenient, but it is a matter of national security. Your failure to comply would be...unlawful."

"Well god bless America," she blurted out. "I need to call my agent, my publicity secretary, and my director. Stan, you watch the place while I'm gone."

"You bet," the super whispered as the four men spirited her off.

After that, the secret service agents waited out in the hall while Jacy dressed in a mauve Chanel suit, applied her makeup and packed lightly for a two-day trip. Jake Whitehead, her agent, was not available but she knew he would be furious when he found out what happened.

She reached Holly, her effervescent blond publicity secretary, and told her in terse, rapid-fire sentences what was happening. She instructed Holly to keep trying to reach Jake on her behalf.

Alfred, the director apologized to her when she reached him.

"I won't leak out a word about this to anyone," he said. "And if they can't quite get you back for Thursday don't sweat it. We've got Pleshette waiting in the wings."

Once she was dressed and ready, she closed the door behind her. The fourth agent, who'd stayed silent, took her two suitcases from her and they all headed for the elevator.

They caused a minor scene in the building lobby when they swiftly crossed the floor on their way to the revolving doors. Harvey, the doorman, hair slicked back as always, and wearing his burgundy and gold uniform, looked stunned.

When they made it out into the sunny, warm street with noisy traffic streaming by, Jacy cringed. Two long, shiny black Lincoln limousines were parked at the curb, which wasn't such an unusual a sight on busy Manhattan street, but these vehicles flew American flags on their antennas.

A small crowd had gathered. Once they had all burst through the revolving door, Agent O'Halloran and his older colleague waved the people away while the Italian and the short, stocky one who'd acted as her bellman helped her into the rear seat. While she stepped into the vehicle, she heard a woman babble "It is Jacy Rayner! Ha! Ha! I told you she lives in this building!"

"My goodness gracious, couldn't you gentlemen have been a little more subtle?" Jacy said angrily to the group of men.

Once she'd been situated in the second of the parked limousines, she looked up at the bank clock on the corner and read "9:55" and "60 degrees."

When everyone was settled inside, the vehicles pulled away from the curb and sliced through the late morning traffic in mid-town. Soon they reached the Lincoln Tunnel, what she'd heard was jokingly referred to as "The Gateway to the Western Unite States."

As the car plunged into the dimness of the tunnel she calculated that it would probably take at least four hours for them to drive all the way to the White House. After they had passed through Newark and the smelly chemical factories, she realized they may get there quicker. The drivers of the vehicles had probably been given executive orders to "step on it," she thought as she watched them whiz by all the slower vehicles and trucks.

The limousine window glass had been tinted, so she knew that at least her anonymity would be preserved. It was a comforting thought as they passed by families, couples in sedans and farmers in pickup trucks. While she sat there the men in the car spoke amongst themselves about official business and goings-on.

It seemed to her that they spoke in code possibly so she wouldn't get wind of any national secrets and blab about them later. Michael, the older, fatherly one, attempted some stilted conversation with her, saying that he was delighted to meet her and wished that it could have been under different circumstances. He told her that he had seen her in the movie "Pretty Maids all in a Row," and that he had enjoyed her singing and dancing in it.

Jacy politely thanked him but after that Michael resumed conversing with his cronies.

While they passed through some of the pleasant rural country of New Jersey, with its red barns and cow pastures, she wondered what her immediate future would hold. She supposed that she would be meeting President Kennedy at some point, but first would probably meet with lesser security officials or cabinet members.

Only once had she seen the nation's capital and that had happened not long after she first arrived in New York, while she sought work on Broadway. It had been a weekend road trip that she and three friends had taken using a borrowed big-finned sky blue Cadillac.

They'd visited all the obvious tourist haunts including the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Smithsonian Institute, and the Capitol Building. It had been early April, which was cherry blossom time, and she had enjoyed the vibrantly pink and scarlet flowers lending color bursts of warmth to the urban landscape.

She had met Ike, a Kansas native, who had chosen "Howie in the Hills" as the Broadway play to see when he and his staffers were on holiday in the Big Apple.

It had been somewhat intimidating when he locked his militarily steely gaze on her, and shook her hand delicately when they were introduced.

"You cut quite a stunning figure out there on that stage, young lady. You're going to be a national treasure." he enthused.

This trip, it would be different. She was positive there would be no time for leisurely sightseeing.

A cold chill ran up and down her spine as they neared Philadelphia. While almost a year had passed since she'd spoken with her old friend Norma Jean, she still heard all the rumors about secret visits to the White House. There had been tongues wagging about a relationship she'd supposedly had with both JFK and his younger brother Bobby. If the rumors were true, it might be a good thing because then at least she'd know somebody when she got there. Time would tell.

The vehicles had bypassed the City of Brotherly Love on access roads, still keeping up their thunderous speed while all the men calmly acted as if it was routine for them to burn up the highways.

She saw the sign for Wilmington, Delaware and realized that they only had a small sliver of that state to cross through and a few miles through Maryland before they reached the District of Columbia.

When they did reach the border of Maryland she felt a quivering surge of anxiety in her bones. Not much longer now.

Once they reached the District of Columbia, she was taken aback by how ordinary everything looked. Brick housing tenements in some areas and a few miles away powerful men called the shots for the mightiest and most influential nation in history. When she had visited the area with her girlfriends they had all been distracted by their non-stop chattering, but on this day all of her senses were heightened.

She was disappointed the cherry blossoms weren't in bloom yet, though she could see the tightly wrapped buds on the branches. Their limos passed tourists walking around with cameras around their necks, marines in full dress uniform, men in suits carrying briefcases, women in their best dresses waiting to cross the street, and groups of school children being led by their teacher. The next time she looked up she saw the hulking pillars and dome of the Capitol.

To Anthony, the Italian agent she said "You gentlemen must've broken the speed record for a trip from Manhattan to the White House."

Anthony laughed and said "But of course we had your utmost safety and security in mind the entire way."

She had little time to prepare or collect her thoughts as they stopped at a check point for the White House, the guard waving them through. Perhaps it was a good thing. She was sure there was no one who could tell her of the proper protocol for a forced trip to see high government officials.

There was really nothing she could tell them that they didn't already know. Fidel, the suave Cuban gentleman at Ainsley's soiree had turned out to be Fidel Castro, leader of a burgeoning Communist nation and a horrific threat to the country. What could she tell Kennedy or his advisors? That he danced an exciting tango?

As the car rounded a bend behind the most famous address in America, she knew she was getting an insider's view that 99 per cent of the public would never see.

It seemed exciting, yet in a foreboding, uncomfortable way. They drove down into an underground parking garage, where the vehicles were parked next to fancy Mercedes and Lincoln convertibles.

All the way through the city the driver had spoken to someone on a squawking, static-charged radio, giving them updates on their progress. Now, a new group of people waited for them near a glass door that led to the building proper.

She was heartened to see that a couple of women in nice suits and dress heels had been included with the group; maybe she would be attending a summit meeting instead of an interrogational query session. The stocky secret service agent again bore Jacy's luggage for her. The rest of his colleagues formed a shield around her, whisking her off to the door past the other group gathered there. One of the women saw her and nodded, with what Jacy seemed to detect as the faintest outline of a smirk.

They entered a hallway with plush royal burgundy carpet and framed oil paintings of past presidents like Teddy Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson.

Jacy was forced to walk so quickly to keep up with the men that she couldn't stop and look at any one thing for very long. From the hallway they climbed a long marble staircase with red carpet into what Jacy realized was the main foyer of the White House.

A uniformed tour guide with a blond ponytail was speaking crisply to a group of tourists who had assembled in front of her. She said "We're walking, we're walking" while backing up toward one of the wings.

In the lobby, the other six men broke away from them, leaving only Michael and Chet to accompany her the rest of the way. Michael turned to her and said "The President is in session right now, but we're told it should only be a few more minutes." He motioned for her to come with them down a hallway to another wing and Jacy chillingly realized that she was being led to a small room beside the Oval Office.

A third man with a flat top military style haircut and the bearing to match, joined them in the room. He lowered down to sit atop a desk while motioning for them to take the remaining chairs in the room. The third man had probably taken off his suit coat and draped it over the chair behind the desk. She read a gold nametag on his shirt pocket: "Callahan."

"The President will see you shortly," Callahan said and then proceeded to rapidly deliver a whole set of statements.

She could barely understand him because he spoke so quickly but she was aware he was asking for an oath of silence.

She raised a right hand, wondering if she was being too cheeky and said "I do."

Callahan, O'Halloran, and Michael all looked at each other with confused looks on their faces. "You do?" Michael asked her.

Jacy explained "You're asking that what the President and I speak about stays within the confines of the walls of that room, and I'm saying I do. I mean, our comments and discussion will stay within the walls of that room."

Callahan raised his eyebrows, murmuring "I guess that will be suitable."

Just then she saw a group of men and a couple of women stream past them. All three of the men in the room raised up while Jacy stayed seated.

Callahan said "Boyce, please check with them," and the fatherly secret service agent named Michael quickly left the room and rounded the corner.

A few minutes later, Boyce reappeared and said "They're ready."

Jacy walked with them out of the room on weak knees, her pulse pounding. She wondered if such trepidation showed in her face. Callahan and O'Halloran escorted her around the corner to the Oval Office.

When they all walked through the doorway, Jacy was surprised to discover how bright the room actually was. On black and white television, it had always looked dingy and stuffy. Immediately she saw a couple of staffers help John F. Kennedy across the room toward his desk. Robert Kennedy stood nearby. They introduced Jacy to him first. "Mr. Attorney General, this is Jacy Rayner, star of the stage and screen." Robert pleasantly smiled for her in a boyish way, offering him her hand. She shook it delicately.

"Pleased to meet you sir," she said, cringing inside. Callahan hustled her past him and to the President, who had yet to be seated behind his elegant desk.

The staffers still flanked Mr. Kennedy, who wore a look of pain on his handsome features and Jacy wondered how he managed to keep his skin tan, noting that in person it seemed more creased with worry than it had on television. And his hair was lighter, reflecting coppery tones from the fluorescent lighting. "Mr. President, I would like to introduce Miss Jacy Rayner. Miss Rayner, please meet our President, Mr. John Fitzgerald Kennedy."

"It's a pleasure, kid," JFK said, smiling warmly, the pain momentarily evaporating from his expression. Callahan helped Jacy into a chair in front of the desk while the two staffers helped the President lower down, painstakingly little at a time, into his large chair behind the desk. He groaned audibly while he settled into the seat. Jacy noticed a cane standing against the windowsill behind him. Both Callahan and the staffers swiftly and silently exited the room. Robert moved across Jacy to the far side of the desk, leaning against it while he looked down at her.

They all sat silently for a moment, and Jacy could hear people speaking out in the hall. Then JFK pressed both palms into the arms of his chair and said "Well! Here we are.

Kid, you're just as stunningly beautiful in person as I imagined. I saw you in 'Merlin's Folly,'" then he turned briefly to Robert and remarked "Hell, I think everybody did!" Robert chuckled along with him.

"Mr. President, with all due respect, I've come a long way, under what I know you'll agree are scary circumstances. Can I please ask what this is all about?" Jacy asked. "Can I ask what you want from me?"

He smiled, waving a hand dismissively. "No need to be so formal, kid. I'm Jack."

Robert said "And I'm Bobby."

"And we can call you Jacy, right?" Jack said.

"Yes," she said. "Well then, Jack, why did you bring me here?"

"We want you to come to the party," he said. He raised a finger and searched in one of his desk drawers. "I've got a telegram here. I think you'll recognize the person sending it. She might be a friend of yours." He pulled a folded piece of paper out of the desk drawer and handed it to Jacy.

It read "Hello Jacy STOP. So Jack rolled out the red carpet for you STOP. Will be coming up on Wednesday with Joe STOP. See you at dinner STOP. It will be so much fun STOP. I can't wait STOP. Norma Jean STOP"

So she would be coming to join them tomorrow, along with her former baseball player husband. She finished with the memo and looked up across the desk at Jack. "So, is it true?"

"Is what true?" the President asked, for a moment appearing like the naive boy he might have once been at a Hyannis port cotillion around the time she was born.

"Never mind, Mr. President. I mean, Jack."

For the small talk that followed for the next hour, not once did the President bring up "Cuber" or any of the other things that would have warranted her kidnapping as a matter of "national security." As they wound down their conversation, Bobby told her that she would be taken by another car to her hotel for the night and that on Wednesday she was invited for a State dinner, just as Norma Jean's telegram had alluded.

After receiving directions on an intercom, Callahan reappeared in the room with them, along with another staffer. Jacy would be whisked away to the hotel. After she stood up, she turned and looked down at the President. "I feel the need to tell you Mr. President, that I thought you brought me here to ask about Cuba."

Her comment appeared to catch him off guard, because his eyes widened and for a moment he seemed to be at a loss for words. He said "Cuber? We don't worry about that anymore. We've got that bastard right where we want him." Moments later Callahan escorted her out of the room and back into the foyer.

Out there, she encountered his wife, Jacqueline who was wearing an understated plaid dress and pearls. Jacy discovered that in person, the first lady's eyes were remarkably far apart though she was a striking woman. Her features brightened when she saw her. "Jacy Rayner? The actress? Gosh it's a pleasure to meet you. You were so lovely in Pretty Maids all in a Row," and she shook her hand enthusiastically. As she was led away, Jacy thought "that poor woman."

After a night of restless sleep at the hotel, Jacy wanted to take a walk since the reflecting pool and the Lincoln Memorial were so close by. She was afraid to, however and stayed inside, watched television and ordered from room service instead. Later in the afternoon, the phone in her room rang. It was Norma Jean. "Oh, it's going to be so great to see you," she said in her breathless voice. During their conversation her thoughts seemed to be meandering. Jacy knew of her mother's mental state and of her friend's often-delicate psyche.

She said "Norma Jean, I don't quite know how to put this, so I'm just going to ask you straight out as a friend. Are you taking pills?"

A long pause followed. Then, in a more serious tone, Norma Jean said "No. What on earth would give you that idea?"

"I'm just concerned."

Later that evening they reunited at the White House ballroom. Surrounded by dignitaries and their wives, heads of state and chefs at the pinnacle of their profession the much taller Jacy embraced Norma Jean, the much shorter woman more commonly known at Marilyn Monroe. They nearly slid apart from each other since each of them wore slinky satin evening gowns and opera gloves.

After dinner, when the music played, JFK invited Jacy to waltz with him, along with a few of the other couples. She was pleased to learn that he moved so well and since she was an accomplished dancer, they could converse confidently and keep both step and time. "Jack, I forgive you for what you did," she said. "But I'm worried about you. You shouldn't toy with people's lives."

Jack laughed off the comment. "It's a party, kid. Have some fun. No need to get your panties all in a twist."

She suspected that he was fascinated over being able to look eye-to-eye with the woman he was dancing with. And she also noticed that his eyes were glassy. "Just think about it, Jack," she said. "I mean it."

Later that night, he called her at the hotel, to invite her to a more "private" party with a few of his friends and Norma Jean. She politely declined, wondering forever if it had been the right move. Months later, Norma Jean died.

About half way through 1963, Jack called her at her penthouse apartment. He said "You're my favorite, kid. Come on down again, this time on your own. We'll have such a great time." She always politely declined him, partly because of her work commitments, but mostly because John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a married man. She would always accept his phone calls and liked to give him advice and reactions to what she'd heard about either in the news or behind the news.

"I don't trust that Lyndon B. Johnson," she said at one point, remembering that at the state dinner he had allowed himself to "bump accidentally" into her, making sure she felt his straining manhood (he had also taken her aside and asked "Are you doing Jack, too?"). "If you listen to him, he's going to get you into big trouble."

"Okay," he said.
Chapter Two

October, 1964

Her mother, Selma, was out on the front porch wearing an apron. Jacy shook her head as she rounded the corner and coasted toward the long, curving driveway in her rented navy blue Ford. She parked over to the side of the driveway, beside the house, so that her father would be able to get past her and into the garage later. For now, she would leave her luggage in the back seat and the trunk and enjoy the feeling of coming home.

Sunday would be her thirtieth birthday.

For a moment she stopped to gaze upward and enjoy the southern California sun and warmth on her face. Back in New York, the jet had taken off through gray, drizzly skies and the air had already taken on its autumnal chill.

She had been away since the end of last year. When she approached the front porch she felt an ache in her throat when she saw her mother's beatific, smiling face. They hugged, one of the long, tight hugs that had always soothed her when she was growing up. Once they relaxed, they held hands and looked at one another. Her mother said "It's great to have you back, honey."

Selma was cooking a huge roast for that evening's dinner. "Relax," she said. "Get yourself some tea and I'll meet you out by the pool."

Jacy complied and eased herself down onto the chaise longue, feeling seventeen again as her saw sunlight dance in sparkles atop the aqua pool water. Moments later her mother scurried out onto the bright patio, her smooth forehead knitted up in an expression of worry and bewilderment. She sat on the edge of one of the padded wrought iron chairs beside her daughter.

"You've gotten quite a lot of phone calls over the last couple of days."

Jacy nodded. "Jake? Yes. Now that he knows I'm back he wants to pounce on me with all kinds of wacky stuff." Jake Whitehead was her agent.

"Yes, yes, I know Jake," her mother said. "And Rita called, too. But there was somebody else..." Her voice trailed off as she gazed down at the concrete, hesitant.

Jacy reached out to touch her arm. "What, mother? Who else was there?"

"Someone else. A man. He said his name was Jack."

Jacy laughed with a snort. "Oh."

Selma leaned even further into her, to get her attention. "This Jack fella said he wanted you to call him. That you had the number."

"Oh, yeah."

"There was something else." Her mother glanced left and right and then started to whisper. "He had a distinctive Eastern accent. From Boston."

Selma paused for dramatic effect.

She then said "This 'Jack' isn't who I think it is honey, is it?"

Jacy nodded, pausing to sip her iced tea.

"Oh my dear sweet Lord!" She lifted her hands and allowed them to flop down while gazing heavenward. "How do you know the president?"

Jacy laughed. "Oh it's nothing, ma." She started to get up. "Is the phone still in the sitting room?"

Selma looked up as her daughter walked away, flabbergasted. "Are you going to call him now?"

"Na," Jacy called back over her shoulder. "I'm going to see what Jake wants."

Once inside the steak house style restaurant, she felt a burst of nausea as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the bright, sunny California afternoon. It was a Friday and she knew that a swankier place like this would be crowded. Her eyes searched the tables illuminated by tiny golden lamps. Suddenly a voice boomed from one of the tables toward the rear: "Jacy! Over here!"

Jake Whitehead, her short, stocky agent had gotten to his feet and was bouncing up and down on the hard wood. Jacy walked toward him slowly, feeling a smile come to her face as she drank in his enthusiasm. When they came together, he reached up with his active, chiseled hands and aggressively took the back of her head in them and pulled her down to his level so he could kiss her quickly. It was the move of an Italian man, though Jake had always reminded her of an Irish boxer instead.

When they sat down and caught their breath, Jake kept looking at her and smiling. He was sipping on a martini and had ordered a wine spritzer for her. He had also ordered a house salad and onion soup for her while he went for a three pound porterhouse. "I know you're not going to eat anything but that rabbit food, anyway," he explained.

She knew that it would be awhile, at a high-end restaurant on a busy day, before they would see their food. Over the phone when they had discussed lunch, Jake had promised they would discuss several juicy projects she was in line for. Jacy rushed that conversation along. Jake said "No, no honey. Let's enjoy some first class vittles, first. Then we can talk about that all you want."

Jacy persisted. "Jake, please?"

Her agent poked at a dinner roll nestled into the bread basket. "Some British producers are very interested in you," he replied, speaking softly.

Jacy leaned forward. "And?"

"They want you for one of the leads. It's a great payday."

She mentally ran down the list of what it could be: cat-women on Mars. Happy hookers in a New Orleans jail. Or the bimbo in the latest Stephen Blade international extravaganza. "Okay, I'm listening."

Even in the dimness, she could see him wince.

"It's for Stephen Blade."

Jacy exhaled in exasperation and slumped back against the back of her chair.

"But it's a killer part. Lots of face time"

"Yeah. In a bikini. How long do I get to wear the top part?"

"Jacy, it's not like that. Not this one."

She snorted in disgust, taking a long swig of water laced with lemon. "They're all like that, Jake." Aware that she'd raised her voice a tad, she glanced around at some of the other tables for telltale signs of someone eavesdropping and taking notes.

"You play an arms expert, fluent in six languages," Jake went on. "Brains and beauty. They practically begged me for you."

She didn't care if it was Mrs. Gandhi. The Stephen Blade films were all about intrigue interspersed with sex. "It's not what I want," she murmured. "Hasn't there been anything else? Something where I can act for a change?"

Two waiters appeared with the platters carrying their food.

After receiving his succulent, steaming steak, Jake made one last, impassioned plea. "Honey, I know how we discussed how you want to prove yourself, to touch people, and make them laugh. You'll get there, believe me. But, trust me, there are hundreds of screaming up-and comers who'd kill for the role they're giving you."

Jacy shrugged, reached for her fork and speared at a piece of endive. Between the lines he was saying the same thing as always: Shakespearean tragedy or British tea room drama isn't in the cards for you. Take this gravy train and run with it. While you're young. While you're attractive. It just wasn't what she wanted. What did she want?

She wanted to be a healer.

A few short weeks later, Jacy found herself on one of the tiniest Bahamian islands which had been taken over by Cheswick and Dunn, the producers of the wildly popular Stephen Blade movies. After all, she had her mortgage to pay on the penthouse and all those wardrobe and dry cleaning bills. A girl, even a thirty year old one, had to be practical.

The name of the movie was "Red Tide," and just as Jake said, her role as Sonia Hartenteit was a bit more complex than the average set ornament. She would have to speak German in one scene, Russian in another, and French in a third. The rest of her lines would have to be delivered in a teutonic accent, nothing too difficult for her since she'd already nailed a flawless Swedish accent for a whole year while on Broadway.

She had to learn to scuba dive for the climactic scene at the end of the movie. It would be so intricate and detailed, she was told, that it would take two whole weeks of shooting. An Australian lady named Gillian met with her one morning at one of the villa's pools and two stagehands lifted a metal tubular monstrosity over her and strapped it to her back. She felt like she was wearing a fire hydrant! Gillian helped her strap a face mask onto her head, which gave her a touch of nervous claustrophobia. One of the guys lifted a convoluted rubber hose that looked like a circular vacuum cleaner attachment over her head. It contained a mouthpiece that she would breathe through while she swam underwater.

Gillian was wearing the same kind of a setup yet appeared and at ease with her tubular metal backpack, as if she'd been born with it. After she'd strapped on her mask, it caused her normally melodic speaking voice to sound clipped and nasal: "We're going to drop down to the bottom, love. To get you comfortable breathing under the water."

The first time they submerged, Jacy anxiously hyperventilated, causing thunderous whirlpools of bubbles, stirring up the water. For a moment the turbidity obscured her view of Gillian, who'd dropped down just a few feet in front of her. Gillian was giving the "thumbs up" signal, for them to expel all their breath and head for the surface. "Just think of it as being home in your rocking chair. Relax!" Still, it took almost the whole morning and two tankfuls of air before Jacy could submerge and breathe normally, with just graceful trickles of bubbles, like Gillian.

They moved from there to the deeper end, staying down for longer and longer periods of time, running through drills similar to the scenes Jacy would perform in just a few short days. Gillian instructed her to think of herself as a dolphin, to allow her fins to gracefully propel her through the water, as she watched her circle the pool countless times. They practiced a maneuver called "buddy" breathing, where they both breathed out of the hose on Gillian's tank, pretending that Jacy's equipment had failed. Finally, at the end of a long day at the end of an exhausting week, Gillian patted Jacy on the back and said "By cracky, I've think you've got it, love!"

That helped Jacy feel more at ease about the upcoming action scene shots to be filmed in an ocean lagoon. On the first day of shooting, however, the wardrobe department poured her body into a black, sealskin wetsuit so tight it squeezed her ribs closed and made her limbs feel stiff, board like. She complained to Hazel, the wardrobe matron who shrugged and said "They want to be able to see your curves, honey. It'll feel much better in the water. Less constricting."

On the first day of shooting, Jacy noticed that all of the other, men actors would be wearing hoods with their wetsuits. When she questioned Sid, the director about this, he said "We want to be able to see your glorious hair, billowing in the current."

That first day, they'd settled for mostly swimming and reaction shots, mostly getting pictures of Jacy swimming toward a shipwrecked destroyer that hid a cache of stolen gold. Tuesday, April 5, 1965 she arrived at the set to find all the actors and stagehands jovially enjoying a hearty breakfast spread. "Today's the big day, doll," Sid told her. "You get to be a bitch with a knife."

The action called for her to swim up to a group of men diving around the destroyer, searching for the gold and slice their air hoses one by one. Gillian would drop down with her, out of camera range to feed her hand signals for direction. You're not really going to be slicing their air hoses, she'd been told over and over again. They would be using something called a re-breather that military frogmen used, with the air tanks for show. When Jacy would slice the air hose, the actor would trip a carbon dioxide canister that would send bubbles through the hose while they twisted toward the surface in agony.

The hoses were made to give way easily when Jacy would pretend to slice through them. Still, disaster struck the first time she swam toward a scuba diving actor and aimed the knife at his hose. She thrust her fist back to lunge forward and slice the hose but on the forward stroke, caught the release valve string on her buoyancy compensator vest. The carbon dioxide capsule fired, filling the bladder with air, causing her to rocket helplessly toward the surface. They had been more than forty feet under water.

When her face and shoulders broke the surface, she felt as if her lungs had exploded. She gasped for air and flailed her arms. A moment later Gillian broke the surface, tossed back her mask and hose and frantically swam for Jacy, barking loud, shrill orders to the men on the trawler. "It's going to be okay love! It's going to be okay!" she kept saying over and over as she put her arms under Jacy's shoulders and kicked them both toward the trawler. Jacy was aware that a couple of men jumped into the water to help. Four people helped her out of the water and onto the boat deck. Someone started an engine and drove them very quickly toward the harbor ship. A stressed sounding male voice said "Tell them to get the chamber ready!" After that, Jacy lapsed into and out of consciousness and could only sense images whizzing past, like a slide show rapidly firing images of concerned faces onto a screen.

She lost consciousness. When she woke for a moment she found herself laying in something resembling a steel tomb.

A short while later, at twelve o'five in the afternoon on April 5th, 1965, the Russians dropped an atomic bomb on Cape Canaveral, only three hundred miles away. Through the porthole in the chamber, she could see the glow.
Chapter Three

Los Angeles, autumn, 1997

"Because I spent four long years and thousands of dollars perfecting my craft and I think I deserve a chance to show you what I can do!" Dorina asserted. She cringed inside, knowing that her words came out more high-pitched and breathy than she had hoped they would. For two weeks she had been practicing her speech in front of the mirror and had even videotaped herself. When her chance to meet with managing editor Victor DeGraffenried finally arrived, she felt like an Olympic gymnast who stubbed her toe at the beginning of her routine.

Silently, Victor regarded her for a moment. She could hear clattering keys and muffled conversation from behind the closed door. Her eyes glanced at the sheaves of paper, the framed degrees on the wall behind him and pictures of him shaking the governor's hand, meeting President Reagan and standing in front of the "Hollywood" sign with a group of fifty other journalists. There was an empty "Ho Ho" wrapper on top of Victor's desk, perched in front of a belly that strained against the lower buttons of his oxford shirt. When she glanced up again she saw green eyes flashing out from a face that shrugged, smirking at her. "Do you realize how many thousands of kids across this country could say the same thing?"

Dorina felt an urge to sigh but forced herself to take a deep breath instead. "You could start me off small," she said. "Just send me to cover a small event or something. I'd be so grateful."

He waved a hand dismissively at her. "We've got stringers to handle little piss ant jobs like that," he said, taking a bite out of a ho-ho. "Now tell me really why you want to write for us when you've already got a good job in sales admin."

Dorina decided to try a different tactic. She had also spent the previous four weeks imagining every possible scenario that could occur in her meeting. Strictly for effect, she paused thoughtfully, looking at him through his too-large eyeglasses. "Weren't you ever in my position? In front of the desk, trying to get your break? Do you remember how it felt?"

She succeeded in getting him to stop munching on the Ho-ho and put it down while he gazed out into space thoughtfully for a moment. "Yeah, I remember," he said. "It was the tail end of the sixties. I would've covered a tiddlywinks match for God's sake or washed the chief's Cadillac. I offered to pay my way back east if they'd let me cover Woodstock."

"You see!" Dorina said, congratulating herself. "And you kept at it and got better and better as more and more people gave you breaks and look at where you are now!"

"Yup," he said, talking around a mouthful of chocolate and whipped cream. "But let me tell you something. It's different now. We got CNN, we got MTV, we got cable with two hundred channels or whatever, and talk radio. Lots of competition. And it's getting to be a fast, crazy world. People are finding less and less time to read. You young kids getting out of school think this is cake. Well, talk to my cardiologist."

Dorina had heard all the arguments before. Like five years earlier when she announced to her parents that she wanted to go to college for journalism and her father snorted and said "Why don't you go for something useful, like nursing?" Other people also warned her that journalism was a highly competitive and overly crowded field.

But there's always room for one more really good one, she told herself.

"Well, what do you think I could do to improve my chances? Of getting a byline?" she asked, trying to gain at least something useful from the interview.

Victor shrugged again. "Talk to people. Keep your eyes and ears open. 'Network' as they call it now." He made quotation mark signs with both hands by jiggling his thumbs and first two fingers. "And you're doing fine." He started to stand up, a cue that their little chat was ending. "They speak really high of you in sales."

He was reassuring her that she needed to feel good about what she had achieved so far. True, many of the people she'd gone to college with had settled for lesser jobs, such as retail management for an office supplies store or they waited tables while going on to grad school. A couple of girls she knew got married and dropped out of the game altogether. But she was different. Damn it, she thought when she closed the door behind her. She had graduated over four years ago. At this rate she'd still be working spread sheets for ad sales when she was sixty! Rent in the tiny one bedroom apartment where she lived was over seven hundred dollars. Car insurance, groceries, gasoline, it was all more expensive on the west coast than back in Ohio. She was still paying on student loans and the credit card balances. Ouch! She didn't even want to think about that but she needed to find some way to get the wardrobe she needed to fit in out here. Her legs, in the designer hose she'd splurged on, felt very heavy when they carried her back to her desk, slump shouldered while she glanced at the notes.

Once she plopped down she tossed a client folder toward the far corner of her desktop and logged absently into her terminal. Was that assistant managing editor post still open in Cincinnati? She could probably live a lot more cheaply out there, though in the winter the weather would suck. Oh well. She was about to click onto the "Careers" tab when the phone rang. "Sales, this is Dorina Pettit, can I help you?" she said, wondering if she sounded as dispassionate as she felt.

A long silence caused her to wonder whether a telemarketer had dialed her. Then the softly modulating male tones chilled her bones deliciously. "I don't know. Can you?"

"Hey," she said.

"Hey, back. You ok?

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Doesn't sound like it.."

Dorina sighed. Mitch was a lawyer but sometimes she wondered if he couldn't make a better living on one of those psychic hotlines. "Well I had the meeting with Mr. Ho ho."

"And?" Mitch paused, after he had dragged out the one syllable word to two.

"He wasn't impressed. I might as well have been trying to sell him life insurance." She sighed again.

"Dori, that's how those people are. They control the careers of hotshot journalists and have seen and heard everything. He agreed to meet with you, didn't he?"

"Yeah, I guess so," she shrugged. "I'll tell you more about it later."

"How about tonight?"

"Maybe. I'll let you know." When they ended their phone call, she wondered if she told him the right thing.

The most horrendous of Dorina's migraine headaches always started off with a small throb. Whether she was at work, at home, or at the beach on the weekend, they would start like a dripping faucet that would keep going until a volume the equivalent to Niagara Falls would rush through. They'd started in her senior year of high school when she would only attend class in the morning but would work 40 hours a week at the mall and try to keep a relationship going with her boyfriend all at the same time. As she approached her thirtieth birthday, things became even more complicated.

While the throbbing had started on a Tuesday afternoon at work, she knew that at least she could look forward to a quiet evening at home. Quickly, however, she realized that she had to go to the gym for salsa class or she would gain five pounds overnight. While her college degree had been in journalism and she'd often dreamt about interviewing famous and influential people, revealing their human side, instead she felt more like a bookkeeper. Day in and day out she would pore over spreadsheets of receivables for ad copy from the magazine's clients, wondering when she was ever going to make it to the next level.

Her father had said that it was good to find a mentor in business to help you move up the ladder. "Find one of the reporters there you admire," he said. "Offer to buy them lunch. Find out what makes them tick. Then use what you can and leave the rest."

By four-thirty, the trickling had swelled to a stream with notions of becoming a downpour. She picked up the phone and hit the uppermost speed dial digit. After only two rings the line connected from the other end and she heard the familiar soothing, modulating tones: "Contracts, Mitch Pomeroy here."

"It's me."

He paused for a moment, as if he were letting the sound of her voice soak in. "Ooh. You don't sound good."

"Well then don't ask me how I feel." She cradled her forehead in her hand as she slumped over her desk.

Mitch sighed. "Is it a five?" They had worked out a scale for the severity of her migraines, with one or two being the kind she could try to tame with aspirin, three or four the kind she needed to stay at home with the lights out, lying down, and five was the level requiring medical assistance.

"Yes," she said quietly, since it hurt her to speak any louder.

"Oh boy," he replied, and he grumbled a couple of other things under his breath and away from the telephone receiver. "Honey, I don't know if I can get away from here and get to you in time. Would you be able to drive?"

"No." She worried that he would tell her to board the Magavan or get a slot cab. "I need help."

The volume of Mitch's voice from the other end drifted up and down as she imagined him running his fingers through his hair and making stabbing motions with the telephone handset. "Okay. Okay."

"Well, when can you get here?"

"Geez hon, I've got things to do, there's traffic..."

"It's almost a quarter to five. Just leave when you're supposed to. See you soon. Take care of yourself!"

While she waited for Mitch to show up at the front office reception desk, she let her head slump all the way down to her desktop. She closed her eyes, knowing that as the pain increased the glare of the artificial fluorescent lights overhead would bolt through her temples like steel rods. Her friend Kayla passed by and said "Must be a bad one this time, huh?" in a friendly tone, as if she was discussing her backhand while they were playing tennis. Dorina tried to grumble back a response but already knew that her friend had made it through the other doorway and would not hear her.

A short while later, Mitch arrived. Bridget, the front desk receptionist, called for her. She gathered her purse and stood up slowly, in stages or else the sudden movement would cause her to feel light-headed and cause her to faint. The glare from the light overhead caused her to squint and wince so that she had to feel around in front of her to wind her way through the hallways and cubicles. When she saw his smiling face, however, she felt slightly better. He was wearing his sharply tailored navy pin-striped suit which always made him look as though he were on his way to an important trial rather than being a lawyer who just did paperwork. They were both in the same boat, career wise, she often realized, which was why they got on so well.

Their relationship had survived in spite of this, at least it had so far. When she met him at the front, he put his arm around her. Since he was several inches taller than her, he could cradle her inward to the nape of his neck. His warmth and masculine scent further comforted her as he shepherded her out into the parking lot. With his tousled, sandy hair and casual manner, many people often commented that Mitch seemed more like a record store employee than an attorney but at times like this his easygoing attitude helped greatly.

Mitch helped Dorina into his car, a bi-powered BMW with leather seats and a four figure aftermarket stereo system. "Same place?" he asked, as he fired up the ignition and checked the mirrors.

"Same place," she said as she leaned down and set her throbbing head atop the console. When she had settled it there, Mitch dutifully caressed her neck and hair while the car lurched forward and backward as he worked his way out of the parking lot. As always, Dorina hung her head low and perceived the movement of the car as it made turns and traveled backward and forward, but was too caught up in the crux of her pain to notice anything. Small bumps would cause her forehead to bounce lightly against the console, which would make her feel as if an ice pick were being driven through her skull.

Soon Mitch stopped the car, turned off the radio and engine, got out himself and walked around to the passenger door to help Dorina. During such times she always felt coddled and cherished, as Mitch would gather her in closely and help her across the parking lot toward the Emergency Room entrance. It was a Tuesday night; she managed to think in between savage slices of pain brought about by the cruel fluorescent lights in the lobby. She always had to wince and squint to keep the pain at bay, but she could still see a lobby filled with anxious looking people in various states of medical malaise. A mother with her elementary school age son, who held his hand upright, swathed in a blood soaked towel, an old married couple who sat taking turns patting each other's wrists assuredly, a teenage girl with spiked hair who gnawed at her nails expectantly, a businessman in a three piece suit who sweated and tugged at his collar. "Great," she announced out loud in the general direction of those people plus a few more that waited, "I'll be put at the end of the line and probably won't be seen for hours."

"It may not be that bad," Mitch said. "Let's just get you checked in and they can tell us more there."

Dorina recognized the clerk from her most recent visit, which had occurred about a month before. The woman, who seemed to be in her early thirties, with overly processed ash blonde hair styled into a fluffy bob regarded her coolly. As they approached her counter, Mitch announced "My girlfriend's very ill. We'd like to get checked in and be seen as soon as possible." Though Dorina had closed her eyes by then and wished she could also close off her ears, she managed to answer most of the clerk's questions.

"It's about an hour wait," the clerk said.

She felt lucky that the magazine she worked for provided insurance that gave her a variety of care options so that she could choose a well-heeled private hospital as opposed to a raucous, poorly maintained receiving facility. This meant that she would receive the best care from the best doctors the area had to offer and the waiting room furnishings were also much better. Rather than tacky vinyl like a bunch of high school cafeteria chairs joined together, the waiting room at B'Nai Brith featured chaise longues with inviting, soft cloth upholstery. Dorina drifted into and out of conscious awareness of the clock during the hour that they waited.

Before much longer, one of the nurses called Dorina forward into the doorway between the waiting room and the treatment bays. As Mitch helped her toward it, she could almost feel the screeching pain start to lift. "I'm Gail," the nurse, a slender woman dressed in efficient pale violet scrubs said. "We're going to start you off right here." She indicated a space set off by an opened vinyl curtain. From previous visits, Dorina knew that she would sit atop a bed separated from the other patients by a thin curtain. It was the way the nurses and doctors probably felt they could work the best, she supposed.

Gail invited Dorina to recline against the hospital bed, which had been cranked upward so that she lay nearly in a sitting position. "I'm going to be getting your vitals and some other information from you. I understand you're having a bad migraine?"

"Yes," Dorina wailed as she felt the blood pressure probe tighten around her finger. Mitch sat in a low vinyl chair set beside the bed and leaned forward, cradling his hands in front of them, watching intently as the nurse continued on with her preliminaries.

"Have them often?" Gail asked.

"Every couple of weeks."

"Where do they start? What part of your head?"

"Usually right above my right temple." Dorina placed a fingertip against the location to show the nurse.

"Any other symptoms? Nausea? Shortness of breath?"

"Nausea, yes, shortness of breath no. At least so far, knock wood."

Gail nodded while she noted the answers on a chart. "How would you describe the pain? On a scale of one to ten?"

"Eleven," she replied, only half jokingly.

Gail grinned and made an entry onto the chart.

"How were my vitals?" Dorina asked. "High blood pressure runs in my family."

"Yours was fine. One hundred thirty nine over ninety."

"Sheesh. That's more than normal though. Usually I'm in the teens for the top reading and about seventy five for the lower one."

Mitch patted her lightly on her arm. "It's nothing to be alarmed about, love."

"And just so that you know," Gail went on, "your temp and pulse were fine, also." After pausing thoughtfully for a moment, she asked Dorina something that gave her pause. "How do you normally treat the migraines?"

"I come here," she said.

Gail whirled around and faced Dorina full front, a quizzical expression on her pixyish face. "You come here every time you have a migraine? Every time?"

Dorina sighed. "For the really intense ones I do. That's about once a month."

Gail looked over the chart entries again, this time studying them and saying "Hmmm."

Feeling a sense of foreboding, Dorina asked "Is anything the matter?"

Gail glanced at the chart one last time before sliding it gently down into a slot at the foot of Dorina's bed. "Nothing to be concerned about. We just don't seem to have any of the prior visits documented. Can you tell me when you were here the most recent?"

"Sure. It was about a month ago."

Gail looked at the chart again, saying "Interesting. I'm sure the doctor can clear it all up when he comes in here. That shouldn't take too long." As she moved toward the curtain dividing the treatment areas, Gail bent down for a moment to pat Dorina reassuringly on her knee.

Once the nurse had cleared earshot, Dorina said "I don't like the way things are going. Do you have your phone with you? I want to call my doctor."

"It's going to be okay," Mitch said. "You know how hospitals are. The chart probably just got misplaced somewhere. What would your doctor be able to do?" He stroked a few locks of her hair that fell in bangs across her forehead.

"Pull some strings," she replied. "Get me seen earlier. Dictate parts of my history to someone." She pulled the hospital blanket upward to her eyes to shield them from the bright fluorescent light and ease the stabbing pains. Someone somewhere had also told her to take deep breaths when she was in the middle of migraine so she started to do that as well. A thought suddenly occurred to her with dread. Closer to the holidays, when lots of junior doctors cycled through the emergency room, she'd had to get her mother involved in explaining that her daughter was in severe pain and not merely seeking drugs. "We might have to call my mom," she murmured to Mitch, while this thought was still fresh in her mind.

"Your mother?" he said, the question weighing heavily on his tone of voice. "She's two thousand miles away. What's she going to be able to do?"

"She can convince the doctor I'm not a drug seeker."

Moments later the resident appeared. He was young, not much older than Dorina herself and she was surprised to learn that he wore running shoes with his khaki slacks and white coat. In one smooth, graceful movement that seemed orchestrated, he pulled the chart from its slot, regarded Mitch, and leaned in to address Dorina. "So, Miss Pettit. I'm Dr. Nolin, a resident here. What can we do for you today?" She had opened her eyes by then, riveted back to the present moment, taking in all that was happening to her and going on around her.

"I've got a migraine," she told him.

He stood back, shifted his weight from one foot to the other and scratched his chin. To Dorina it looked like a stall tactic. "Can you describe the migraine for me a little?"

"Well, doctor," she began, with a sigh, "if you can imagine a sword that's red hot on one side and freezing cold on the other plunging into the skull right here, then you'll know what I mean." She pressed her fingertips on a point just above her right temple as she watched his eyebrows rise. He reached over to the slot at the end of the bed and pulled her chart out of it. As he looked over all the entries he narrowed his gaze and twisted his lips to one side. "I've been here many times for the same thing. You should have my whole history there."

"Yes, uh huh," the doctor said. "Has there been any change in your usual routine? Or your diet? Have you eaten or drank anything unusual, like wine, maybe?"

Dorina rarely drank, leaving it mostly to holidays and family get-togethers. "No, I haven't drunk anything at all recently." She glanced over at Mitch, who was listening to the conversation intently and nodding.

"Chocolate? Have you had any chocolate recently? Especially the dark, rich variety?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that either." She tried to remember the last time she'd even eaten chocolate and decided that it must have been that previous Valentine's Day. Mitch loved it and had treated her to some of it.

"Exposure to chemicals? Such as drying paint in a room that's not too well ventilated?"

"No, not that I know of. There hasn't been anything like that happening at work and my apartment was painted before I moved in."

The doctor nodded again. With his smooth skin and soulful eyes, he looked much more serene than most stress-free medical professional Dorina had ever seen. "When was your last menses?"

She knew what he was doing: he was running down a list of common triggers, trying to take the holistic view of his possible treatment for her. "It was two weeks ago. All I can tell you is, I haven't eaten or drank anything unusual or huffed chemicals and it's not that time of the month. I just get these headaches and they about kill me. I need relief." Her voice hit a creaking high note at the end of that sentence, as she hoped to convey the feeling of her searing pain.

The doctor glanced at the chart again. "It doesn't look as if any of my colleagues have ever ordered a CT scan for you," he said.

Dorina wasn't sure if the company's health plan covered most of that type of test or not. And she surely didn't want to find out the hard way. "No," she said quickly. "But the last one did a thorough check of my temples and my eyes and he said he didn't think anything horrible was lurking in there."

The doctor shook his head, barely perceptibly. "Looking at the chart and your vitals today, I'd have to say I'd agree. What type of a job do you have?"

"A stressful one," she blurted. "I work for one of the big magazines doing ad administration and accounting."

The doctor stepped back, to regard her scratching his chin. "That's great," he said. "Something you went to school for? Accounting and business?"

"Actually journalism. Sometimes I feel like I want to get a bumper sticker that says 'I'd rather be writing.'"

That comment wrung a quick smile from the doctor's lips. "Has everything been okay there? Any demanding new bosses or impossible deadlines or anything like that?"

In the past she had done most of the talking during her emergency room visits. She wasn't sure how she felt about being asked so many questions. What was the big deal, she wondered. She worked, she paid her insurance through a before tax deduction and now she needed the doctor's assistance. Hadn't he been through eight years of schooling and a recitation of the Hippocratic Oath? Suddenly she felt queasy at the pit of her stomach to go with her intense head pain. "Well it's stressful, sure," she said. "But it's what I signed up for. And I've been getting the headaches since high school."

The doctor cocked his head to one side and asked her to repeat herself. He glanced at the chart again. "That long, huh?"

"Yes."

"And you say they're occurring about once a month, and it isn't usually around the time of your menses?"

"No."

He took a moment to think and then nodded deeply, as if he'd summed everything up inside his diagnosis seeking mind. "Tell you what I'm going to do, I'm going to order a CT scan and write you something to help you with the pain you're having."

Not exactly what she wanted to hear. "A CT scan?" she repeated, anxiously. "But didn't you just say that you agree with the other doctors that nothing horrible is going on inside there?"

"Yes. But this would be one way to make absolutely certain, correct?"

Dorina could see the dollars flying out the window. At least she was going to get the medication she needed, she supposed, while watching Dr. Nolin scribble onto a prescription pad he'd pulled from one of his coat pockets. She watched him write the letters onto the blank area of the prescription pad, suddenly feeling a sharp pang of anxiety when the word seemed to short and filled with too many slashing angles to be "Demerol." "You're writing the script for the same type of pain meds that the other doctors did, right?"

"I'm writing one for prescription Motrin," he said. "It should take the edge off."

She felt as if someone had emptied a tumbler filled with boiling liquid on top of her head. "That's not going to be strong enough! Not even Aleve or Advil comes close to touching the pain."

Mitch started to speak, startling her. "In the past she's always received the more narcotic types of painkillers," he said. "It's really all that works."

The doctor nodded and calmly replied. "Yes, and they bring with them other problems, such as dependency, constipation, stress on the liver, and that's just the beginning." He whirled away from them as if he was punctuating the finality of his decision. "I'll have the nurse give you some aftercare instructions."

Dorina said "But doctor," as she watched the man toss back the curtain and walk away from them.
Chapter Four

Mitch took Dorina home. He said that he would be back the next morning to take her back to work, as long as she felt up to attending. They rode along in silence because she had tilted the seat back as far as it would go, so that it became a bed. The howling pain of her migraine continued even after she took her first prescription Motrin. When Mitch would turn left she would feel herself lean that way, flopping back the other way when he turned right. It was already dusk when they entered the hospital parking lot. As they rode along she was aware of the light from street lamps and signs casting rays upon her face. She could feel warmth from them, as if the bulbs had been held inches away.

When he reached the parking lot for the building where she lived, he stopped the car, turned off the low-playing radio and patted her lightly on her cheekbone. She wanted to stay on the comfortable car seat but knew that she had to pull herself up and climb the stairs for her second floor apartment. "Up, Sleepyhead," Mitch said. "Let's get you into a real bed." He opened his car door, closed it, and hurried around to the other side to help her. As ill as she was, she still wanted to help Mitch along, at least be less of a dead weight for him as he lifted her upward. He put his arm around her and held her up while they both walked along the asphalt to the stairs at the building corner.

The stairs were made of metal, except for the concrete steps and while he shuffled her along, her side-to-side loping movements banged against the wrought iron, creating hollow thronging sounds that reverberated inside her ears. It was funny, she thought, of how the migraine would heighten all of her senses this way. She had never noticed the metallic sounds before. Once they reached the second floor landing, he helped her along past a couple of her neighbor's apartments. There was Sandy, who worked as a nurse in a doctor's office, and Steven, an Asian guy who went to Cal State LA and worked for an armored car company.

Dorina wanted Mitch to stay and thought about telling him so, to keep him from slipping away. She had given him her car and apartment keys back at the hospital and when they reached her apartment door, he let go of her for a moment to key it open. Once inside the door he dropped his suit jacket over the edge of the couch and she relaxed, knowing that he was going to be staying with her for a while. "Just have a seat, turn on the TV," she said as she rubbed her eyes and stepped gingerly toward the bedroom.

"Do you need any help at all?" he called out over his shoulder.

"No," she said as she looked down at the Berber carpet while taking baby steps toward the bedroom door. Dorina's apartment was a perfect square and the living room was large enough that it could fit a couch on one side, which she placed just past the entrance, then an easy chair, which she called her "Archie Bunker" chair, and against the wall she placed the daybed. When she changed into her pajamas she would come back out and fall against the overstuffed, frilly pillows on the daybed while she would expect to find Mitch in the easy chair.

Normal, everyday movements such as lifting her arms to shed herself of her blouse and unbuckling her shoe strap seemed like monumental tasks as her head continued to pound. Both the disappointment of being denied the medication she needed plus the exhausting pain made her arms and legs feel leaden as she unhooked her skirt and stepped out of it. To peel off her panty hose she had to sit on the bed and bend down as she rolled them down to her ankles. When she lifted herself back upward, the change in blood flow rushed from her head and caused blinding lights to flash in her eyes. Sleepwear that night, she decided, would be something simple. She reached for the old, comfortable Cincinnati Bengals football jersey in a size that fit her more like a gown. It felt good against her temples and cheekbones to wipe the cool baby cleansing tissue over them; she used those to take off her makeup each day.

When she re-entered the living room she found Mitch channel surfing with the remote, blankly staring at the television screen. He saw her and smiled. "Feel better?" he asked.

"A little," she replied. Her nine-year-old ginger tabby cat, Samantha, had been resting peacefully on the daybed. Once Dorina loomed overhead, the cat lifted herself up and scurried toward the kitchen. Mitch lifted the chair by the armrests and shoved it a few inches closer to the daybed, angling it toward her. He had settled on the Starwind channel, which she knew was one of his favorites. She could take or leave most science fiction shows. They all seemed to feature actors who recited formal sounding lines without expression and endless battles between spaceships that fired light beams at each other.

The daybed comforter and pillows were just too pretty, she thought, so when she slept in the living room, she would just lie atop the comforter and drape an angel blanket over herself. "Do you want anything? Like hot tea or hot chocolate?" Mitch asked.

Dorina eased her head down onto the pillow as she said "No. But thanks for asking." Mitch sat close enough to reach over and pat her on the shoulder. Being back in her apartment, in the company of a man she cared deeply about, and sinking down into the soft pillows and daybed mattress started to make her feel much better. When she pulled the angel blanket up around her neck, she felt as if she were seven years old again. A blur of commercials droned on the TV while she allowed herself to drift off into the twilight between waking consciousness and sleep. Suddenly the blaring horns that harkened the beginning of a television program jolted her back to reality.

"Cool!" Mitch said, as one of the programs he liked was about to come on. "Wagon train to the stars," or something like that, she supposed. A man's deep voice narrated while an orchestra lightly played behind him. Dorina thought about asking him to turn down the sound but didn't want to ruin his fun.

"Oh, my God! It's the Otranti episode with Empress Tigra!" Mitch exclaimed like an excited grade schooler.

"Impress what?" she asked, allowing the blanket to drop down away from her face. "What are you talking about?"

"Empress Tigra," he said, pointing to the television. "On Starship Galaxia. It's a really famous episode with Jacy Rayner."

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Dorina but she asked "Who?"

"Jacy Rayner," he repeated. "The leading lady in a million wet dreams. She plays this bitchy queen from another planet. Her costume was tight as hell, like body paint. Rocketed lots of boys to puberty back in the sixties."

"Like you, huh?" Dorina said. She lifted herself up on the pillow slightly so that she could see both Mitch and the television. So far the program Mitch liked seemed as silly as ever. Four grown men wearing burgundy tunics with golden military markings on them. It looked like someone made the costumes out of pajamas. They sat on what was supposed to be the control room of a spaceship but looked like a living room with a picture window of the whole universe. The man who looked like the leader, who spoke with an overly dramatic and halting voice, discussed a planet they were going to visit, showing pictures of the inhabitants on a big screen.

"We can negotiate with them for a fuel treaty, but we've got to be careful," the commander said. "Their leader is fierce and ruthless." The next image onscreen showed a woman sitting atop a dais glaring down at what appeared to be a couple of shirtless and hairy peasants. To Dorina, her costume looked like part Las Vegas showgirl, part feline circus performer. As Mitch had said, it appeared to be a shimmering electric blue cat suit with bold orange and gold tiger stripes. Her hair was full and glorious, in a layered brunette style that accentuated her high cheekbones and dramatic eye makeup. The image faded out quickly as the television station cut to a commercial.

"Man, she was awesome," Mitch said, shaking his head, whistling.

"Didn't do anything for me," Dorina said. "Not my type, I guess." A commercial that announced a new line of turbomag subs with new non-stops to Tokyo played and then a public service announcement about planting trees to stop mud slides. Her eyelids started to droop as the first few waves of slumber washed over her.

"I wonder what ever happened to her?" Mitch went on, staring into space for a moment, to ponder.

"When was the last time she was in anything? When Bobby Kennedy was president? She's probably a fat old hag in Reseda now, with a whole house full of cats." She closed her eyes and her kind boyfriend allowed her remark to dissipate out into the air rather than respond. The sound from the television droned on and lifted away from her consciousness as she drifted down to sleep. With Dorina, the first thing to happen was that the volume of the sound around her slowed down to a crawl until she could no longer hear it. She then began the sensation of falling, floating, and easing downward.

Suddenly she came to and when she did she felt as if she'd traveled a million miles away from the overpriced apartment where she lived. She calmly remembered reading the story "Alice and Wonderland" when she was growing up and found it odd that the title character calmly thought about latitude and longitude while she fell further and further into the dark hole. Yet here she was, doing the same thing except that she fell into a bright, sunny expanse.

Dorina continued on her floating journey, gazing all around at the world below her, seeing hills, mountains, trees, and open meadows. A stream trickled past rows of yellow flowers, which gave off a scent like honey. She wondered if she would ever see any people again or had she floated off into a lonely realm where there were animals, but not people. The sun shone brightly but she could not see its individual globe.

She floated down gently onto the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather or a leaf. During the first few moments she felt disoriented yet strangely aware at the same time. A slight breeze rustled the tree branches above her and carried bits of dried hay and cornflowers over the hills. She could hear the petals of the flowers flutter and then remembered that she would need to have a microphone that magnified sound if she was ever going to hear a sound like that for real.

When she had turned to view the panorama around her from all angles her eyes suddenly stopped on a valley in the distance. A pristine, crystalline city rose from a meadow into tall spires and towers that stretched toward the blue sky. She thought about "The Wizard of Oz" and looked around for a yellow brick road, a cowardly lion, a tin man, or a scarecrow. There were none of these, of course, but she felt that in the city, there had to be people. It made sense to her to start walking toward it.

Walking down the hill alongside the tumbling water of the stream felt very easy to her. She seemed to weigh less and her feet gradually propelled her forward. What was she wearing, she thought, as she looked down and saw a short, leathery skirt with a simple sleeveless top starting out from the top of it. It seemed like a short toga, something that would have been worn by females during the height of the Roman Empire. She could not look down at her feet, though, because they moved along too quickly for her to see anything.

The forest followed the slope of the land all the way down the hill and it was thick and dark, like the forests she remembered seeing in Pennsylvania or New England when she was growing up. As she walked along, she gradually became aware of seeing something beside her, in her peripheral vision, flashing by on the outskirts of the forest. At first she thought that it was her imagination.

During the next moment, however, she became aware of larger movement, plus sound. Until then she thought it could have been a thin tree branch swaying in the wind, but this movement was too big. She stopped and gazed across the dale at the forest. Still, she could see nothing, even when she scanned the line of trees leading upward and downward from the crest of the hill.

She shook her head to collect her thoughts and attempt to move onward, the way double taking cartoon characters do it in the movies. The walls and buildings of the crystalline city seemed much closer than they had before. She paused for a moment to close her eyes and reopen them, to double check whether she was seeing things. It turned out that they weren't playing a trick on her, that she had somehow closed the gap two fold in what seemed like just a few steps. She turned sideways to look at the forest again and received a surprise.

This time when she looked at the tree trunks and hollows, she saw a man standing beside one of them. At first glance he appeared to be wearing a light shirt with stripes at the top but when she looked more closely, she realized that he was bare chested and possessed long hair that fell down past his shoulders. He held onto a tree trunk with one arm as he looked at her. Even from the distance, Dorina could still somehow sense that his eyes were warm and trusting, so she started to walk toward him.

As she neared the man, she saw that he appeared to be leaning around the edge of the tree trunk to look at her. Yet his head was straight up and down. She knew that he would have been looking at her sideways if he was peeking around a tree at her. During high school she'd played a role as one of the wood nymphs frolicking about with Robin Goodfellow in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Had she run into a real-life version of one of the fairy characters?

Soon she had closed the distance between them to less than fifty feet and she realized that his bottom half was brown...and furry. She gasped when she saw narrow, stick-like limbs with hooves where legs and feet should have been. It occurred to her to run but instead she just stood there, frozen with fear.

The strange man laughed slightly. "You're going to the Hall of Knowledge, aren't you?" he asked.

Dorina cautiously resumed walking toward him, closing the last few remaining yards between them. "I was walking toward that city," she said, pointing toward the crystalline buildings that loomed ever closer. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," he said. "Do you want to ride there?" He pushed away from the tree trunk and revealed a horse-like body with a perfect curvature for her to ride on.

It was a fantastic creature, like none she had ever seen before, and normally such a sight would have made her scream. "Won't I fall off?" she calmly asked him, noting that he didn't have a saddle.

"You won't," he said with an air of confidence. "Just hold on to my arms." He had two arms just like a man's to go with the lower body of a horse.

When she sidled up next to him and gave the indication that she was going to try to lift her leg, to mount him, he lowered himself. With all four of his knees bent downward, she found it easy to step over his midsection and nestle herself down onto him. Once she had situated herself, she reached forward to grab hold of his arms near the thin part leading to his elbows.

"Hold on tight, dear," he said, as he suddenly broke into a gallop and carried her at blazing speed toward the crystalline city. As they galloped along down the hillside, Dorina could see glimpses of other half men; half horse creatures materialize alongside them. The images of them danced into and out of her field of vision as they neared the bottom of the valley and the dirt road winding toward the city.

Dorina knew she was dreaming and decided to take advantage of her awareness by gazing all around herself, at her surroundings. The sky seemed a much brighter blue than what she was accustomed to during the daytime. It reminded her of the indigo sky in an El Greco painting or the cloudless dusk sky she sometimes saw when she went to the beach. When she turned her eyes downward she could see the dry dusty, rutted earth pounding along beneath the man-horse creature's hooves. She remembered the name that such a creature bore: a Minotaur. His flesh melded in with the horse's muscular body and fur where she thought instead that there might be a sharp line of demarcation.

"We're almost there," he said. "I'll be letting you off in front of the gate."

Dorina gazed ahead at the pale green crystalline walls for the city and the tall door that served as the gate. Would there be a potato nosed man with a Cossack hat and a droopy mustache acting as a sentry? What about a wizard? Once they reached the front of the door, her Minotaur friend astonished her again. Somehow he'd been able to turn the entire front half of his body, to face her even while she had stayed mounting on him. "This is where my part of the journey with you ends," he said, as he reached out and helped her dismount, her feet gently lowering downward onto the ground.

She looked down again at the ground, which seemed sandy, like the rugged desert terrain further east along the freeways during her waking life. When she turned back toward the hillside, she saw that it was part of a huge mountain that rose skyward, with snow on its peaks. Trees and brush lined the crests as she'd seen on the way down. The Minotaur or the ghostly images of him riding down the hill were nowhere to be found, however.

She shrugged and looked for a doorknob or latch on the great door but could find none. Instinctively she leaned forward and pushed on the smooth, glassy panels of the door, surprised that it started to give way. It moved with about the same speed and ease as a revolving door in a major building.

It opened all the way into a grand foyer or building lobby, the most beautiful architectural sight she'd ever seen. The floor had been made of a swirling marble threaded with lime green and gold. Somehow, she thought that such a floor should have made footfalls and all the people traffic of the lobby to create loud clicking and booming sounds. Instead all she heard were faint shuffles as beautiful people in flowing, diaphanous robes glided along to a wide variety of kiosks, booths, and cubbyholes. At first it was too much to take in all at once and the images before her eyes metamorphosed the way pictures in dreams do. Scores of people milled about through the foyer and above her on successive floors but all she could hear was a pleasant murmur of conversation, as if she'd entered the most polite library on the face of this earth.

Of course, this was not earth, as she quickly realized. Rather than get mesmerized by all the walkways and the glass elevators and shuttles above her, she decided to focus on the people. Every one of them, men, women, teenagers and children, looked to be in the full bloom of life and health. Their skin glowed under the angelic garments they wore. Angels had wings and halos above their head, didn't they? Some people walked in pairs but most of them glided from place to place in the building with perfect, regal posture, all of them slim and vital.

She only had a few short moments to take in the sights and sounds of the people cavorting about in someplace that seemed part way station and part professional office building. A young, tall woman approached her. At first she could see her fair, luminous face out of her peripheral vision, and when she turned to look at her she saw a faint, though pleasant smile and emerald eyes that sparkled. Her lustrous hair had been wound around her crown in a tucked French braid and when her lips parted to speak, Dorina could see that they were full and youthful. "Dorina Pettit?" she asked, somewhat in the tone of a doctor or dentist's office receptionist.

For a moment Dorina was too stunned to reply to her. On earth, someone would have repeated her question, but this woman simply gazed down at her and patiently waited. Dorina saw an ageless wisdom in her eyes that could have made her any age from twenty five to sixty-five though of course the woman's face was smooth and china-doll flawless. Finally, she said "Yes, that's me."

"Wonderful! I'm Corinne. We're ready for you. I'm glad you could make it. Come with me." With a slight gesture of a head tilt, Corinne indicated for Dorina to follow her to the bottom of one of the glass, tube like elevators. She knew that in such an encounter during ordinary waking life, she would have peppered her with questions about what she was doing here, and where they were going, and what would happen. Instead, following this unusually ethereal guide seemed to be the most pleasant and comfortable thing to do.

They approached what must have been the bottom floor of the elevator. When Dorina looked down at the floor, she saw a hole where she could look down into what must have been the basement area of the building. She expected to see the outline of a door or hatch that would open for them but saw smooth glass. Would Corinne press a button or something, to bring up an elevator platform? As they neared the tube, she glanced over at her and smiled faintly again, making no effort to stop or slow down or lift her hand toward a control on the side of the elevator. Suddenly they were just a couple of feet away.

A miraculous thing then happened: a line formed from the floor and led upward arcing above their heads and continuing down the other side. The glass wall slid open and a platform instantly materialized at the bottom at an equal plane to the floor where they were standing. Corinne simply stepped through the opening in the tube and onto the platform. Dorina cautiously followed, testing the platform with a skidding toe before she allowed her full weight to sink down onto it.

That was another issue, she realized. In this place she felt airier, lighter than she ever had in normal, waking life. Maybe she wouldn't even need the elevator, she supposed, since she felt as if she could just pick her feet up and glide through the air. The platform lifted for them and Dorina turned around to face the other side of the wall, which moments before had spontaneously traced open for them. It had re-congealed back into solid, faintly green glass as the platform lifted them upward slowly through the cavernous foyer. As they ascended, the light seemed to get brighter, washing out some of the details of the walls and people walking along the various floors they passed. Dorina had so many questions, so many thoughts.

It seemed as though Corinne could read her mind, however. "There's just a short distance left of your journey today," she said, again in the same soothing, modulating tones as she had before. "Jacy has sent for you and she is waiting. She will help you."

Though her Junoesque guide still had not really said anything of note, Dorina understood that she was about to embark on a wonderful, miraculous experience. She had been gazing around at the converging lines, colors and light, counting the floors they had passed, but then the platform stopped. The arcing line tracing a doorway for them re-appeared, and the glass again seemed to part for them the way shifting water flows.

Corinne stepped out onto a hallway with a soft floor that on one hand seemed to be carpet or fabric but gave slightly under their feet with a tender quality like flannel covered vinyl. Again, Dorina could only focus on that impression for the briefest of moments as they followed the corridor as it curved around the building. Unlike the foyer, this part of the building contained smooth, iridescent walls that breathed calm into her as they walked forward. When they stepped forward to the left around a long, curving section of floor, they came face to face with a young man.

As with Corinne, the gentleman wore clothes in a diaphanous fabric that seemed to glisten in the light and radiate all the colors of the rainbow in pastel hues, one after the other. He was also tall, at least a head taller than Dorina, with curling, exquisite black hair on his head, sprouting from his temples and crown from a face that she'd only seen on classic marble statues before. The warmth of his eyes immediately soothed her, and unlike Corinne, he reached out his hand for her. They communicated volumes through their eyes and their touch as he led her rest of the way and thanked Corinne for her help. "I'm Nathaniel," he said. "I am to bring you to Jacy so she can help you."

They seemed to be entering an arena from which emanated the most beautiful music Dorina had ever heard. It would be impossible to describe to anyone, she realized as she listened to the joyous singing voices paired with soft guitar and harp strings interspliced with horns all at the same time. She was slightly startled to realize that they would be entering a room splashed with an indigo hue.

Dorina and Nathaniel walked through an archway into the arena and she realized that the indigo felt like dusk during a long, beautiful day. Other people had gathered in the arena also, having apparently entered through other archways. They traveled in pairs, each of them obviously a guide and a student, or charge. Young men and women with bewildered, beatific expressions on their faces were being led upward by the serene, wise angelic ones. She wondered if they were all on their way to a celestial performance, a gigantic theatre in the round or the most fantastic movie she would ever see.

As with everything else in her journey so far, the building revealed itself to her in little bits and pieces at a time. They seemed to be walking up a spiral stairway and it occurred to her to look upward, to see where it might be leading. She saw a raised dais at the top, with a woman's hand dangling downward. As they climbed effortlessly for the remaining levels Dorina gradually was revealed to a luminous, pearl-skinned woman wearing an oddly familiar gown that caught light the way all the other garments had but it had the curious added feature of a striped pattern, like a tigress. When she looked upward into her glowing countenance she realized she was looking at the face of the tigress character from the television show. A woman who looked like Jacy Rayner but had somehow ascended, with a contented, warm smile on her face. She watched Dorina and Nathaniel climb the last few feet of the spiral stairway toward her, lifting her palms to them gently.

Nathaniel seemed to carry Dorina for the remaining distance to the heavenly woman who received her. It seemed impossible to her because her feet had been on the ground, hadn't they? But she quickly realized that she was being set down in front of the goddess-like vision as she reached out and touched her arm gently. She was gigantic but beautiful with glorious hair trailing out from her head as if gravity had been relieved around her scalp and caused the strands to twist and turn around her face.

Jacy, while much larger than Dorina, was still able to cradle her chin with her gentle, cool palm as she said "I'm very glad you're here." She paused for a moment to look at her, to drink her in as she regarded her, before adding "You've tortured yourself but there's no longer a need." Dorina felt as if she'd been floating in suspended animation while the mysterious Jacy blinked and she seemed to be thinking millions of thoughts before continuing. "You are enough." Her cool fingertips brushed Dorina's forehead and her scalp, flooding them with warmth and light.

The words echoed, as if all the walls fell around them and they'd been back in the marble foyer which was acting as an echo chamber. Light flared up from beneath them and became so bright, so quickly that she had to shield her eyes from it, covering them. She floated up, and away from Jacy and Nathaniel, rising high above them while the light slowly dissipated. In the very next moment, when she opened her eyes, she found herself back on her daybed, across from Mitch, who was watching the television, oblivious of her.

She still felt warm and light, opening her eyes wide as she slowly realized that her headache had evaporated as if it had been fog on a summer day.

"You won't believe what the fuck just happened," she said, sitting up.
Chapter Five

The next day, Dorina took a long lunch break and headed to the nearest electronic archives station. There was one nearby, at the studios, and she thought she could make it there and back as long as the traffic cooperated. Outside, glorious sunlight tinged with yellow haze. A few bars of the corny song from her grade school years played in her mind: "Seems it never rains in Southern California."

As a throwback to her college days, Dorina carried a backpack instead of a purse. It carried compartments for all her personal items but could also fit much more such as a laptop, or a change of clothes. Her friend at the fashion desk, Anisette, called it her "ho" bag. "Girl, carrying that around you're ready for anything," she would say. When she entered the garage she dug around in one of the outer compartments for her keys. In L.A., she'd heard long ago, you "are what you drive." Once she had fished her keys out of the backpack she looked across the oil-stained garage floor and wondered what her car said about her.

Mostly everyone she knew drove new vehicles, what Mitch called "Slot cars." When they finally got the technology to mass produce them and got the power contacts strung up around the country, the cars finally became practical and everyone was buying them. In stark contrast, Dorina's car was almost a dinosaur. She looked at the gleaming, sleek lines of the metallic baby blue 1989 Toyota Supra and the white swooping designs on the side panels. While the slot cars were all sensible small sedans hers was a coupe built for speed, rear-wheel drive, and the first of the hybrids. She could drive unencumbered in the outer two freeway lanes and didn't have to worry about running out of power on city streets or in the country.

It was early spring, featuring some of the best weather of the year, and a perfect late afternoon for going topless. She opened the door and poked around in the console for the Allen wrench. When she first bought the car an old boyfriend showed her in vivid, patronizing detail how to remove the roof panel and stow it in the hatchback. After much practice she could unbolt it, flip it up and outward and put it away within minutes.

The targa roof offered the fun of a convertible without the worry. The same boyfriend who'd showed her how to remove the roof preached to her about its superiority over ragtops. "In a convertible," he said, "someone can get into your car using a butter knife." Dorina's routine in getting behind the wheel was always the same. She would slide down into the low slung blue leather bucket seat, put her sunglasses on, and flip the edges of her long hair away from her face. There was a short moment of relished anticipation and then the mini-adrenaline charge that would come when she turned the key. The peppy six cylinder engine would metallically hiss and then spring to life, purring for her like a loving, faithful cat. She would back away from the stall then drop into first gear and pat the gas pedal down, causing the tires to chirp on the pavement, jolting her away to her evening.

It was always the same. She would tool briskly through the side streets around work, past the grimy factories and neglected warehouses on her way to the interchange. A traffic copter fluttered overhead, drowning out the sweet vocal stylings of Manhattan Transfer that played on her car stereo. When she swerved onto the ramp for the freeway, the whole world stopped. Luckily Dorina had a whole set of games to play for the duration of one of the most unpleasant aspects of southern California life, the traffic jam.

Sometimes she would enjoy watching the sea of humanity pass by her driver's window. Trucks with gaggles of Mexicans or blond, tanned surfers at their week job splashed with white remnants of drywall, stained with grass or bare chests gleaming in the sun from sweat. Businessmen in gleaming Jaguars steering with an elbow while they used one hand to hold a cell phone to their ears and wrote entries on a day planner with the other. Secretaries or court reporters who would touch up eye liner or lipstick in their vanity mirror. Busloads full of children laughing and playing, pointing at all the commuters haplessly mired in stopped traffic around them.

Her parents, her boyfriend and her best friend had all told her about one of the drawbacks of driving a five speed. They were a pain in traffic jams, they all said. Dorina liked to think of it instead as a workout for her legs as she deftly worked the clutch and gas pedals, throwing in an occasional pat on the brake as she inched the car along. When she rounded a bend she saw a reason for the traffic tie-up: police had pulled over a ZUB and arresting the people inside. A couple of distraught looking guys in handcuffs pleaded their case with the cops who stood before them, arms folded across their chests.

She wondered how much money the ZUB Gestapo collected for the city and county coffers every year. The huge Russian made vehicles were strictly regulated and only available through rental or permit. Families liked them for their size and spaciousness and supposed comfort on a family trip. Dorina thought they were ugly and reminded her of the big unwieldy woody station wagons around her neighborhood when she was in grade school, except ZUBs were taller. To some misguided nouveau-riche types, ZUBs were a status symbol. Many styles were quite luxurious and they were combustion-only fuel hogs. A few people eager to flaunt their wealth, saying "Look at me! I've made it!" with their vehicular extension of self, were able to purchase ZUBs on the black market. But Dorina knew that being caught unauthorized in one brought stiff penalties, multiple offenses even jail time.

Soon she arrived at the studio complex where the archives were housed. A bored-looking gray haired attendant at the gate glanced at her press credentials and waved her through. Once she made it inside she thought that it seemed oddly busy for a midweek afternoon. Cushman carts buzzed past, weaving across intersections in front of her and behind her while she toured through the labyrinth of narrow streets. Lots of energized looking people about on foot also: young women carrying clipboards, men talking on cell phones, and paunchy, balding suited legal-looking types also swished past.

On a weekday Dorina could usually park just a couple of rows away from the archives but that day she failed to find a spot anywhere near it. She had to settle for a slot beside a metal building that appeared to be a small airplane hangar. A man in a security Cushman whizzed past as she stepped out of the Supra, scowling at her. She felt a pang of anxiety at leaving the car parked there and decided to try and find someone in the building beside it. A crew of young men and women building what appeared to be scenery flats scurried about inside the hangar-like structure. She also thought she saw scale models of buildings and villages. As her eyes glanced about at the hive of activity she discovered that a Paul Bunyanesque tall man with a red beard was appraising her, brows, lifted, lips parted. He called out to her: "Something I can help you with, miss?"

Dorina took a couple of steps toward him. "I just want to make sure it's okay to park my car on the side of the building. I'm going to the archives."

He nodded. "Sure."

Reassured, she started to walk back through the gaping, open entrance but instead turned back to him. "What's going on, anyway?" she asked, having to raise her voice above saws, hammering, and conversation. "I've never seen it this busy around here."

Several of the workers in the hall glanced at the red-haired man as if to check his reply. He smiled and said "'Portals Beyond' is back in town."

Satisfied, Dorina continued her exit with a nod. "Portals" was always a huge cinema event. As she made her way onto the sidewalk, dodging a steady stream of people rushing toward her, she tried to remember what installment the series was on. The fifth or sixth, she supposed. Now why couldn't Vic have sent her out to investigate some aspect of that? All the major stars had appeared in the offerings either as villains, warriors or bit players such as wizards, courtesans, god or goddess like rulers or just faces in the crowd. There was always a push to make the current installment bigger and better than the one that came before. Legendary directors had tried their hand at leading the action.

She paused for a moment to look more closely at the droves of people passing her. Would she recognize any of her colleagues, on the way to a plum assignment with the Portals powers-that-be? With the doorway to the Archives building drawing closer, she felt a guilty pang of misspent leisure time and missed opportunities. In the two years she had worked for Spectrum there had been endless cocktail parties, art gallery openings, premieres and press conferences. Many times she'd begged off or made excuses ("I have a migraine") but in truth she'd always felt intimidated. Other people at the functions seemed to know about every major cultural phenomenon in the country, dropping names, figures, ideas of their glib tongues, leaving her to wonder if she lived in a completely different world.

The first "Portal" movie came out when she was in the eighth grade. Back then she and her best friend Rachel and her two other friends Monica and Megan would haunt the Cineplex nearly every Saturday night, especially during the long, dreary Indiana winters. Many times they would wait till they arrived at the theater to decide what movie to see. Though they would look at the posters and discuss ads they had seen, buzz they had heard, many times it came down to the most convenient starting time. Dorina remembered that Monica had glanced at the poster for _Portals Beyond_ and said "Hey guys, let's see this! My brother said it was cool."

Megan, who was a cheerleader with perfect golden blond hair she liked to wear in a high ponytail, sneered at the poster filled with images of glass castles, strange looking hooved creatures and godlike creatures staring out at them. "Your brother's a geek," she said. "If he thinks it's cool, it probably has all kinds of computer hooey and spaceships in it or something. _The Accidental Tourist_ starts in ten minutes. Let's go see that."

And Dorina had failed to see the four or five other movies, though she knew that they were hugely successful financially. They also grabbed an Oscar here and there for costumes or special effects or one of the other technical categories. At a party in college she encountered a group of theater majors who said that they were "Other Siders," the nickname for fierce enthusiasts of the Portals movies. A guy and a girl in matching black t-shirts with mythic-looking characters silk-screened on had told her all about their devotion. The girl, who had died her short bobbed hair beet red, said "We call it 'going to church.' The movies are so positive, they give so much hope."

In the archives building, Dorina liked to visit the computer terminals first. She could find lists, abstracts and video clips there. The screens were much larger than what she normally worked with and she could open five or six windows and surf them simultaneously. With all the excitement in the streets outside, she was pleased that only a couple of other studious looking types had made their way into the building to work at terminals beside her. At first she just typed "Jacy Rayner" on a search engine and was surprised to find that it brought up thousands of listings. On one window, she called up a page for personal facts and another for "Filmography."

The photo accompanying the personal facts page looked like it had been taken by an ordinary portrait photographer. Jacy's expression was pleasant, with a look of contentment yet she was unsmiling. Her long hair was lighter, reddish, highlighted and swept away from her face in swirling whorls. Dorina saw a vague weariness beyond the surface glamour and wondered whether the woman may have had a difficult personal life. She had been born in October, 1934. Among the text that stood out were entries that said "Lifetime student of the ballet," and "possessor of a near-genius I.Q."

Her early career featured lots of bit parts and appearances as a dancer in musical numbers from romances. An uncredited appearance had her clad in a revealing chain mail outfit, painted silver as temptress nymph in the big budget _Merlin's Folly_ from 1955. After a few appearances on Broadway in the latter parts of that decade she started showing up in television once the sixties began. As a child's doll who becomes a full grown woman in a Twilight Zone episode. As a mischievous witch guest starring beside Elizabeth Montgomery on Bewitched (she turns Darren into a frog).

Then, one entry jumped off of the screen at her: "Jacy Rayner is rescued – Cape Canaveral day." Dorina positioned the cursor over the entry and clicked on it. The screen refreshed and a film clip started in a separate window. Like all the other footage she'd seen throughout history classes all the way through school, the images were grainy, the sound garbled. A large ship floated in the ocean in the middle of a fog. The viewpoint seemed to come from a helicopter fluttering above the ship as stat icky, stressed voices said "We've gone on board the ship and found no survivors but there is a closed decompression chamber."

The images on the screen jumped violently to another view of a group of men wearing radiation suits and hoods opening the steel door of what looked like a miniature submarine although it was too round. One man spun a wheel on the door and another pulled a latch so that the massive door swung open. A still figure of a woman lie on a gurney inside the capsule and the men frantically rushed beside her, rolling the gurney out of the capsule and onto the ship's deck. Someone hastily clamped an oxygen mask onto the woman's face and Dorina suddenly allowed herself an "Ah-ha" moment.

She had learned in school that when the atom bomb dropped on Cape Canaveral, it destroyed everything within a three hundred mile radius. Jacy Rayner, the actress had been saved because she'd been shut away inside a metal chamber on board a ship in the Bahamas.

There were no more Stephen Blade movies made after _Red Tide_ , according to the archives information. The producers had been able to piece together a cohesive movie from the footage that had been shot before April 5 and it had been released in the summer of 1965 with lukewarm reviews. The country had still been in a state of shock.

Several places acknowledged that she was still best known for her role as "Empress Tigra" in Journey Galaxian yet Dorina was amazed to find out that the character only appeared on three of the episodes. She clicked onto a site for devotees of the science fiction television show and found that a whole section of it had been devoted just to her. It contained a video clip from one of the episodes.

Dorina decided to click on it, hoping that someone hadn't cranked the speakers too loudly. A media player metamorphosed onto the screen and Jacy's body faded into view. She was wearing the famous, feline-striped, ultra-clingy bodice and leggings and a royal coat fanned away from her. Several fierce, shirtless guards flanked her. Suddenly the the stillness broke and Jacy's eyebrows rose slightly. Inhaling, her eyes narrowing, she glared at someone out of camera range and remarked, in a throaty purr: "Admiral Vantage, are you attempting to amuse or enrage me? I made no such covenant on the order of prisoners for fuel." And, leaning backward, inhaling reassuringly, calmly, while allowing her shoulders to relax, said "Guards, show him our version of purgatory." The film clip then faded out and Dorina checked the rest of the filmography.

After her appearances on Galaxian, there were a few more guest shots in comedy and drama shows during the latter sixties and early seventies. She played a hooker in a made-for-TV movie and an Indian in a big budget Hollywood western. After that, she strangely faded out, apparently falling off the radar for the rest of the seventies and into the early eighties. Though she turned up in a few "B" movies in the middle and late eighties and continued to make guest appearances they were far fewer in number. It appeared that her stint as Empress Tigra was the zenith of her show business career.

Dorina then chose the periodical index and gasped when she saw the volume of references and entries for Jacy Rayner. Newspaper articles about her appearances at Hollywood parties. A photo of her in a fashion show. A sprawling layout in People magazine about her second marriage to an investment banker. Another article a few years later detailing the couple's breakup over his involvement in the junk bond scandals of the mid eighties. Scores of write-ups in the tabloids with such spectacular titles as "How Jacy Rayner stays fabulous at sixty."

Out loud, Dorina murmured "Quite an enigma, this lady." She closed out all the windows and embarked on the next part of her research. On the search engine blank she typed the words "Coma, 1969" and hundreds of entries appeared showing mostly dry scientific articles about states of consciousness and prosaic research. "Coma, 1968" brought up the same kinds of entries but then she entered "Coma awakenings." Once again, she had to weed through line after line of dry, scientific research until she realized she could open a macro and use it as a mini-concordance. She entered "Empress Tigra" into the first field and lines of text jumped upward on the screen. Overjoyed, Dorina clapped her hands together, bouncing up and down in her seat as she read a newspaper with a dateline "Tulsa, Oklahoma, July 29, 1967."

It said: "Ronald Lewandowski, 12, of Broken Arrow, awoke from a coma early this morning at St. Francis hospital in Tulsa. He had been in the unconscious state for thirty days according to hospital officials. An unidentified family member stated that young Mr. Lewandowski had been hospitalized due to injuries sustained while riding a moped, or motorized bicycle on June 29. Head trauma resulting from a collision with a truck sent the youth into a comatose state. Surgeons and physicians following the boy's progress had reportedly listed his prognosis as "day to day."

A night duty nurse first noticed young Ronald's first movements, leading to his eventual awakening from the coma. His first words upon regaining full consciousness, according to observers were "Empress Tigra saved me." Mr. Lewandowski, who also received multiple leg and shoulder fractures during the June 29 accident, is expected to make a full recovery."

Dorina clicked on the print button onscreen and exited out of the opened windows and sat back, to reflect.
Chapter Six

Summer, 1965

Instead of returning home to New York after recovering, Jacy headed out west to let her mother take care of her as she healed. She wanted to rest, just do nothing. Eight grueling weeks of shooting, one more in a decompression chamber and the final days of her stay in hospital bed had left her drained, muddled. Yet when she arrived at the front door her normally unflappable mother rushed up to her, voice strained and eyes hollow and panicked. She held a stack of small bits of paper in one hand. "These are messages for you darling. The networks. Your agent. Lawyers. They just keep calling, and calling and calling, I can't keep any of them straight. Here."

A couple of hours later, after organizing her luggage and doing some unpacking, she picked up the phone and called Jake. When he heard her voice he immediately sprang to action, speaking rapidly and excitedly, as if he had sat at his desk by the phone for days waiting to hear from her. He said "We're going to need you at a hearing next week, but before then, we gotta talk one to one."

She met him the next day at a Chinese restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard. He had a bad habit of talking with his mouth full, so Jacy had to watch pieces of Lichee Duck tumble around while he pattered on, stabbing at forkfuls of his dinner. "We got them over a barrel," he said. "We can renegotiate your take of the gross. Five per cent."

Jacy had always been bad with numbers, but she knew that the Steven Blade movies played in theaters all over the world, usually for long runs. "That sounds like a lot," she said. "I kind of feel funny, though for taking them for that much. It wasn't exactly their fault that I pulled the wrong cord and shot up for the surface like a torpedo." The doctors told her that her rapid ascent had caused air to expand in her lungs and joints, forming bubbles. During World War II they had called it 'the bends.'

Jake paused, and then placed his fork down in an exaggeratedly delicate way. He swallowed a mouthful, and then leaned in to look deeply into her eyes. "Sweetheart, you were almost killed. Levin is liable, and he knows it. The bugaboo about all of this is going to win him all kinds of free publicity. He owes you."

Jacy sighed. "Everybody's been wrecked by what happened on April 5. Why kick them when they're down?"

Jake waved a hand at her, dismissively. "Listen, you don't want to fuck...I mean, mess around with their pinhead shysters and bean counters. They'll drag it on for months and months. You want to get on with your career, don't you?"

"Sure. A girl's got to work."

Jake smirked, snarling his lip into a crooked grin. "Honey, if I pull this one off for you, you could afford to lay off for awhile, years even. Pick and choose." He returned to his slashing assault on the greasy duck.

"I'm afraid people are going to get mad."

"Who put that idea into your head? Your pop?"

"Yes. And it's not an idea, it's an example."

Jake smirked., which caused a flash of anger in her. "Trust me," he went on. "He doesn't know anything how this business works. He's a gear brain, for Christ's sake. Frustrated quarterback. You're not his little girl any more."

She inhaled, and then held her breath for several moments before responding. "You may want to think for a little longer the next time you want to say something like that about him. He's very successful with his firm and he got to play for the Cleveland Rams for two whole years. Most men only dream of doing that."

Jake shrugged. "You love him. That's admirable. But you're over thirty now. Time to leave the nest. I get you this deal, you won't have to look back."

Jacy sighed. At home that night she watched television in the den with her whole family. Her father had put on his reading glasses and was casually scanning a newspaper while everyone else laughed at the Munsters. She had wanted to discuss what Jake had told her that afternoon but decided against possibly ruining the tranquil evening.

A couple of days later, at Jake's office on Vine Street, she signed a draft proposal of the renegotiated contract for her involvement in _Red Tide._ He assured her that he and another partner, Reese would appear at the producer's office along with Levin. "Shouldn't I be there, too?" Jacy asked. "They would want to know what happened, wouldn't they?"

"I've got news for you, girl," he said, piling the papers and sorting them. "They already know. Better than you. Remember, you were unconscious for part of it. Besides, it might make you too nervous. This is high pressure. Could get kind of ugly."

"Okay."

Jake was true to his word. _Red Tide_ became the most popular Steven Blade picture ever, and the deal they'd negotiated for her brought her more money than she imagined was possible. She bought a penthouse in a brownstone apartment building in Manhattan. Less work, however left lots of time for her to frequent the New York Public Library and lose herself in the paintings at the Metropolitan.

Still, through sheer craftiness and from knowing just about everybody on both coasts, Jake was able to find her sporadic things: commercials, guest spots, slots on idiotic game shows. Dick Cavett interviewed her twice over a six-month span.

Robert junior came to stay with her just before Christmas, 1965. The country was still in a state of shock, and while the city had rolled out all the lovely lights and decorations, people went about their business somberly, as if the steam had been squeezed out of them. For months after 4/5/65, what the news had referred to as "America's Holocaust," everyone worried that our young men would wind up in Russia, fighting. Instead, the United States launched a missile at the Kremlin on September 11, 1965. The United Nations intervened, and in peace talks in late October, the Soviets surrendered.

Jacy's brother admitted that he was relieved. He was working as a chemical engineer in New Jersey and had caught the train from there. During the daytime they would walk through Central Park, bundled up against the chilly weather, to feed pigeons. It was becoming an odd and dangerous place. Jacy would hold her breath when they would pass a bewhiskered, red-faced man dressed in rags. At another point they saw a strange solo performer: he wore tight-fitting striped pants and a green plaid top and he had attached little bells all over his clothes. He lowered down to the ground near a dale on the other side and lay completely down on the dead grass. To their amazement he started rolling, all of the bells producing a tinkling cacophony.

They headed for home before the winter sun set. Back at the penthouse, Jacy was putting together the final touches of a veal Parmigianino dinner when the phone rang.

"Jacy!" an excited male voice exclaimed from the other end of the line. "You are one tough lady to get a hold of. This is Ted Martin with Spaceway."

"Journey Galaxian!" Ted trumpeted jubilantly. Traversing wild and dangerous near frontiers. Reaching out to new life, new civilizations."

Jacy paused, repeating "Journey Galaxian?"

Robert heard her from across the room. "Journey Galaxian? Based on the Andre Norton novels?" He edged over more closely to the Queen Anne table where she stood.

Ted went on "A mutual friend of ours told us you might be available for a new character we're thinking of. Ruler of an entire planet. Why don't you fly out and audition? How's this Wednesday for you?"

Jacy had lumped the quirky little space show with a whole new batch of mindless little weekly vignettes making their way onto the small screen. There was a genie cozying up with a Florida astronaut, a suburban witch and her narrow-minded, controlling husband, and an unlikely crew of seven castaways stranded on a desert island in the middle of the Pacific. And then there was Journey Galaxian. She knew little about it other than that it revolved around a small crew of men and a couple of young women acting as ornamental tagalongs. They traipsed along in a spaceship that looked like a dinner plate with two exhaust pipes connected to it. "Well gee, Ted, my brother is in town this week."

"They really want you," he pressed.

Jacy felt her lips forming a snarl of disbelief.

"It's a shoo in," he went on. "The audition would be a formality. What do you say?"

"Journey Galaxian?" Robert said from over her shoulder. When she turned to look at him she saw the gleeful spark in his eyes that he often had shown as a grade schooler.

"That's the coolest show. They want you to audition for that? Do it! It would be so cool! They probably want you to wear one of those mini skirts with the pointy gold "G" up here."

He pointed to a spot on the high right side of his chest.

"They want me to be some kind of a planetary goddess," she said, failing to cover the mouthpiece completely.

Ted laughed, causing her to groan inside. It was just the kind of thing she was trying to avoid. Her first inkling was that if she went within a thousand miles of the part, she could kiss any future dramatic roles good bye. Behind her, Robert had grabbed her arm and was starting to jump up and down. "Do it! Whatever it is, do it! God, the guys at work are really going to flip out when I tell them this one."

"Bobby," she said, once again trying to cover the mouthpiece (and not quite succeeding) "It's just an audition for god's sake. They're probably going to give it to someone younger. And shorter."

"No Jacy," Ted said, more forcefully. "We want you."

She suddenly had a vision of the Uncle Sam poster, finger pointing beseechingly at the viewer. There was a pause, while Robert gazed at her eagerly and Ted remained silent, at the other side of the continent. "Okay," she said.

Scarcely more than two days later, she was at her mother and father's house, yet again. She napped in the same bedroom from her school days. Upon awakening and turning on a light, she lay still, amazed at her mother had preserved it. Her poster of Einstein was still attached to the wall, and he looked down at her, all tousle-haired, eyes like a terrier. She allowed herself to slip into the same fantasy she had as a nine-year old: riding a beam of light as if she were saddling a horse and blazing onward to the farthest reaches of the universe or differing eras of time.

Late the next morning she arrived at the audition at Screen Gems. At least it wasn't a cattle call, she thought as she entered the office suite, smartly dressed in a skirted suit. Behind a hazy glass door that read "Production and Scheduling" she met the producer Jerry Rohrstag, and the casting director Mitch Phillips. She had been warned about the legendary producer's cool reserve but Mitch in casting proved different. He leaned in to her, studying her with imp like green eyes and seemed like a wide-eyed adolescent looking at a pin-up rather than a major contributor on a network show. "We're really excited to have you here," he said.

Jerry tugged a copy of a script from a binder and in a monotone said "We'd like to hear you read." He handed the stack of paper to her. They all sat in three stuffed, wheeled office chairs arranged in a circle. "Mitch is going to read the other part." The boyish, sandy-haired man had pulled his script copy from atop a bookshelf beside his elbow.

"Now this is a key confrontational scene," he said with the same wide-eyed smile, sweeping his free hand through the air. "I'm going to read Admiral Vantage. As you may know, he's the head honcho of the Galaxian. He's coming to tell you to ask for your cooperation in a mining treaty. Now if you can, just try to show us the right kind of hostility. Taunt me. You've got him over the barrel. Take him for everything you can."

He straightened, raising his eyebrows, inhaling to prepare himself. Jacy interrupted him. "Shouldn't we be standing or something?" she said. "Don't you want to see how I move when I'm doing the lines?"

"No. Just read." His voice instantly dropped an octave as his words boomed in the confined space. "I know we've had our differences in the past, but can we start anew? If we work together we can solidify as a force against the union."

"How dare you come to me with your hat in your hand and talk as if raping my planet will fortify us against Neumaurea? Have you forgotten the siege on Rangoranan? Your men stormed a domestic installation as if they were attacking a wild herd of Otranti. Bodies of innocent women and children strewn everywhere. No, Mr. Vantage, if you're short of fuel, you're going to have to hitch a ride on a carrier and leech it off someone who cares."

"Empress that was a grave misunderstanding! Three of our scooters had just been blown out of your atmosphere. We beamed down for the origin and found it in that commune. If you want to protect your young, then don't fire from their habitations."

"My word is final," Jacy said. She looked up for a moment to see if she could gauge their reactions but both men were looking at the script. "Consider yourself lucky you still have your head! You and Korg. Now get out of my sight before I make you regret the day you were born." Gerry raised a hand to motion her to stop. When she looked up from her script she saw Mitchell smiling broadly.

"That's fine," Rohrig said.

Jacy glanced back at the words she'd just read. "I have one question," she said. "What the hell is an Otranti?"

"It's a wild creature on Zoran," Mitchell said, taking the tone of a biology teacher rather than a Hollywood casting director. "If you can imagine a cross between a camel and a rhinoceros, then you'll have it. They roam around on some of her planet's unsettled areas."

She flipped forward a few pages on the script. "So are we going to read more?"

Rohrig shook his head, and then broke into an unexpected, slight smile. "No. We'll be sending the contracts to Whitehead in the morning. Welcome aboard baby."

"Oh," she said. He extended a hand to her and she shook it, weakly.

Mitchell also extended his hand and when she reached out to shake it, he grasped it in both of his hands and said "We're very excited to have you."

It all became real to her that night when she met Gerry, Mitchell and all her new co-cast members at a back lot bar called Wild Billy's. There was David Warberg, an actor with a high forehead and dark, arresting eyes who played Admiral Vantage and Neil Neiman, who looked different from the pictures in the publicity stills Jacy had seen. She realized that they must put light contacts on his eyes to go with the strange knoblike protrusions on both temples and pale makeup he wore as Korg. In the light of the bar she could see that he actually had rather tanned skin and warm blue eyes to go with his wheat colored hair. David said "We're so glad they went after you. I was afraid we were going to end up with some dumb blond shiksa."

Jacy backed away from him and paused for a moment to think before reacting to his comment. She was half Jewish and completely offended by his backhanded compliment. Neil distracted her by curling a friendly arm around her back while he led her around to a few of the other tables and stools to introduce her to her new colleagues. She met Diahann Carroll, a beautiful black woman about her own age, with honey-colored flawless skin and slanting eyes. She portrayed communications officer Shakhti. A few stagehands in t-shirts and black satin baseball style jackets embroidered with "Galaxia" surrounded other members of the cast including Rex Hashimoto, a grinning slim oriental who played Lieutenant Moriyama and Tom Culpepper, who was the Australian computer expert Reg Albright. Jacy had heard his down-under accent in the one show she'd managed to watch before flying in for the audition. She was surprised to learn that he was actually from Nebraska and had broken into Hollywood after lighting up the Midwestern collegiate theatrical world. "We're onto something special here," Tom said softly, leaning in to her. "This is going to be a classic. The show's light years ahead of its time."

Jacy tried to meet everyone connected with the new world she would occupy, but like a hornet at a picnic, David Warberg kept coming back to her. They were the same height. When he would look across at her, one eye would loom larger than the other. He would also squint. Both of these characteristics caused him to look older than his years. As he spoke he gestured with his hands and the edge of his cocktail glass. Twice Jacy had to jump out of the way of sloshing liquid. She was wearing a designer navy velvet dress and wanted to keep whiskey and sticky soda off of it.

"Hey you," Warberg said, gesturing wildly to a pair of bar stools "What say we try to get to know each other."

"Yeah, I think you'd better sit down," Jacy said, tugging him by the elbow toward a stool. When they were seated near the bar, Warburg looked at her with a goofy grin.

"What are you drinking, my lady?"

"Cranberry juice if they have it. Club soda and a twist of lime if they don't."

He backed away from her, giving a look of exaggerated disbelief. "On the wagon are we?" He looked down at her waist. "You get any smaller in the middle and you'll break in half when you bend over."

"Ha, ha," she said. "I'd just prefer not to have a drink right now." At that moment, someone switched Buddy Holly on at the jukebox.

The next time Warberg spoke he had to shout. "Rayner. Jacy Rayner. Is that a real name? Can't be, in this town. My last name's not real, either. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours. Deal?"

She shrugged. "Okay."

"Moskowicz," he blurted out.

"Rayner," Jacy said.

Warberg's features twisted into a grimace of disgust. "What? Nobody who's anybody uses their real name. Didn't your agent try to get you to change it?"

"He said it sounded fine."

Warberg shrugged. He paused to groove to the music for a moment then continued. "So, you married?"

"No." She had assumed it was common knowledge and wondered if her face showed how annoyed she was. Years of working with directors, producers and lawyers made her dislike the habit of people asking questions when they already knew the answers.

"Ever been?"

"No."

Warberg back away again, giving a look of confused bewilderment. Jacy decided that at some point in his career he must have been a stage clown or done opera. "No? Well how old are you?"

She couldn't contain it any longer: "How many times have you had the clap? What are we getting at here?"

"Ooooh. Touchy. Just asking. Well, you were in 'Pretty Maids in a Row,' right? Looked like you were nineteen or twenty. That was what, twelve years ago?"

"Yeah. And?"

"Thirty one or two and never been married? Someone who looks like you? Something wrong with that picture." As if on cue, a waitress brought a tray filled with drinks to them. She lowered down to offer the club soda and lime twist to her. Jacy accepted it and looked down at Warberg who was giving her a knowing, sidelong look.

"Something you want to say?"

Warberg shrugged. "Maybe you don't like us? Men?"

Jacy could feel her shoulders tense up. He was getting into a strange area.

"Oh, it's okay," Warberg said, raising his hands in a faked, overdone gesture of cowering. "There's more than just a few women like that in this town. Your secret would be safe with me."

Jacy suddenly had an epiphany. "Ok, sir," she said, stressing the salutation, making it sound derogatory. "Are you trying to get me pissed off so our scenes together will be fierier? That's an old, tired ploy."

"What?"

She examined his face, to see if he was just playing dumb or if he was truly having trouble comprehending her. His eyes were blinking rapidly and his head wavered back and forth slightly. He was, she decided, first class fodder for some mental toying. She saw an ashtray with disgusting crushed cigarettes in it beside his elbow. "Say, I've got an idea," she said. "Let's play a word game."

Warberg's eyes had narrowed and then he nodded slightly.

"Think of a language we both share, or our parents shared. Well, my mother's parents and your parents actually. Now, there are some objects on this table, and the word for them rhymes with a word in that language. Can you guess which word I'm thinking of?"

Warberg pushed away from the bar and glanced around. "What, glasses?"

"No."

"Coasters?"

"No."

"Ashtray?"

"No."

"Well what then? I give up."

"The object I'm thinking of is inside of a larger object."

Warberg looked at the ash tray again. "What, cigarettes?"

Jacy circled her finger in the air and widened her eyes, to show him he was getting warmer, drawing the answer out of him. "Shorter," she said.

"What, butts?"

Jacy tried to smile exaggeratedly for him.

"Butts, butts, buttsputzhey, are you calling me a putz?"

She lifted herself off the stool, swirled around and started to walk away. Over her shoulder, she said "If the shoe fits..."
Chapter Seven

They would be filming at Ojai. Jacy decided to drive out there at night, which proved to be a mistake. Movie makers often chose the desert for filming extra-terrestrial sequences because it could so easily be made to look other worldly. The landscape looked the same for miles in every direction, however and even with the help of highway signs, she lost her bearings. Twice she had to stop at sleepy little gas stations and ask for directions.

The production company had provided a grouping of Quonset hut type structures for the cast. Jacy found hers small and cozy, little more than a bedroom with a kitchenette attached. When she lay down for the night, she thought about Warberg's comments from the other night. Didn't like men? Was it just his ridiculous opinion or an even more absurd rumor that had cost her jobs in the past? And what difference did it make? She had managed to remain single but it wasn't for lack of opportunity. She received at least seven marriage proposals per year, not counting the dozens that streamed in continually through the mail. The mental torture of it exhausted her and she soon fell asleep.

She dreaded coming face-to-face with Warberg again the next morning at the script conference. As drunk as he was, he may not even remember their conversation. So she chose to act as if it had never happened. In the trailer office adjoining the sound stage a catering company had delivered a breakfast spread with Danishes, pastries, donuts, sliced pineapple and orange sections along with gleaming urns of coffee. Warberg was crouched down helping himself to a cup. When he noticed her looking down at him he looked up and smiled weakly.

In the double-wide trailer they had placed long folding tables and chairs in a square pattern. Rohrig, Warberg, a couple of writers and a casting girl Jacy had never met sat at the front beneath a simplex clock with a large white face and bold, foreboding hands. "First order of business," Rohrig said "is that we welcome Miss Jacy Rayner as our newest cast member." Everyone applauded. "Now as you can see," he went on, "we have the scripts hot off the presses. These will carry us through a couple of episodes. But today we have to think of where we will go with our new Empress Tigra character. Where will she take us?"

A long silence followed, causing Jacy to shift uncomfortably, glancing at the clock. She looked at Warberg and Rohrig. She noticed a slight riffle of anxiety cross the director's craggy features before Warberg offered: "Powerful. Bold. Yet with a soft, vulnerable side."

Jacy allowed a chuckle to escape. "Are we talking about the ruler of an entire planet," she asked "or the head of the PTA?"

Warberg squinted when he looked back at her. "Haven't you read any of the script?

She's secretly in love with Vantage. I realize you'd probably want to play her as an icy, methodical war monger. Or mongress, whatever the right word is."

"She has to be pure evil," Jacy said, "but she can also be sensual." She had crossed her legs and kicked the top foot out at the director and the male lead, allowing her slip-on pump to dangle off her toe. Rohrig looked down at her legs.

"I don't know exactly what you're getting at," Warberg said, "but it won't work."

"Why not? It could shake things up."

"We have sponsors," Rohrig put in. "The viewers will be able to relate to the story of romance triumphing over conflict. Over disagreements. Over differences."

"Like 'The Taming of the Shrew'?"

The men in the room looked at each other.

"Have you guys looked at a calendar recently? This is the sixties. Things are changing. Viewers are changing. They're not going to buy this Flash Gordon stuff. You know who your viewers are? Kids. Young people. Teenagers and twenty-somethings who are terrified that a bunch of paranoid congressmen are going to force them to go to war on the other side of the world. No. Tigra's going to be pure evil." She had been gesturing with her rolled-up script copy, but once she said her piece she slapped the stack of papers down onto the tabletop. Then silence.

Jacy noticed small veins flaring on the sides of Warberg's temples. His brow furrowed and he raised a finger, starting to speak. Rohrig reached out with an arm to quell him. On her director's face she saw the same smug smirk they always wore just before wielding their power.

"Jacy, what project were you on before you came here?" Rohrig asked.

His use of her original name disoriented her. She shrugged, replying "You know. That cowboy movie in Italy. Some guy named Clint Eastwood was in it."

Rohrig nodded, gazing thoughtfully toward the ceiling while Warberg looked agitated, his lips and tongue active. "And what was it before that?" he went on.

"You know. The Steven Blade thing. Do you mind if I ask where we are headed with all of this?"

Rohrig smiled. "Before Steven Blade. What were you doing?"

Jacy sighed. "I was on Broadway. And I did a few guest shots."

"When were you on Broadway, hon?"

"You must know. What point are you trying to make?"

"Which couple of years?"

"Okay," she sighed. "'59 and '60. You must be trying to tell me that I don't have any business coming in her and telling you how we should do the character."

"Well, we want you to be happy. We want our sponsors to be happy. And most of all we want our viewers to be happy. We've thought this through in lots of detail, and we feel that once you've been with us for awhile and you're comfortable with the character, then we'll welcome your input and suggestions for furthering her."

"I should hope so. I'm going to be the one playing her."

"But for now, we'll proceed according to plan. Are we on the same page now?"

Jacy paused long enough to notice Rohrig lean in to her slightly. "Yes," she said softly.

Rohrig clasped his hands together. "Okay, it's settled," he said, patting the script copy. "Let's get on with it.."

They only had to go over a few more items and then the conference was over. Jacy had sat in the chair nearest to the door. Just as she cleared the threshold and the door started to close behind her, she heard Warberg hiss "God damn it! Why doesn't she just do what she's told?"

Out on the blacktop she lowered down into the driver's seat of her convertible and slid behind the wheel. Just as she inserted the key into the ignition, a shadow crossed over her arms and lap. The mid-day sun turned him into a silhouette, but she could recognize Neil Neiman's form standing over her. "Hi," she said.

"What you did in there, it took guts. Rohrig was impressed."

"Thanks." She twisted the key, hearing the first metallic grunts of the ignition.

"I mean it," Neil persisted. The engine kicked in, and he had to talk over it to finish the thought. "It may not look like it, but he was impressed."

"We'll see." She gunned the engine and her tires kicked up gravel while she sped toward the wardrobe trailer on the other side of the sound stage. When she parked over there she entered the flimsy door of the structure and a few seamstresses and a heavyset woman stirred behind a counter, as if they had been expecting her. At the end of the counter she saw a mannequin with a leopard skin suit draped over it. A helmet-like headpiece perched atop the head. Jacy approached it and ran her fingers over the material, studying it.

A small woman, whom she later learned was the department head, cringed, sheepishly looking up at Jacy from behind bespectacled eyes. Pointing at the headpiece, Jacy said "Where's my hair supposed to come out of this thing?" She stood on tiptoe to glance around it and discovered that it was a hood, attached to a cape.

The wardrobe head glanced at one of her assistants, a mousy girl with auburn hair and wide, pale blue eyes looked at each other. "Well there is no opening," she said.

Jacy let go of the head piece and it dropped down onto the linoleum floor, the cape fluttering after it. "I want to be able to use my hair," she said, softly. "Do I even need a head piece at all?"

"Well, the character's name is Empress Tigra," the department head said meekly.

"Then I could just wear ears, couldn't I?"

The wardrobe head shrugged, and her eyes dilated behind the thick glasses. "You're going to have to take that up with the costume designer."

"Well then get the costume designer in here."

Moments later a foppish looking man with a big belly and hands raised in a defensive gesture of exaggerated daintiness entered the room. His name was Rick and brought along the rest of the costume. It featured built-up shoulders on a jacket-like bodice and stripes running from the outside downward.

To emphasize her point by flicking a finger at it, Jacy said "I'm not wearing this."

Rick said "Per Mr. Rohrig, there has to be a crown and there has to be shoulder embellishments as an indicator of rank."

"I'm the ruler of an entire planet," she said. "Who gives a hang about my rank?"

Rick shrugged. "Well it's what he wanted. You'll have to ask him why."

"If he wants a rank," she said, "I'll sew them on somewhere."

Rick flashed a confused, knitted brow look. He glanced at the uniform he held in his arms, with the sewn-on appliqués. "What do you mean?"

"I'll make my own costume."

Rick's lip quivered ineffectually while his pale eyes widened. "You can't do that. There's only two days until rehearsal. Rohrig won't like it."

"Oh well," Jacy said. She strode out of the building and jumped into her convertible, trying to remember the best fabric people and costume designers she knew of, envisioning the Empress' costume. How did they know what an Empress was supposed to look like, she thought. A pie-plate space ship that could travel at the speed of light and across the boundaries of time? Machines that could scramble a human body into a mass of electrical charges, transmit them over thousands of miles, then reassemble them at a new location?

Later in the afternoon she wound up at Gilda's shop in Burbank. She had found bolts of two-way stretch nylon in a muted, tan-and-black striped pattern which pleased the eye much more than the shocking orange bodice they'd tried to foist on her at wardrobe. Years before, Gilda had literally sewn Jacy into the patchwork maillot she'd worn in the Broadway show "Howie in the Hills." This time she handed her the fabric and said "Just make it into a body stocking. Gilda gestured her to step onto a platform so she could get measurements. She called out numbers in Creole to a pigtailed teenaged girl with a writing pad. "Put all the seams in the back," Jacy said. "Dip the neckline a little low, but not too."

Gilda knelt down beside her, shaking her head while she wrapped the measuring tape around Jacy's calf. "I'm not sure the country is ready for this," she said.
Chapter Eight

Nothing had prepared Jacy for what she would see the next day on the set when the workmen shoved aside a huge soundstage door for her.

The room had been fashioned with an arcing, domelike ceiling. It would be lit from the rear half on top, where it opened up for the key scaffolding. Strangely, she thought of church when she looked at it because of all the ornate carving and snakelike banisters trailing down from the rafters. A worker told her it was made entirely of wood and Styrofoam. Someone had painstakingly carved all the delicate designs and cherub-like figures into it. Tall, narrow windows had been cut into the stony material between the latticework and filled with a clear amber glass that had been beveled at the edges. There was a high, golden throne shaped like a sphinx. Jacy wondered what kind of building they were trying to copy since she could count at least four different earthly locales and eras represented. The walls shone like polished stainless steel in places yet had been tinged with matte black elsewhere. "It looks a little small and cramped," she said. "Isn't there supposed to be a court, ladies in waiting, a jester and all that kind of thing?"

"They'll all fit," a stagehand announced. "People will flit in and out of it." They made their way to the other side of the soundstage and dropped Jacy off near her dressing room. A gaggle of wardrobe matrons and costume girls awaited her. Wanda, the oldest and heaviest of them said "Let's see this killer costume everybody's been abuzz about."

Jacy flipped the locks of her suitcase and tugged the iridescent fabric out of it, holding it up for everyone to see. A chorus of "Oh my gods," and hushed gasps filtered throughout the room. Wanda showed Jacy to a stall, saying "Let's make television history, honey."

Jacy shed her street clothes and, wearing only panty hose and a bra, stepped into the Empress Tigra costume. The seam in back stretched and strained while she tugged the crotch closely to her form. "This thing is so tight," Gilda had said, "that they're going to be able to read your lips. If you know which pair I'm talking about." There was extra material causing ridges beneath the seams. Jacy wondered if she should take it back and have Gilda even it out. She rolled the bodice upward to mold the fabric against her waist and hips. For the final effect, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Tiger stripes slanted down from both sides, joining at a line running downward from her center. They looked like arrows pointing toward her nether region.

Shrugging that off, she brought the bust upward and cradled her breasts in the extra panels of fabric that had been sewn in to cradle them. Lastly, she poked her hands through each arm opening swaddling the long sleeves onto her limbs. Too much, she thought, when she saw ho the nylon had cut her narrow waist even smaller and had lifted her breasts upward. Gilda had paid her heed: only a tiny sliver of cleavage had been revealed. Too much, she thought. A pang of anxiety spread through her and she wondered whether the arm band, the necklaces, and the shoulder shawl would tone it down.

Once she had stepped into her low heels, she gathered her hair upward in combs and pulled it back, forming thick swirls of it at both sides of her crown. The feline ears would perch atop the combs. Once finished and ready for makeup, she inhaled before tugging on the doorknob. A moment later she revealed herself to the wardrobe girls. Wanda, as the spokeswoman for them said "My god, girl. You've outdone yourself."

She strutted as delicately as she could onto the soundstage, her shoulders dipping in self-conscious anticipation. Lots of time and work had gone into the costume and she took great pains keeping up the type of body that could wear it well. Before she rounded a corner she inhaled, lengthening and straightening herself, using a yoga trick she knew, stretching her limbs from her toes to the top of her head. She tossed back the locks of dark brown hair that fell over her right shoulder and tried to think happy thoughts as she approached the stage. Bright lights flooding the castle interior washed out her line of sight.

She saw Warberg first. He had been earnestly conferring with Rohrig, who had his back turned to her as she entered. There were a couple of stage technicians nearby, listening in. The metamorphosing expression on Warberg's face was one she was sure she would never forget. He had been in a taut-lipped, stern demeanor in discussing shooting manners with his boss and the equipment urchins. He caught a glimpse of her and at the first instant his face carried the same businesslike scowl. Then his hollow eyes turned away for a flash and returned to her, exploding open, his mouth dropping. Rohrig and the technicians whirled around. They backed away, in a reflex reaction.

"Holy mother," someone said. All conversation stopped as Jacy walked further into the brilliantly lit room. She was brushed against from the side and when she turned she came face to face with Neil Neiman. He was in full Galaxia regalia, as Korg. Eyes looking out from dark pancake makeup, horns protruding from his temples. When Jacy looked at him, she had to stifle a laugh. A wide smile caused Neil's eyes to slant, turning them into slits. The horns reminded her of Puck from Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream." He said "Very nice to meet you, Empress. Can I be your slave?" She pushed him away playfully.

Rohrig crept closer to her, narrowing his eyes, squinting. "I didn't approve a costume change. Who the hell do you think you are?" he said, his lower jaw jutting out as if he had been grinding his molars together.

The hard steeliness of his gaze frightened her. Jacy fought to keep her eyes straight ahead, resisting the impulse to look down, in shame. Neil Neiman came to her aid, putting himself between the two of them, shielding her from the damning rays emanating from the boss' eyes. "Rory," he started, "you know what they always say. The unexpected sometimes brings unexpected delights." Rohrig tried to push him aside to get a better look at her. He regarded every inch.

"The sponsors will go crazy," Rohrig murmured.

Warberg smirked, his arms crossed on his chest, feet spread wide apart as he looked at Jacy. "Well they've got that Barbara what's-her-name in that little flimsy thing showing her belly button. I think the American viewing public is ready."

A deep voiced male technician from behind the light banks said "Ready to grab a cold shower!" Everyone laughed, even Rohrig.

Jacy decided to speak. She said "Rory, there was no way I was going to wear that bulky thing. It reminded me of the Queen of Hearts."

Diahann Carroll, in her exotic eye makeup and short galaxian dress appeared. Her thick, warm-brown hair had been teased into a high upswept pouf. She approached Jacy then leaned away. "Oooh, lord, they were right. Honey, you're going to flame out every TV screen from here to Boston."

When normalcy returned, Rohrig placed all the actors on the set. Light technicians milled about, checking meter readings, holding tiny instruments in their hands like transistor radios. Empress Tigra's soldiers appeared. They all wore close-fitting leather tunics and boots with steel helmets. The headpieces were fitted with a short bar that pointed downward at their noses. Jacy looked at them admiringly. Casting had worked hard to find the young actors with the best physiques, she thought. Taut skin and rippling muscle gleamed beneath the lights.

In the first scene, Vantage and Korg were to be entering the palace, encountering the Empress for the first time. When Jacy sat down on the golden Phoenix throne, she looked back out at the set toward the lights. Instantly she had to look away, shielding her eyes, a headache coming on. "Why do those lights have to be so bright?" she asked. "I'm going to need sunglasses!"

"The light bathes the scene in an ethereal glow," a technician explained. She could only see him in silhouette as light reflecting off his tousled hair formed a halo around his head. A makeup assistant dabbed blush on her cheekbones and dusted her face with loose powder. Somebody knelt down beside her and looked out at the directors.

"Good god, you're right," he said. Assistants and light technicians scurried about as he barked out directions to them and the other crewmen straddling scaffolding above.

Rohrig said "Wait a minute. This is what we planned on." He sprang to his feet. "Whose show is this anyway?"

"Rory, I can't see," Jacy said. "When the camera goes on, my pupils are probably going to look like two little pinholes. Do you want that? Is there some other way you can achieve your look? That's not going to blind me?" She noticed that some of the crewmen along with a few of her soldiers had backed away. At first she was confused about what could have intimidated them but then she realized that she had taken the golden scepter and jabbed the end of it into the stage floor. A golden serpent had coiled around the staff of it and his fanged mouth screeched out from the top, near the globule end.

"Holy shit," Neil said. "You're not going to argue with an empress, are you?" Above her the technicians tugged and maneuvered various burning lamps and slid amber scrims onto others. Somebody called out something about adding a rose scrim to one of the uppers. Gradually Jacy saw the light around her begin to dim.

"That's better," she said. "Now I'm going to be able to look into the faces of the people I'm talking to." That done, the stage managers and Rohrig arranged all the cast in their places and Jacy was amazed to find out that he was right: the small room did hold an incredible number of people. The bright lighting with the well-placed color did add a heavenly glow to the castle interior. If they had just hung regular spots there, Jacy thought, the walls of the structure would have looked unbearably harsh and dingy.

Soon it was time for Jacy to show how well she had memorized her lines and those of Vangage and Korg. When she had spoken with Jake the afternoon before, he had even told her that she should consider taking up smoking, to give her voice the throaty edge that would convey power.

Rohrig, instead of barking "Roll" would say "Let's go," in a quiet voice Jacy could barely hear. Then, her cue, once Vantage and Korg swaggered toward her. She called out their names and then said "To what do I owe this unexpected delight?" As they had approached she swiveled her hips on the hard throne, swinging her legs over the armrest, kicking one foot skyward as an exclamation point on her sentence.

"Hold it, hold it, hold it!" Rohrig shouted. His chair clattered as he pushed himself out of it. He stomped across the rug-covered floor to their dais. "Jacy, this is science fiction, not flipping Broadway. Can we do it again without the Rockettes kick?"

"I say we go with it," Warberg said. "It works."

Rohrig leaned his shoulders downward and glared evilly at his biggest star. "Who's directing here?"

"Well, it's playful," Warberg said. "Coy. Seductive. If we have some grim, no-nonsense type up there, it may as well be a man."

"This is the ruler of a planet, not Patty Duke," Rohrig said.

Neil laughed heartily, bending at the waist. "If you think Patty Duke looks like that, then you'd better go get an eye exam pal. This is the Empress."

The shooting after that seemed convoluted and discordant to Jacy. But then screen acting, whether it was on a large or small one was also convoluted. She missed the fluidity of the theater, where her performance seemed like one long steady orgasm. With television there were little bursts of frenzied activity where she was called on to display hostility or sexual coyness and then stop on a dime to move on to something else completely different. Rohrig still didn't seem to like the leg kick and in subsequent takes kept trying to get her to tone it down. Yet she continued, propping herself up on the arms of the throne, arching her back, hissing at Vantage and Korg. After ten retakes of a scene only covering a couple of pages of script, she lost count. In between takes, she allowed the most peculiar thoughts to run through her mind while the makeup girls powdered down her face, touched up her eyes and rearranged her hair. She thought "Why am I here?" and "What is all this for?"

Renee, the hair stylist noticed. "I always wonder what goes on in that pretty head of yours," she said. "You have to be one of the most intense people I've ever met on a show."
Chapter Nine

After Jacy had been touched up and freshened up, the crew and cast moved to a larger soundstage. They needed the extra room, she would learn, to accommodate a fight that was going to take place. Vantage, because he has offended Empress Tigra with his brazen request for a mining treaty, must duel with a strange creature called a Masculotrope. Jacy pitied the poor man who had to play the half-man, half-horse character. He was a young, body-building star named Tony. His dark eyes were hooded and his black hair thick and wavy. She wondered whether he had to turn sideways to walk through an ordinary door, such was the breadth of his shoulders.

They must have also selected him because of his height, she supposed, which was well over six feet. What made him even taller was the way the the special costume to transform him into a half equine creature. They had jammed his feet into clumsy and awkward miniature stilts made to resemble hooves. Using this he could not run or walk in the normal way but had to clomp around instead, robot-like. For the fur on his legs it appeared they had glued animal hair onto a pair of tights. A furry trunk piece which may have been made out of latex and papier mache conformed to the contours of his torso. They also had augmented the hair on his chest so that to Jacy it appeared that he wore a shag carpet up there.

When the technicians and stage hands set up the scene, she wondered how on earth Tony the Masculotrope was going to be a fair match for Vantage, who had speed and agility on his side. She found out when she saw a prop hand give Tony a bizarre instrument that appeared to be two black billiard balls with a string attached to them. Tony swung the ball on a string in a circle high in the air above his head. The balls in flight made a whooshing sound. Though they'd probably been made of balsa wood for safety, Jacy guessed that they were supposed to be solid and heavy, shattering anything they contacted.

Rohrig said "Let's go," and Jacy had to stifle laughter when she watched the first take of their fight. Around the perimeter of the room her soldiers stood cheering, jeering and clapping. Korg was held at sword point while kneeling down below Empress Tigra. Vantage crouched down and gingerly approached the Masculotrope. Rohrig had briefed him for a long time on what strategy to employ: "He's on those unwieldy horse hooves," he had said, "so try lunging at them low. Knock him off his feet. All the while he's going to keep trying to take you out with the bolos."

Tony swung the bolo in a deadly circle, forcing Vantage to lurch back away from him.

"Won't those things hurt him if they really hit him?" Jacy whispered to a nearby prop man. The nervous looking, messy-haired man in glasses cowered behind the dais, trying to keep out of camera range. He whispered back that no, they wouldn't. They were made of hollow rubber and might sting him but would not break bones or open cuts.

While the bolo swirled in the air, Tony tried to sound appropriately fierce, growling and roaring. He must have had a tenor voice, Jacy realized, because his growl came out sounding more like an agonized moan. Hoof-boots too tight maybe? Or were the tights too constricting at the crotch? She made a mental note to talk with him later, when he was out of costume. Finally, she could not help herself. She felt herself start to grin, then smile before laughter burst out from her lips.

"Hold! Hold!" Rohrig shouted.

Silence fell on the actors, actresses and stage hands.

"Miss Rayner, exactly what is so funny here?"

All eyes in the room turned upward to her. His use of her original, legal name caught her off balance and she continued laughing, though nervously. "It's Tony," she said, her eyes watering. "I know he's trying to sound ferocious, but instead he sounds like he's on the pot with a bad bout of constipation."

Some of the crew hands laughed softly. It was true. Tony's grimace and grunt had the air of a bathroom quality to it in more respects that just one, also. But Rohrig definitely wasn't catching the humor. He covered his mouth with his hand and Jacy could see a vein bulge at his temple. Other directors she'd worked with in the past had shared the same characteristic, or, more appropriately, warning flag. "Break for fucking lunch everybody," he shouted, waving them away with his hand.

Jacy watched the crew, the technicians and all the extras break into spontaneous, animated conversation. Soon only Warberg, Neiman, herself and Rohrig remained in that corner of the soundstage. Rohrig leveled his gaze at her, narrowing his eyes as he spoke in a threatening voice. "You are in no position to be uppity. You're lucky to be working. Think of that the next time you get the hankering to mock everything." He spun around and stormed off in the direction of his office. Neil had told her a few days before that he kept a full wet bar in there. After Rohrig had cleared earshot, Neil drew his wrists inward and pretended to be scared, widening his slanted eyes and cooing "Ooooooh."

Strangely enough, however, when everyone returned from lunch break Rohrig concentrated first on working with Tony on his grimacing technique. When he tried a few test grunts and roars they still sounded too high pitched.

Jacy, who was sitting Indian style at the base of the dais, called out "Why does he have to roar and grunt at all? It might be more menacing if he was mute."

Rohrig's neck snapped around as if to confront Jacy again but Neil interrupted, touching his arm to get his attention. "That's a good idea, chief. He could use his eyes instead. He's got good eyes."

After a brief silence, Rohrig glanced at Tony, Neil, and Jacy before responding softly to Neil: "Okay." To Tony he barked "From now on you're a mute masculotrope. Got me?"

For the rest of that afternoon, Tony stayed silent and Jacy refrained from laughing.

Neil held out his hand to help Jacy down from the dais. When they were at the same level he said "If you'd allow it, I'd very much like the pleasure of your company this evening." She noticed sweat on his forehead, which surprised her since the klieg lights had been turned off for a few minutes.

Still, she responded to him right away even though her reflex action was to dawdle at such times. "Sure," she said. He told her he would be at her cottage at eight.

That left an hour and a half for her to get ready. In one corner of the cottage lie an old fashioned bathtub with feet. A plastic curtain on a couple of poles would keep water from splashing on the floor when she showered. She stayed under the spray a long while, dabbing at her face for the remnants of pancake makeup the cold cream had missed. While the water splashed down over her shoulders she imagined it cleansing away that day's aches and pains. Acting was always an intense business for her: she would draw her shoulders in at times and put tension in her neck and at the center of her forehead, just above her eyes. She let the water bathe this vulnerable part of her face.

Once finished with the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel, remembering that a towel had been her stage "costume" for a good part of the play "The Married Man." Her feet left wet prints on the lacquered wooden floor while she padded across the room to the mirror. When looking at the reflection, she noted the crystalline beads of water imbedded in the strands of her hair, upswept with pins to stay out of the way while she showered. No gray strands yet, or worse, wrinkles. To herself she looked the same as she had in that role on Broadway eight years earlier.

Just as quickly she backed away from the reflection. She had read somewhere that if you looked at yourself in the mirror for too long a time, the image of the devil would appear over your shoulder. She was not in the mood to deal with Lucifer that night.

That left the problem of what to wear. She leaned back and touched a finger to her lip while she regarded the closet full of clothes she'd brought along. There was a turquoise satin bathrobe that was really comfortable. She loved to spend quiet evenings in it, reading. Seated across from Neil it would spread apart at the folds to reveal her legs. Did she want to give him that visual when they were alone? Probably not. There was a sundress, but to her, that was not the kind of thing one wore in the evening. Of course the black satin and chiffon evening gown was out. That left her blue jeans and stretch pants. She settled on the black stretch pants together with a sleeveless pastel yellow button-up top that tied at the midriff. Playfully coy. By the time she had finished buttoning it up, she looked up at the clock. 7:45. Enough time for a light dusting of shadow, along with mascara, moisturizer, and a touch of lipstick.

She had left all the windows opened that day. Since it was cool outside she figured it would help her sleep better. A slight breeze pulled tree branches down, and they tickled the rooftop of the cottage. The late April sun was setting, bringing about a violet sky behind the window. Jacy heard footsteps randomly falling on the wide, round stones that formed a walkway to her front door.

There was a knock. She felt her heart leap, which scared her since she knew this was just a friendly visit from a co-worker who may have only wanted to discuss their roles and the script. The encounter still felt like a date, however, and she remembered when she was seventeen and Max Rodriguez would come to her house to pick her up. She inched the door open, slowly revealing that night's vision of Neil Neiman. He was wearing a flannel, lumberjack style shirt with black stovepipe slacks. In his hand he was holding a single rhododendron, which he handed to her with a smile.

"For you," he said, presenting it to her by bringing his hand forward. She took the flower from him and stood there for a moment, admiring it. After awhile he said "Well? Can I come in?" She stepped aside for him. When he stepped over the threshold, she closed the door. A flicker of blushing bashfulness had overcome her. "You look great," Neil went on, giving her a glancing touch on her shoulder.

"I checked before," Jacy said, looking around at the cupboards and the small refrigerator. "I don't have anything to drink except water and a little soda." She remembered that Neil, Warberg and all the other principals liked to hit the bar, especially after a grueling day's shooting."That's okay," Neil said, looking directly at her and smiling. He shuffled his feet slightly, scratching the back of his head, looking down and letting out a barely perceptible sigh. It touched Jacy that he, too had obvious felt jitters over their after-hours meeting.

She took his hand and led him over to the simple couch against the far wall. They sat down and angled themselves toward one another.

When they had both settled down into the cushions, Neil looked at her, smiled, shook his head again and sighed. "I feel like I'm a pimply-faced sixteen year old kid dating the Homecoming Queen." Jacy laughed, knowing that overreacting to his joke this way was following her mother's advice. It also lit a candle flame to melt down the icy wall of tension.

"I like you better without the horns," she said, at that same moment realizing the double entendre. It was not lost on Neil. He paused to look straight ahead for a moment, a shifty-eyed glance. It seemed as if he wondered about the comeback, then shook his mind free of it.

"Yeah, that's really something,," Neil murmured. "I have a funny feeling about the role I'm playing."

"You do? In what way?"

"It just feels so right. When I get all that heavy makeup put on, along with the latex and the fuzzy stuff, I keep on thinking that it's the way things are supposed to be. Like it's my destiny. That must sound really corny."

Silently, Jacy shook her had and shrugged, putting both her palms upward and lifting them. He smiled. "Say whatever you feel like," she told him. "I promise I won't critique you on your energy, rate, or tone." They both laughed.

"I had such big dreams," Neil went on. "Shakespeare. What actor worth his sweat doesn't want to do Shakespeare? Hamlet. Macbeth. King Lear. Anything. Or get to the big screen, move people to tears. But today, when I went to the supermarket to look for bread I heard people whispering 'Korg.'"

Jacy patted him on the thigh. "I think you've succeeded," she said. "Korg has a lot of dignity."

Neil paused to think about it and Jacy took the opportunity to look at him more closely. His eyes were warm brown, flecked with tiny hints of amber and ringed gold around the edge of the iris. His black, straight hair fell shiny and straight in thick strokes across his forehead. What struck her more about him, however, especially since they'd been alone together, was how he never seemed to stop moving, even while sitting still. When he breathed, the muscles of his chest brushed gently against the contours of his shirt and forced out the air with a gently perceptible sigh. He would shift one way and then another, the couch springs gently creaking beneath them. Behind her head, where he had placed his arm, his fingers strummed on the wall. Instead of tapping out a staccato rhythm he would flick the edge of his fingernail in even, two-four timing. "What about you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

When she sighed, inhaling, she saw out of the corner of her eye that he had nudged himself slightly closer to her, so that their knees grazed.

"The same," she told him. "To touch people. Show them a glimpse of heaven. Or hell. Create a lasting impression. To fly." For a moment Neil seemed to be puzzled, his brow knitting. He crinkled his nose and smiled wryly. "It's a ballet term," she explained. "Break the bonds of gravity. Float ethereally. It's what all we dancers want."

"Oh yeah," Neil said. "To be immortal."

The sudden warmth in his eyes startled her. Touching her hand he said "You are." Along with the warmth, Jacy could see pain, also. She felt a twinge along with him, in her heart. Her throat also tightened, and her lips quivered. She would have wanted to say something, anything, but could not. Her aura was wrapping around this beautiful young man. A minute seemed like an hour. She realized that she was allowing herself to drift slowly toward him. His full, round lips and parted but then they suddenly backed away from each other.

Neil suddenly backed away, saying "Whew!" and wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. "I'm sorry Jacy. I didn't mean for it to be like this. But you, well, I, it's just that...you're wonderful. God I must sound like and idiot. Babbling on like some kind of a farm boy in the cab of a pickup truck.

Jacy rubbed his shoulder. "I think it's nice," she said, trying to think quickly of a way to veer the conversation around to a less intense subject. "So, immortal, huh?"

"Yeah. Actors. But there's something about you. As a person. It's like I have a hard time believing that you're real sometimes."

Jacy chuckled softly. "I'm here," she said, barely whispering. She held onto his wrist, kneading the firm contours of it. "Just relax. Tell me anything. Let go."

"You mean fly?" Neil asked. For a moment he seemed frozen in time, a stillness that stunned her, driving her out of the tiny bungalow and onto a higher plane. It caused her heart to long for him all the more.

"Yes," she said.

Neil leaned in, to kiss her. Jacy allowed herself to savor every delicious moment of anticipation, yielding to him, offering him her mouth, which he touched tenderly with his lips, bringing his hands down around her shoulders, to cradle her.

Three months later, around the time the episode they had just finished was set to air, Jacy was visiting the supermarket. When she had pushed her cart up to the checkout line and waited for the cashier, her eyes fell on an unusual headline on a tabloid sitting on a rack beneath her. It said "Galactic enemies Empress Tigra and Major Korg in torrid romance."

Oh gawd, she thought.
Chapter Ten

Dorina decided to call Jacy Rayner in the afternoon following. She had been given a business card with a home and work number that were one and the same. Her method was to put her earpiece in, flick the microphone with her fingertip and tap out the number on her numerical keypad the way a concert flautist might work the shiny valves during a solo. The line would ring, the party would answer, and she would launch into smooth, practiced patter. At the other end however, the phone rang four times, then five and Dorina thought that the answering system would click on. Six rings.

Someone answered.

There was a couple of clunks and the short clink of a bell. The way she remembered phones sounding when she was in grade school and people occasionally still had boxy, awkward phones leased from Ma Bell, some with rotary dials on them. Another two beats followed, and then a voice came on the line: "Hello?" somehow managing to stretch a two syllable word to four syllables and makes it sound like an intense inquiry.

Dorina's words caught in her throat. "Hi," she said. "This is Dorina Pettit from _Spectrum_. I was hoping to reach Ms. Jacy Rayner." She cringed inside, imagining that she must sound like a terrified high-school cheerleader, her voice screeching at the high notes.

"Yes?" Another pause that look a beat too long for Dorina's comfort. "I can help you?"

The pause and the strange wording of the question again threw her off. "I hope I have caught you at a good time. Possibly my editor Victor DeGraffenried has been in contact. We wanted to get your thoughts and impressions about a piece we were considering for an upcoming issue."

Another pause. "What did you have in mind?" The voice was velvety and disarming and caused her to forget she was in the middle of a busy editorial office, computer keys and muffled conversation filling the air around her. Okay, she wondered, is she wanting me to spill what kinds of questions I'm going to ask during my interview or is she asking what day is convenient?

"I think Victor was hoping we could meet Thursday," Dorina said.

"ThursdayThursday..." came the murmur from the other end of the line. "Tell me Miss Pettit, do you have any plant allergies?"

Dorina shook her head. "Huh? Excuse me?"

Jacy Rayner spoke slowly, in measured tones. "To pollen, ragweed, various types of grasses. Do you have any allergies?"

"Well, no."

"Good. Then we can meet in my garden. Is three-fifteen all right?"

"Yes. Fine." And Jacy finished their conversation by giving her exhaustively detailed directions that contained references to streetlight landmarks and esoteric house styles. When the line disconnected, Dorina stared at her keyboard for a moment. She thought, what am I getting myself into?

Two more days till the meeting. Dorina spent the rest of that afternoon checking her email accounts and renewed ad copy for the online and the print versions of _Spectrum_. Dues, kid, as Victor kept on saying. She tore through the mind numbing data entry work and routine phone calls with machine-like precision, causing her to think of something strange she'd once heard in a college lecture. "You are often best suited for careers you are not in love with," someone said. "Where you can distance yourself from the products of your efforts."

There was no doubt she was good at all the number crunching for ad renewals and the schmoozing of contracts. What she really wanted to do was write compelling features. appointment with Jacy Rayner was at three o'clock on Thursday but she had asked for the entire afternoon off anyway. Victor complied. This left her two hours to find her house after lunch. Mitch had offered to meet her for lunch but Dorina gave him an excuse about not having enough time during the afternoon. Most days she was meeting someone well known that she would interview, the entire afternoon would belong to that person. It may have been mostly superstition, but Dorina felt that discussing an interviewee with someone else immediately before she arrived was jinxing things somehow. So she ate Chinese alone, taking extra care to avoid anything that contained garlic or too many onions.

In the past she had spoken with journalists who had interviewed celebrities including Larry Hagman, Jaclyn Smith and Lee Majors. When it all came down to it, they said, people were people and no matter how glamorous or powerful. They put their pants on one leg at a time, itched in the same places she did, and did the same things in the bathroom that she did. When she slipped behind the wheel of Susie Blue she knew she was starting a new adventure..

It was another glorious day yet Dorina kept the top in place. She had spent an extra few minutes in the bathroom rearranging and spraying her hair and didn't want to wind to blow even a lock of it askew. Usually on a sunny and warm day she would play one of her tapes, blasting the volume in the aftermarket stereo: something rowdy like one of the old Van Halen offerings or Aerosmith. Yet she knew that listening to music like that at any kind of volume might affect her. Smooth jazz might put her into too laid back of a mood, so she switched to an all-news format station she occasionally listened to. The gravelly voiced newscaster was droning on and on about the Russians buying up more high-priced real estate, with hopes of putting up skyscrapers. "Shit," she said out loud, before reaching down to punch the off button, "pretty soon they're gonna make us all learn Russian and start writing the alphabet backwards."

She had killed an hour over a languid lunch at the restaurant with tea, and about another hour switching from the interstate, to the freeway, to the Boulevard, to the exclusive west Los Angeles neighborhood that was Jacy Rayner's home. The dashboard clock read 2:10. It was way too early to just show up at her doorstep. Maybe three o'clock wouldn't be bad. Ever since high school everything she'd either heard about, read, or been taught seemed to say that it was best to arrive fifteen minutes early for an interview. Maybe that was why Ms. Rayner had scheduled it for three-fifteen.

But that still left the problem of what to do with the extra 45 minutes and change. She decided to stop at a city park and walk around for awhile. It might help her dissipate the keyed-up feeling she had and it would get her used to the elements. Jacy Rayner had asked her if she had any allergies. Maybe she was planning to conduct the interview outside, on a patio beside a few flagrant flowering bushes.

It was a small city park, one that had probably been cordoned and groomed to help the beauty of the boulevard. She was glad she chose it because of all the lush vegetation, at least by California standards. Too much of the west, she had often experienced, was drab, dry, and very often just plain dead. Back home in Indiana there were lush forests that bloomed spectacularly every spring and lit up the landscape with fiery reds and vivid yellows during the fall.

After Dorina parked, she took her notepad with her and left the purse in the car as she set out for the walk path. That day she'd worn her tasteful, patterned navy blue skirted suit with the white lapel accents and she'd curled her hair so that it fell about her shoulders in bouncy waves. The first person she met on the walkway was a guy in full slacker regalia with torn jeans that were too big and an oversize bomber jacket that hung almost to his knees. He was way overdressed especially since the temperature was well into the seventies and it was sunny. When she approached him she also saw that tattoos had been scrawled on his neck and his eyebrows and nose had been pierced. It brought to mind a comic that she'd seen in a club remarking about the ubiquitous trend of body piercing. He said "It looks they got into a fight with a bait and tackle shop."

The guy, who seemed to be in his late teens or early twenties, looked her up and down as she neared him, his eyes widening. "Wow, looking good, babe," he said. Well, she figured, as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, smiling, at least he had good taste.

At the other side of the park a man was standing, his back to a palm tree, holding a microphone and speaking while another man video graphed him. Though the camera must have been rolling, both of the men stopped to wave at her when she walked by. She had also wondered how she would stack up in the land of eternal youth and beauty, where there were more models and movie stars per square mile than any other city in the country. As a teenager she'd felt slightly gawky and even in her mid-twenties she still saw some of the old awkwardness in snapshots or video clips of herself.

When she had walked the circuit around the park twice she decided that she'd better get back to the cool, shaded car if for no other reason than to keep from sweating and ruining her suit or muddying her makeup. She found out that her mid day jaunt in the park had burned up another thirty five minutes and Jacy Rayner's neighborhood was only a couple of streets away. Her arms suddenly felt tense, the way they always did when she got nervous and she rubbed her wrists before settling on the sure remedy to calm her: a couple of raucous Van Halen tunes.

After the crashing guitar and high energy vocals of "Pound Cake," Dorina felt mentally ready to get to her appointment. She circled back through Jacy's neighborhood, passing a couple of police cars on the way. They probably patrolled often at the insistence of the extreme upscale community members. Within minutes she found the house and was surprised to find it so ordinary. It was a Cape Cod two story with a rounded, barn style roof and lots of large windows. While most of the other houses had been set off a distance from the street with arcing u-shaped driveways, her house contained a simple, straight driveway leading to a two car garage. She had been told that it was okay to pull the car all the way forward into the drive and while she did so, she wondered if anyone was watching her. The house seemed too small to have a butler or any kind of staff but she still felt conspicuous.

Just before shutting off her engine, she looked down at the dashboard clock. Five minutes after three. She again would keep her backpack style purse in the car; it was much too cumbersome to sling over her shoulder and take with her, especially when she was wearing her best business clothes. Before pushing open her door, she stopped for a moment of silence and said a short prayer she remembered from childhood: "Divine light of the highest order under the protection of the Archangel Michael." She repeated the sentence two more times, barely above a whisper. As a pre-teen in Catholic education class a teacher had once told her that reciting the words would bring one's guardian angel and the guardian angels of everyone she encountered together for a peaceful understanding.

In this case she hoped it would keep her from feeling too intimidated.

The walkway to the front door had been fashioned out of large circles of conglomerate which her heels clicked on pleasantly as she stepped on them. All the flowering shrubbery and rhododendrons had been thoroughly and painstakingly trimmed and separated, making Dorina wonder if Jacy Rayner had ever been visited by Good Housekeeping. The front door had been shrouded by a recessed porch filled with vibrant potted tropical plants. Dorina breathed in, enjoying their essence and even sensing the extra oxygen given off by them. She reached forward and rang the bell, feeling an odd sense of foreboding, not necessarily unpleasant, that she was about to begin another chapter of her life.

Seconds passed. She turned, watching a racing green, low-slung jaguar slink past on the road past the driveway. A slight breeze lifted a few strands of her hair, brushing them against her face. Surely they knew they had company coming, she thought. Just before she was going to reach forward and ring the doorbell a second time, she heard muffled thumping and footsteps from beyond the sturdy-looking wooden door. The knob turned with squeaks and clicks from the other side and Dorina felt herself straightening up, gathering herself. The door cracked open gradually, and she took a deep breath.

Dorina's first thought was that her Supra had somehow become a Delorean and that she had tripped the flux capacitor to go back in time. The young woman standing in the doorway was startlingly beautiful. She was casually dressed in faded jeans that accentuated her long legs and clung to the door while regarding her, wearing an ecru lace crop top that flattered her warmly tanned complexion. Dorina had seen the high cheekbones and elegantly arched eyebrows before, one of them raised quizzically in appraising her. Her lush, layered brunette locks had swept to one side, the ends brushing gracefully against her breast. Disoriented, she asked "Miss Jacy Rayner?"

The woman glanced at her, looking down then up giving what would have been called the "once-over" in another era. "Yes?" Dorina was about to respond, but the woman at the door said "I mean I'm her daughter, Josette. Something I can help you with?"

"Well, my name is Dorina Pettit. I'm from _Spectrum_ magazine," she said. "Your mother and I have an appointment in a few minutes. Maybe she told you?"

Josette regarded her for another long moment, silently appraising her before stepping aside, gesturing for her to come in. When Dorina stepped onto the foyer, at the same level with her, she realized that Josette had also inherited height from her mother.

"Thank you," she said, when she was completely inside and Josette shut the door behind them. Calmed slightly, Dorina was first aware of lots of polished wood in the hallway, including an ornately lathed frame for a mirror on the wall.

"Mother's on the deck out back," Josette said. "I'll let her know you're here." She turned to walk down the hallway to a bright kitchen apparently leading to a screened room.

When Dorina looked beside herself into the living room, she noticed a small Hispanic woman dusting carved sculptures and bookends in there. A large, yawning fireplace that appeared to be made of granite formed the centerpiece of the room, jutted against the corner. Beside it there was an old fashioned wrought iron stand corralling a poker, a whisk broom and a compact bellows with gold accents.

From the other side of the house, Dorina heard a door open and shut and the muffled voices of two women talking. Then the door opened and she could hear Josette say "Do you want me to do it or not?"

A pause, then the same musical alto she'd heard on the phone two days earlier. "Just handle it, darling, and call me later with the details."

Then Jacy Rayner appeared from around the doorway, backlit by the high afternoon sunlight emanating from the windows at the back of the house. Dorina's first thought on seeing her was that she looked like the tallest China woman she had ever seen. She wore Capri denims, an embroidered chambray smock, and a dainty, wide-brimmed straw hat with a black ribbon sash. In one hand she held pruning shears. "Hello there," she said as she glided toward her extending her free hand, "you must be Miss Pettit."

Dorina reached out to shake her hand, surprised by the delicate smoothness of it, noticing in that brief instant that it contained a few age spots. "Yes ma'am, Dorina Pettit."

Jacy was smiling joyously at her, with full lips and a twinkling in her eye. She was about to say something else but they were interrupted by Josette: "Mother, I'm going to have to take the Lincoln. She's parked in back of Molly."

Jacy turned her attention back to Dorina. "Our Mercedes," she explained. "My daughter's pet name for it." Then to Josette: "You know where the key is. Oh, and don't forget to put some fuel in it. Especially if you go anywhere else."

Dorina wasn't sure, but from the door leading to the garage, she thought she heard Josette say "Aye, aye, captain."

Then Jacy turned her attention to Dorina. She gazed at Dorina's suit thoughtfully for a moment and then said "Oh dear, you're going to need a smock, aren't you? Not to worry, I think I've got one that should fit you just fine."

Flustered, Dorina said "I don't understand, what are we going to be doing? I thought we had an appointment for three-fifteen." She followed Jacy, who had already started walking back toward the kitchen, turned a corner and headed to a study toward the rear of the house.

"On long afternoons like this I like to garden," Jacy said, over her shoulder. "Don't you worry; I'm not going to have you groveling on your knees, digging up weeds with a trowel. I just thought you'd like to protect that beautiful suit from any...how shall I say, mishaps out there."

Jacy Rayner's study was the most personal room Dorina had seen in the house so far. Barrister's bookshelves lined the wall, lined with antique volumes. A lighted curio cabinet with exotic oriental statues. A large, carved oak desk with a black leather chair behind it, illuminated with a dainty Parisian lamp. A fluffy white cat with small brown markings on its back lie atop the blotter on the desk. Jacy saw the cat and started to coo: "Luna, my beautiful little frou-frou. How are we doing today?" She reached down to pet the animal on the top of its head and the feline closed its eyes, rolling its neck, burrowing into the tall lady owner's touch. "Mommy has a visitor now. She'll be back later to give you a little treat." Dorina looked down and noticed that they were walking on a beautiful floral Persian rug, black with muted peach and rose flowers on it.

Jacy turned her attention away from the cat and reached for the closet door beside one of the bookshelves. When she opened it, Dorina was surprised to see a rack of chambray smocks. Straw hats had been stacked on the high shelf and various types of footwear, including sandals and athletic shoes had been neatly arranged in cubbyholes at the bottom. While her interview subject had her back to her, Dorina noticed her hair. It had been dyed ash blond and styled in a fashionable bob that stopped just above her chin. She remembered reading a quote from an aging actress who may have been one of Jacy Rayner's contemporaries, who said: "You don't get older. Just blonder."

Jacy lifted a hanger holding a smock out of the closet and presented it to Dorina. "There, this one should do nicely," she said. It was a chambray tunic smock; similar to the one Jacy was wearing, sporting embroidered birds and flowers near the shoulder.

"Okay," Dorina said, receiving the smock. She set down her notepad and tried the garment on, pleasantly surprised that it fit very nicely over the suit but at the same time feeling slightly sheepish. In college or in her early journalism career she thought she remembered reading that a journalist should control the environment of the interview. At this point it seemed that Miss Rayner was calling all the shots.

"Follow me," she said. They retraced their steps out of the study down the hallway to the kitchen where Jacy opened a door and ushered her out onto the wooden deck in the back yard. On the way out, Dorina noticed a flash of copper cookware hanging over a kitchen island but when she cleared the threshold into the back yard she was in awe. The entire lot had been lovingly planted with brilliant rhododendron, begonias, and nasturtiums and Dorina also thought she recognized an orange tree. The grass was lush green and lovingly tended. The lovely mix of fauna gave off a wonderful bouquet of an invigorating floral scent. Dorina guessed it was the essence of several of the flowers out there, and she allowed herself to pause for a moment to enjoy the sensation.

When she finished, she realized that Jacy had been watching her, smiling proudly.

"I was just trimming some of the begonias just before you arrived," she said. "I'll carry on while you and I have our little chat."

"This is the most beautiful backyard garden I have ever seen," Dorina said. "Did you do all this yourself?"

Jacy had already started gazing at the begonias, inspecting them for weak or wilted leaves. She paused for a moment to glance briefly into Dorina's eyes. "Pardon me, dear, did I do what?"

"The flowers," Dorina said, indicating them. "And the lawn. It's very beautiful. Did you do it all yourself?"

"Oh yes," she said. "One of my life's great joys. My raison d'être you might say."

Dorina glanced around the yard again and then wondered how she was going to segue into the true purpose for her visit that day. She decided on an all-purpose interview icebreaker: "Miss Rayner, is there anything in particular that you'd rather we didn't discuss today?"

"Jacy." She snipped at a begonia stem with the shears.

Dorina was thrown off balance by the remark. For a moment she pictured the word "Jacy" in her mind and pictured lollipops, snickers bars, and marshmallow Easter peeps.

She said "I'm sorry?"

"My name. Please feel free darling."

"Oh yes. Well, Jacy, is there anything that you would prefer not to discuss?"

She was lifting and separating flower petals between her fingers, leaning back to gaze at their arrangement critically. In the distance the low beats of a helicopter distracted Dorina's concentration and she was almost ready to rephrase her question when Jacy spoke. "You seem like a sensible young woman. I'm sure you'll keep our little tete a tete within polite and tasteful bounds."

Dorina bit her lip, to quell the urge to laugh nervously. She decided that the best approach was a direct one. "What are your feelings about the urban myth surrounding your appearance on the Galaxian show during the 1960's?"

Jacy leaned away from the begonias, tilted her head to look at them one last time and then turned her attention to Dorina. "I've heard of the myth, yes," she said softly.

Dorina found the woman's gaze riveting, soulful, and almost intimidating. "The myth claims that when your performance aired on a television screen in a hospital room where a child lay in a coma, the child awakened from the coma the following morning. Several cases were reported. It seems kind of fantastic, somewhat supernatural. What are your feelings and thoughts about that?"

Jacy dropped the pruning shears into a pocket of her smock, which made Dorina feel better. She said "It's wonderful that those dear children recovered."

Damn it, she wasn't taking the bait, Dorina thought. "Well, the myth implies that there was something about your performance that somehow got through to these children and helped them out of their coma. How do you react to that?"

Jacy casually shrugged. "Anything is possible, I suppose."

Dorina was starting to get flabbergasted. She wondered if the whole thing was a setup. Victor had sent her out on the assignment, alone, knowing that Jacy Rayner was going to be somewhat obstinate, even spacey. Shoot, he may have even included Jacy in on it, as a roundabout way of testing her mettle. Dorina was going to open her mouth and say "But..." only she couldn't quite figure out yet what to say after that.

"Dorina, I know you're very well educated. Somewhere in your academic career you have possibly encountered Carl Jung?"

"Yes. I took a psychology elective. Synchronicity. I couldn't really tell you how the theory works but he seemed to think it was a universal pattern behind what appear to be just cause and affect relationships."

"Smart man, he was," Jacy said. She let her words trail off into the air and widened her eyes while looking at Dorina.

Dorina didn't know where she was going with that comment, so she asked "Are you saying that those children awakening were just a coincidence?"

Jacy was going to respond, but the stillness was broken by the Hispanic maid, calling out to them from the back door. "Missy Jacy! Telephone for you senora. Is Miss Josie. She say very important."

Jacy looked at Dorina. "Come inside with me for a moment," she said.

When they entered the kitchen, Jacy took the handset from the maid. She spoke to her daughter while Dorina stood nearby. "Yes darling?" Dorina watched her listen intently to the voice on the other end of the line. Her lips parted and her gaze narrowed while she focused on her daughter. "Whoa, whoa, you're going too quickly for me there. You're practically hyperventilating. Breathe, woman. Slow down. In and out." She twirled her free hand through the air in a graceful flourish and bent downward at her knees in a variation of a plie. "It's going to be okay. Tell them I'm on my way." Another pause and Dorina thought she could hear Jacy's frantic daughter speaking from the other end. "Make up some kind of excuse. Charm them. Put them in handcuffs. Just keep them there for a few more minutes and I'll be right there to straighten things out."

Jacy finished up the conversation by telling her daughter that she loved her. When she hung up the phone she turned to Dorina. "Well, I'm afraid we'll have to cut our interview short, Miss Dorina. I have to go put out a fire. Metaphorically speaking of course." She explained that she and her daughter managed real estate holdings and there was a problem at one of the properties. In the study she helped Dorina out of the smock. Showing her to the front door Jacy again apologized for the brief nature of their meeting. Her last words as Dorina took the first few steps to her car were somewhat unsettling: "One thing I've learned from the Dalai Lama is that not getting what you want can be an incredible stroke of good luck. Ciao!"
Chapter Eleven

Dorina lived in a one bedroom apartment in Westwood. It was a light-pink stucco, adobe style building with a fresco roof that may have been a big deal when it was first built in the mid-seventies but had started to get worn around the edges. All things considered, it was a combination of the most reasonable rent in a reasonably safe neighborhood that was still close enough to all the places she needed to get to during a typical day.

At the advice of her mother and father, she insisted on the second floor, nestled between other apartments. Her mother said "You don't want to be on the first floor because you'll be vulnerable to all sorts of riff-raff and you want to avoid end or corner units too because they get broken into more often." During a family financial crisis when she was in early high school her mother took a job as an emergency dispatcher for the county. Though she had been able to "retire" when her father's insurance business recovered, she still kept a watchful eye focused on all the hazards of everyday living. She called her second oldest daughter every Sunday just after four o'clock. It was the one reason Dorina had to get a cell phone, since she didn't want to be apartment-bound at that time.

Her immediate neighbors were a mousy little ex-ballerina who worked as a secretary for an international exporter and a tall, boyish man who worked as a loan originator in real estate, who was trying to learn Japanese. All of the apartments in the building were one bedroom since the building had been originally designed for singles. Most of the people who lived there were either students, older men who worked in the factories or drove pest control routes, or single moms with one child. Dorina felt safe there. She could recall only one time during the year she lived there that the police had been called: they had to break up an extra-loud end-of-the-semester party at one of the student's apartments.

That night she was in the mood for mindless entertainment and for leaving adulthood for awhile. She rummaged through her dresser drawers with the perfect garment in mind and then she found it, her extra large Cincinnati Bengals official NFL jersey with the number 7, "Esiason" stenciled on the back. The sleeves covered most of her wrists and the shirt bottom nearly reached her knees, so with only her underwear and bare feet she was aware that she probably looked small. Neither her collection of chick-flick DVD's or trashy novels would suffice for that night's escapism.

Instead, she brought out her Play station and snapped the "Pandemonium" disc into place. It was an older-generation, non-violent game she loved to play where a girl character in a strawberry blond pageboy, dressed in medieval garb, must travel through various worlds to save her fiefdom from destruction. While she played she vacantly munched on dry Cheerios out of a Tupperware bowl. A health website she'd visited once recommended them as the perfect replacement for potato chips since they contained vitamins, lowered cholesterol, and promoted regularity.

The apartment, small as it was, contained three telephone jacks. She put one of her prized possessions, a porcelain French phone on her vanity, hung another utilitarian wall phone in the kitchen, and connected a third, tiny headset phone to a switchbox also serving her computer. On top of all that, she kept her cell phone beside her as she played. A tether to the adult world. She was making progress in the game, squashing killer plants and jumping over rolling boulders, making it to level four "Monster Mountain" when she heard the unmistakably high-pitched Mickey Mouse voice saying "Oh Boy! A Phone Call!" She put the game on pause and answered her cell phone: "Samantha's House, Dorina speaking, may I help you?" Samantha was her eight-year old ginger tabby who was curled in a ball sleeping on some towels atop the closet shelf just then.

On the other end of the line, Mitch said "I know you can. Question is, do you want to?" Judging by the static, which unfortunately muffled the full effect of his sexy voice, Dorina guessed that he must have been in traffic.

"Hey."

"Hey. What are you doing?"

"Freezing trolls and climbing parapets."

"Pandemonium? You overgrown child, you. Want to play a different kind of game?"

"Maybe. As long as it isn't 'Guess who blew her interview.'"

"How did you know I was going to ask about that?"

"Clairvoyance. Hey, maybe if I get fired I can get a job on one of those psychic lines."

"It can't have been that bad. Whoa! Shit!" There were a series of muffled clunking sounds and line clicks.

"What! What's wrong? Mitch? Are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Almost traded paint with a Saturn."

"You know I've been meaning to tell you about that. It's not really what cell phones are for. Maybe you'd better wait until you're stopped somewhere and call me again. I don't want to get a call from the ER."

"Got a better idea. I'm on the freeway now. I could be at your place in about ten, fifteen minutes. Want some company?"

"I guess so. I'm not really dressed for it."

"Ha, ha. How about undressed for it?"

"Mitch I really don't feel..."

"Look, tell you what. I'll come by and we'll talk about this supposedly 'bad' interview you had. I guarantee you'll be glad I did. If you decide you're not up to having me around, fine. Then I'll go on my merry way. I'm a big boy. I can take it."

She smiled. "Okay."

Traffic must have been bad, because Dorina was able to complete one more level after dying twice before she heard Mitch's knock. He would rap the door one slow, one two three quick, one two three quick, then one slow. She opened the door. Mitch stood out on top of her welcome mat wearing his European cut charcoal gray suit with violet power tie. And he had splashed on some Aspen sometime during the day. His eyebrows raised in exaggerated cartoon fashion when he looked down at her. "Wow! Me likey! You look almost as sexy in that as the shiny black teddy."

"Guess you like the scrubbed down look, too."

"Yeah! Very innocent. Almost virginal. You gonna let me in or what?" Once he was inside and she'd closed the door behind him, he again looked her up and down. "You do look really cute in that. How come you haven't worn that for me before?"

She shrugged. "I thought you'd make a crack about being the fan of a loser team."

He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. "Ah, I saw 'em beat the Raiders once. That makes them a winner in my book." She invited him to sit beside her on the couch. After resetting the game for two players, they passed the controller back and forth, absently taking turns while they talked. Mitch said "So, did she really almost die during the filming of that Steven Blade flick? Was she pissed off that they picked Raquel Welch to play her part in the movie version? Is she a notch on Hugh Hefner's bedpost? Give me all the inside dirt."

"Mitch, I can't have been at her house for much more than fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes? What did she have to do? Catch a flight for a Galaxia convention? And what's her house like? Pleasure toys? Whips and ropes? Does she have a live tiger for a pet?" Dorina described the house, and Jacy's apparent elegant, though simple taste and the way she had managed to create a pastoral haven in the middle of an exclusive urban neighborhood through her garden.

"Aside from being slightly, I don't know, spacey, she was a pretty ordinary person," Dorina explained.

"So what was her take on that urban myth thing?"

"We really didn't get that far. I asked her and she said she was aware of it, but she seems to think the whole thing was a coincidence."

"Okay, then write about that. And describe how beautiful her garden is"

"Miggy, it's not Good-freaking-housekeeping. Vic will never go for that."

Mitch took the control from her and started to play, though distractedly, getting killed before making it out of the the first chute. "Well then how come she had to dash off so quick like that? She a CIA operative or something?"

"No. Nothing that exotic. She and her daughter manage real estate and there was a problem at one of the properties. The daughter called freaking out so Jacy felt like she had to drop everything and go there."

"Jacy Rayner has a daughter?"

Dorina described Josette, getting into detail about how closely she resembled her mother at the height of her show business career. "She seems to have an attitude, though," she added. "Wasn't really friendly."

"Ooooh. Think you could talk her into doing a two-on-one?"

Dorina bonked him playfully on the head with the game controller. She then sighed and returned to the game. "I just don't know what I'm going to do," she said.

"Well it wasn't your fault she had to leave suddenly. Maybe you could get her to invite you back to finish the interview."

"Yeah, right. What would I say? 'Hi, Miss Rayner. You know I really fucked up that interview the other day. Could I come over so we could try it again?'"

"Ooooh, like it when you talk dirty."

"Well I had my chance and fucked it up. That's all there is to it. I'm going to be doing obits and filler fluff when I'm fifty." To illustrate her frustrated mood she gleefully incinerated an advancing troll with the flamethrower option on the controller, pressing the button savagely.

Mitch said "Hey," and reached forward to hit the "Select" button, pausing the game. "Let's not do this." He gently tugged the controller from her, forcing her to pay attention. "You'll be fine. Just keep trying." With a languid, gentle finger he lifted her chin up then leaned in for a soft, delicate kiss. He set the controller down and traced a long line on the inside of her thigh. She moaned, returning his kiss, teasing him with a gentle flick of her tongue, allowing her hand to drop down delicately atop his straining, hardening ridge.

That's all it took.

To Dorina, the best part was always the afterglow. When they had finished and were sitting up in bed, she fetched the bottle of lambrusco and a small plate full of Godiva chocolates to munch on while they watched old reruns on cable. At one point Mitch playfully poured the wine from his glass into Dorina's navel while she lay flat. He then drank and licked it out while she writhed in ticklish agony, laughing hysterically. By the time she was about ready to pound on his back to make him stop, he turned his oral attentions further on down. She received him, leaning back deliciously, stroking his hair, encouraging him while he trailed kisses downward, letting him work his lingual magic on her.

For a moment she briefly turned her attention to the small television set perched atop a night stand against the wall. One of the nostalgia networks was playing a re-run of a spoof spy show. The nerdy main character of the show, with his narrow shoulders and tweeds was sitting in an office surrounded by frosted pale green glass. A tall woman wearing a pale pink separates outfit cut to accentuate her curves appeared at the door. She wore a pillbox hat with a boa, black gloves to match and dabbed delicately at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her cheekbones were classically high, eyebrows arching, eyes slanted sensually. She was Jacy.

"Oh, my god," Dorina said and Mitch may have thought that his titillations were close to working her into the frenzied throes of glorious climax. Because he loved her, lavished her, tantalized her all the more enthusiastically. Dorina leaned back; closing her eyes to be caught up in the crashing waves of ecstasy, yet when her apex of ecstasy neared she inexplicably opened them. She saw a close-up of Jacy onscreen, laughing pleasantly while spasms of glory racked her body.

Mitch then rolled over, onto the remote, hitting one of the buttons just hard enough to change the channel. "Oh, no darling, switch it back, please," she said.

Disoriented, he grunted "Huh?" then reached down for the remote. "What was that, 35? He flicked the buttons and an image reappeared on the screen, this time of the small nerdy character in a car chase, driving a dingy white little sedan while Slavic looking types pulled away from him in a souped up Dodge Charger. Dorina must have registered a quizzical look across her features because he asked "What's wrong, hon? Not the right channel?"

"No," she said softly, and she considered telling him what she had just seen but shook her head instead. "I've got an idea, babe. Switch it over to something you want to watch. Sit up." She fluffed up the pillows for him. He did as he was told, shifting around so that he sat up, eying her eagerly, appearing ready for more action.

Dorina reached for a candle atop the dresser and found a box of matches in one of the side dresser drawers. Mitch flicked the remote and the channel jumped over to the Sportscenter, then the news, then a western. He stopped at an entertainment magazine show hosted by a sexy blond wearing glossy lipstick. She was discussing the new movies that were currently in production, and the stars that would be appearing in them.

Dorina lit the candle and then held one of the chocolates to the flame, watching it melt taking care to catch the molten drops on the plate. Mitch shook his head, grinning, realizing what was about to happen. "You never cease to amaze me," he said.

She allowed a few moments for the molten treat to cool before lifting a dollop of it off the plate with her finger. His column, and his helmet received a lavish, languid basting. Afterward, she knelt down, her lips scant inches away while she blew air gently on it, to cool it even further. "Anything good on TV?" she asked, trying extra hard to be lilting and innocent. At first she licked glancingly, the way she might as a child when an ice cream cone had begun to melt and rivulets of it dripped down onto the cake and she would lap them away before they fell further. Then it was an orange creamsicle, the outer orange ice so refreshing on a hot day when she swirled her tongue around it. Finally it became a large lollipop with a chocolate center, as she lapped and sucked, eager to get to the soft, tasty middle, nipping it.

"My god, you're wonderful," Mitch said, in strained spasms as he smoothed her hair against her shoulders. He then leaned his head back, eyes closed, jaw clenched as Dorina's tasty chocolate treat ended with a generous serving of cream.

Moments later they both sat up and watched a sitcom detailing the trials and tribulations of three young men and three young women in Manhattan. "You ought to, you know, call her," Mitch said.

Dorina shrugged, finishing the last of her wine, savoring it as the perfect complement to the other treat she'd had. "We'll see."

About an hour after that, Mitch dressed and had to head home. Dorina, who did not enjoy sleeping in the nude unless she was with her man, put her Bengals jersey back on.

The cat reappeared almost immediately after Dorina saw Mitch to the door. "Hi fluffy," she said, reaching down to pet her. "Are you hungry?" She filled Samantha's food and water bowls and cleaned out the litter box as the last act of the evening.

When she settled down to bed for the night she said, out loud, "Yes, Miss Jacy Rayner, you are surely an enigma." And she fell swiftly asleep.

In the wee hours she had a dream.
Chapter Twelve

Dorina's dream started with a bouncing red ball. Gradually, details began to reveal themselves to her. She was aware of a stiff, starchy dress with ruffles scratching her neck and her knees. Her long hair had been pulled tight and when she reached up she realized that it had been braided into pig tails on both sides. She was bouncing the ball back and forth to a little girl who seemed to be about seven or eight years old. Yet Dorina was on her same level; she was a little girl again.

The other girl laughed in pealing ripples of joy and Dorina realized that they were on a black topped playground and the sounds of other children's laughter filled the air. Dorina studied her, all the while trying to keep the rhythm of their bouncing ball game. Her playmate's hair had been pulled away from her face and secured with bows on both sides of her head. Sausage curls cascaded down, dark, but reflecting coppery highlights in the bright sun as she jumped up and down in giddy glee. Her skin was luminescent and fair of tone and glowed, possibly from the ethereal hue with which the dreaming mind recasts the world.

The dark haired little girl had exquisite eyes, dark brown or hazel but joyous and expressive, with a slight upward slant at the corners. Dorina was trying to remember where she had seen the expressions or the face when a rambunctious red-haired boy with a dusting of freckles ran past. He wore a button down shirt with tweed trousers too large for him and Buster Browns. "Hey, Kraut!" he shouted to Dorina's playmate. Pantomiming the gestures of a soldier holding a machine gun he pumped his arms and looked across at her out of an imaginary gun sight, making rat-a-tat noises with his mouth and tongue. "I've got you Kraut! Bang! Bang! You're dead! No more Heil Hitler!"

Dorina had just caught the red ball but held it and waited for what would happen next. The girl with the sausage curls put her hands on her hips and angrily confronted the boy. She was slightly taller than him and puffed herself up slightly while talking back to him. "Jimmy Wellesley," she said, "how many times do I have to tell you, we are not Krauts!"

"Rayner is a Kraut name," red-haired Jimmy fired back. "My daddy told me."

"We are German, not Krauts," her playmate said defiantly, raising her chin high. "And we have nothing to do with Hitler. Hitler is a very bad man. My mommy told me."

Before Jimmy could respond, the school bell rang. Dorina's playmate, with the last name of Rayner, tugged her lightly on the arm and said "Let's go." The girl picked up the red ball and they ran toward a large green door at the back of a rectangular school building.

Other children ran along with them and noisily they all entered the building. Dorina and the other girl ran for a bright classroom with a blackboard at the front, a huge globe in the corner and neat rows of metal desks with wooden shelf tops. The girl with the sausage curls skipped across the room to a desk near the wall and Dorina instinctively found the desk in the row immediately beside her, sliding into the chair to sit down.

She quickly realized that the wood top lifted to reveal a metal bin underneath that held all her school books and quill pens. When she closed the desk she saw a receptacle at the flat surface on the far corner, just before the hinges holding the slanted board. It held a cylinder filled with a dark fluid. Ink.

The teacher appeared at the front of the room. She was about thirty-five, tall and angular-faced, her hair cut short, just past her ears. When the children had finished clamoring around and took their seats, she started to speak. Dorina heard the woman start to talk about the geography lesson. Unfortunately, Jacy started to speak, also. She said "How about coming over to my house after school?"

The teacher looked fearsome to Dorina, since she was small again. She said "Sh!" to her friend.

Jacy continued. "We'll have so much fun. I want to show you something."

Dorina said "Jacy!"

"What?"

Suddenly a voice boomed from the front of the room. "Miss Rayner!"

Scared, Jacy's eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped open.

"Miss Rayner, would you like to stand and name the mountains along the eastern side of the United States?"

Slowly, sheepishly, Jacy stood up, her lower lip trembling. "The...Himalayas?"

Some of her bolder classmates giggled but most of the others may also have been afraid of the teacher. Jimmy Wellesley, sitting two rows over, hissed "The Appalachians, you dummy. Of course you probably know all about the mountains in Germany!"

"Master Wellesley, that will be enough!" the teacher shouted. Turning toward Jacy and Dorina she said "Young lady, the lord gave us two ears and one mouth. Do you know why?"

Jacy shook her head.

The teacher said "Because we should spend most of our time listening instead of talking. That's how we learn. Do you understand?"

Jacy nodded.

"Good. Now let's learn about the largest city in our country, New York City."

As it so often does in dreams the images faded, dissolving and the next thing Dorina knew, she was walking along a sidewalk. The weather was gray and drizzly. She found herself batting her eyelashes to fend off the sting of the rain droplets. In front of her was the large Tudor house where Jacy must have lived. She skipped along the front walkway to the door and rang the doorbell.

Jacy opened the door a second later, smiling. "What took you so long?" she said. "Come on in!"

When Dorina had stepped all the way inside the foyer, Jacy used both hands to shut the door behind them. She turned and called out "Mom! Kathryn's here! We're going to play." A very pretty woman with auburn hair that had been pulled back in a bun appeared in the hallway. She was wearing an apron and used a dishtowel to wipe off a wooden spoon while she spoke with them.

"That's fine," Jacy's mother said. "Just let me know if you go outside. It won't be long until dinner."

"Okay," she said. She turned to Dorina and said "Let's go into the living room. I want to show you something." Dorina followed her as they both skipped around the corner and reached a table along the wall. A box that looked like a miniature cathedral sat atop the table, with its wooden front carved up with a fancy array of diamond shaped openings, like a stained glass window.

"My daddy doesn't want me to touch the radio at our house," Dorina said. "He's afraid I'll break it."

"My mommy said I could play with it as long as I am careful," Jacy said. "and my daddy comes home later. He makes bridges." She jumped onto the overstuffed chair beside the table and reached across to touch the knobs, since neither of them were tall enough to touch them from the floor. "Before I started going to school," she said "I used to think there was a little man inside the box, talking and playing records."

"That's silly," Dorina said. "There's no little man inside the radio. There's funny looking glass things in there. They look like glass bottles with little bugs trapped inside of them." Jacy twisted one of the small knobs and the dial at the bottom of the machine lit up. Suddenly they heard a burst of loud static, and Jacy twisted the knob to turn the sound down. She then twisted the larger knob in the center. At first they heard more static, then occasional violins or trumpets, and then the deep, foreboding voices of serious men.

She turned the smaller knob again, this time in the opposite direction. The sound faded and weakened till it died out with a click.

"What did you do that for?" Dorina asked.

"Those are the men that make my daddy mad," she said.

"One time something those men said made my mommy cry," Dorina said. "They said that we were going to war."

"That's why my daddy gets mad," Jacy said. "He said the war is bad and he wishes it was over."

"I remember when I was littler and my daddy would get mad because the men on the radio were always saying that there were no jobs and people were starving. I wanted the man to get out of the radio so he wouldn't keep saying things that would make my daddy mad. One day when my daddy was working in the cellar and my mommy was cooking, I sat by the radio. I was waiting for the little man to come out. When he came out, I squashed him with the fly swatter."

"Ew, that's naughty!"

Jacy laughed at her. "But the war will be over some day."

"When?"

"When we're grown up." Jacy paused to think. Her features then metamorphosed into a spontaneous expression of glee. "Hey, I know! We can get our butterfly nets and chase after butterflies!"

They walked out of the living room and when they passed the hall, Jacy called out "We're going outside to chase butterflies!"

"Okay. Just stay out in the back yard." When Jacy pushed the front door open this time, it was bright and sunny out on the front lawn. They both ran on the grass around the house to the back yard. There was a shed at the back, near the trees. The door had been cracked open and Jacy pushed it aside. Rakes and shovels hung on the walls and two butterfly nets lay on a work bench. Jacy picked them up and gave one to Dorina.

"What do we do now?" Dorina asked.

"We sit down and wait for the butterflies to come. And then we catch them."

They walked over to the picnic bench and sat down. For several minutes they looked around, at the clothesline, the trees, and the back porch of the house. Dorina watched her friend, who suddenly sprang to her feet, jumping up and down, her eyes bright and wide. "There he is!" she said. "There's Mr. Butterfly!" She pointed to the telephone pole beside the house and Dorina saw a beautiful orange and black butterfly. "Let's get him!" The two girls chased after the butterfly, brandishing their nets, swishing them through the air. But the butterfly kept floating just out of the reach of them.

Someone then called out to them from the porch. A deep, male voice. "Girls! Girls!"

Dorina turned to the porch, along with Jacy, and they saw a large, smiling man in a suit, who had loosened his tie so that it hung loosely around his neck. "Daddy!" Jacy called out to him. She dropped the butterfly net and ran the length of the yard, hopping up onto the porch, hugging him around his legs, causing him to laugh and teeter back and forth as he patted the back of her head.

"You girls trying to catch butterflies, huh?" Jacy's father said.

"Yeah," they both said, in unison.

"What would you do with the butterfly if you caught him?" he asked.

Jacy and Dorina looked at each other. Jacy said "I guess we would catch him so we can see what he looks like up close."

"So, you want the butterfly to become your friend?"

Dorina and Jacy looked at each other. They giggled. Jacy said "Yes. I think."

"Well do you think someone would want to be your friend if you dropped a big net over him?" her father continued.

"Gosh no, daddy."

He nodded. "Then if you want the butterfly to become your friend, you have to become his friend. Here, I'll show you. Let's go to the picnic table." They walked to the picnic table and Jacy's father sat in the middle of the bench, with Dorina and Jacy on either side of him.

"Now," he said, when they were all still, "Think friendly thoughts. Think of how you want to be the butterfly's friend."

Moments later, the monarch returned, fluttering around the clothesline. Jacy looked as though she wanted to shout out but her father held her back, motioning for her to shush. The butterfly flew higher, then across the sun and it hurt Dorina's eyes to look up at him. He then descended and flew around in a circle in front of them. It became so quiet Dorina thought she could hear the flapping of the butterfly's wings.

"Now tell the butterfly you want to be his friend," he said. "Tell him without saying it."

The butterfly flew close to the ground and landed, clinging onto a weed. Jacy's father held out his arm, lifting his hand, palm down. He whispered "See how I'm holding my hand, honey? Hold your hand just like that and and gently crawl to where the butterfly is.

Then hold your hand like that so he can jump off the weed and onto your hand."

Jacy did as she was told, holding her hand very still. She crept down and crawled toward the butterfly. Dorina followed her. Ten feet away. Five feet away. Then they were on their knees, beside the butterfly. Jacy held out her small hand, beside the weed.

The butterfly alighted onto it.

They looked at each other, silently rejoicing eyes wide open, smiling wide. Suddenly a loud, thundering noise like a buzz saw boomed in their ears. The butterfly flew away. Dorina covered her ears with her hands because the noise was so loud it hurt them.

And she woke up. The alarm clock across the room read "6:00 A.M." She had placed it there to force herself to get up out of bed to turn it off. That morning she felt an unusual chill as she staggered across to turn off the alarm. She thought, holy shit, what have I gotten myself involved with here?
Chapter Thirteen

Dorina told herself, while she showered and later put on makeup, that she could make it through that Friday. She would while away the day on ad schmoozing and layout.

When she was in college, she had learned about lucid dreaming in an elective course she'd taken entitled "Practical Psychology." It was the art of being aware of your dream, aware that you are dreaming, in the middle of a dream. As an active participant in the dreaming world, it was much easier to enjoy the beautiful vistas or remember the unusual symbols and decode the nocturnal language.

The author of the text they'd studied seemed to think that it had myriad uses. Events you are anticipating with dread, he said, such as a confrontation with a spouse or other loved one, a difficult problem at work or serious health issues can play out in the dreaming world in a wide variety of scenarios. A desire to fly, for example, might signal that the impetus was needed to make large changes in one's career path or social life. A dead-end job or a non-enthusiastic, non-stimulating romantic partner could mire a person down in mediocrity. The ability to break free of gravity during a dream by flying played out the desire to rise above this mediocrity.

The whole key to learning how to lucid dream was to become adept at telling the difference between the waking world and a dream. If a dog on a leash floats above the ground behind its owner instead of walking on it, then that was one cue. Keeping a sleep journal was another method. When, upon awakening, you write down the content of your dream that you remember, before long patterns will arise and the conscious mind will recognize these patterns, even while dreaming.

There were also gadgets that could help someone recognize the dreaming world. One of them was a contraption that at first glance looked like an old-fashioned sleep mask. A tiny pattern of lights was imbedded in the fabric, however and it would intermittently fire at several times during the night. If someone was sleeping and in the middle of a dream and they saw the lights blink on and off, this was another cue they were involved in a dream. They would then gain lucidity and become an active participant in the dream world.

Dorina looked closely at her reflection in the mirror. Last night's bizarre dream had occurred during end stage sleep, just before her alarm went off. The instructor had told his class that the most vivid dreams often occurred during this time. She had somehow traveled back in time two-fold. First, she became an eight year old girl again and there was no question she was in a smaller body. She had to reach up to open the doorknob of Jacy's house, and all adults towered over her.

Secondly, she had apparently traveled back in time to the 1940's because of the discussion about the Second World War and the radio as a focal point of the living room. Finally, there was no question that the other little girl was a young Jacy Rayner. What did it all mean?As she looked at her hair, tousled from the night's sleep and the faint puffiness of her eyes, it was amazing that she could re-inhabit her adult body in an instant. Of course, that's how dreams were. What could cause her to have a dream about being Jacy Rayner's childhood playmate, though? While she had been in the house, she hadn't seen any old photos on the wall of what Jacy looked like as a child, and she doubted that her imagination was strong enough to conjure up a likeness so profound. Yet all her life teachers, her mother, and even a youth minister had told her that she had a keen, beautiful mind and that she ought to use it.

Suddenly she realized that she had been entranced, standing in front of the bathroom mirror holding a toner-saturated cotton ball. She shook her head, as if reset her for living in the waking world and went into the kitchen. There was a Goofy glass in the refrigerator that once held grape jelly but now was empty and served as a glass holder for two spoons. She took the spoons out of the glass and held them by the stems, placing the curved metal of the business end against each eye, covering them. It was a trick she'd learned in a beauty book. The cold metal placed against her eyelid would not only help her wake up but it would also soothe her eye puffiness. She would hold the spoons against her eyes for a count of fifteen seconds.

While her eyes were closed, she had a revelation. Why not write about the dream in her article? The whole point of her interviewing Jacy about the urban myth was to find out her reactions and ideas about it. Dorina's vivid dream was proof that Jacy Rayner was capable of injecting herself into people's dreams. She had probably helped the children escape from the coma by injecting herself into their dreams, using a television signal as a method of transference.

No, she thought. It was too bizarre.

As she got dressed, though, she thought "What do I have to lose?" If she didn't make her move sooner or later, then maybe she would be interviewing the last surviving Ewok or schmoozing ad copy when she was fifty. For the rest of that morning, she outlined and wrote the article while she ate her eggs and salsa and watched the AM news vacantly while ironing a blouse. Samantha the cat rubbed against her leg and after she set the pressed blouse aside and but the ironing board away, she picked her up. She liked to talk to her cat as if she were a trusted confidante. "Do you think that article idea is weird?" she asked, while Samantha shifted around in her arms, a look in her eyes like she preferred to be somewhere else. Dorina set her down.

The weather girl on television had said that it would rain all day so when Dorina finished dressing in her slacks and blazer she reached for the umbrella on the way out. Once she was outside she immediately noticed that it was cool, gray and dreary. The trees were spotted with water and the parking lot was wet, yet it was only misting. California types certainly had a wacky idea of rain. At home in Indiana during the spring days of intermittent driving rain could stretch out for the better part of a month.

The traffic was nowhere near as bad, either. Slick roads and dreary weather often slowed it to a crawl. Oh well, it gave her some more time to gather her thoughts for her coming meeting with Vic. While she sat in traffic, inching forward, getting a good workout for her calves with all the clutch and pedal work, Mickey Mouse called out "Oh boy! A phone call!" and she fished around in her purse for the phone.

She answered, and a familiar, dreamy voice said "Hi, this is Travis Love from In Touch America and I'm doing a survey about sexual fantasies..."

"Hey."

"Hey back."

"Don't get on the 101. It's a parking lot."

"I'm already here at work. But thanks for the warning. So are you going to call Jacy again?"

"No, I don't think so." The traffic seemed to pick up and she was distracted. Since she'd heard about so many terrible wrecks caused by people on cell phones, she overcompensated by heightening her awareness.

"Are are you going to tell Vic?"

"Something else. I've got another idea and something kind of weird happened after you left. Actually, while I was sleeping. Call me later. We'll talk about it then and I won't have to worry about plowing into anybody."

"Okay. But thanks for the wonderful evening."

Dorina smiled. "Anytime."

Not long after that, the traffic cleared and she made it to work a few minutes later, still early as usual. Vic's door was closed when she arrived; she knew that he would often stop for a big breakfast before rolling in. She used the time to check her email accounts and say hello to a couple of her friends who passed by. While computer images and screens pulled up and blipped off she pulled a legal pad out of the desk. A listing of upcoming ad clients appeared on the layout roster and while looking it over she scribbled a few incomplete sentences of an outline.

After an hour she had a page full of material. It looked too disjointed, too stiff. She ripped the leaf of paper from the pad, wadded it up into a little ball and tossed it into the trash can. There was a stirring in some of the other cubicles in the office and she heard someone call out "Hey big guy!" When she lifted up to peer above the cubicle, she saw Vic strutting down the aisle, greeting everyone as he walked by. He held a raincoat over his arm. As he neared her, she put her head down, pretending to study the financial news on one of her internet accounts and yet another biological miracle that was creating a boom time for pharmaceuticals.

She appeared in Vic's office a few moments later, surprising him. He cordially invited her to sit down and when she was settled he leaned back in his chair, steepled his hands atop his ample belly and said "So what can I do for you today?"

She inhaled, taking a moment to collect her thoughts, and then started: "I have a great idea for an article."

He shrugged. "I'm all ears. Go ahead." He leaned back in his chair and gave her his full attention.

Dorina told Vic the whole story, starting with the part about how she'd discovered the urban myth concerning Jacy Rayner. She decided to leave out the part about getting healed of her migraines, at least for now. Instead, she discussed how she'd gone to Jacy's house to interview her, describing her house and her garden. Then she told him about Jacy's comment about being glad that all the children in the comas got well again. She mentioned how her interviewee had to leave suddenly and spent the next several minutes describing the dream in vivid detail as well as her theory behind what had caused it and how it was connected to the urban myth.

Once she had finished, Vic exhaled, drummed his fingertips on his chest and glanced at the ceiling. "So?" he said. "That's all she told you, that she was glad that the children recovered?"

"That's all she had time to say."

"Well what kind of a business is she in, where she had to dash off and leave you hanging like that?"

"Property management or something like that."

"What kind of a problem would cause her to drop everything and leave an interview in progress?"

"I...I don't know."

"You don't know. Did it occur to you to follow along after her and resume the interview after she took care of the little problem?"

Dorina wondered if she was showing in her face how preposterous that idea sounded. "Well, no." She was about to add that she didn't feel it was her duty to chase a story down but then she knew she was going to get the standard lecture about the sacrifices great journalists make.

Vic should his head. "Dorina, Dorina, Dorina," he said, sounded like an exasperated father. "You come in here and tell me that you don't want to do sales for the rest of your life and that you want to write and you've committed the cardinal sin of journalism. You've failed to make me care."

That hurt. "Well, I thought it was a good idea. Weren't you listening to anything I said?"

Vic reached for a Ho-ho, shrugging. "Sure. I'm not a completely heartless bastard."

"Well I'll tell you something else. The woman spoke to me in a dream. I think it's connected to the way those children recovered. It could make for a very interesting and insightful piece."

"Maybe," he said, showing the wry grin that crinkled up one side of his face. "If you're doing blotter."

"Blotter?"

Vic slapped his head in mock forgetfulness. "Oh, I forgot. You young'uns today don't know about that stuff. You know. Acid. L.S.D. Timothy Leary. Mushrooms. Carlos Castaneda. Tune in, turn on..."

"Are you saying my idea is frivolous?"

"I'm saying our readers aren't ready for that kind of crap. It's a little too out there."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Vic's face reddened, which was never a good sign. Dorina wished she could hit the "rewind" or "reset" buttons of reality. "I don't know, honey. Send it to 'High Times' or something. You're asking me? You're the one that did the interview."

"But you just told me my idea was bullshit. How about some advice for another angle, then."

"Okay. How about this? Find out about who she slept with from the Journey Galaxian cast. Or take a good look at her and check for facelift scars. Find out who she goes to. That's all people want to know from Jacy Rayner. Trust me."

He opened his desk draw to fumble around for another Twinkie or a ho-ho, a sure sign that their talk was finished.

Dorina said "Okay," and left his office, wondering if she was ever going to walk out of there with any other emotion besides anger. She dejectedly walked the fifty feet back to her cubicle and plopped down at her terminal. Was that assistant managing editor post still open in Cincinnati? She was about to discretely reopen the careers website when Wendy, one of the department secretaries appeared at the entrance of her cubicle.

Wendy held out her hand which contained a post-it note stuck to the end of one fingertip. Her dishwater blond hair and her preference for horizontal striped sweaters and flat shoes made her look like a "Peanuts" character that had leaped off the comic strip into real life. She said that "a gentleman" had called for her while she was in her meeting. Dorina accepted the note from her and saw Mitch's name and phone number on it.

She called him. When he answered she asked "Hello sir, my name is Sonya Hartenteit and I'm from the Good Strokes opinion panel. We're conducting a short survey. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your last orgasm?"

"Fifteen. Good one! So, what's this huge, earth shattering idea you had for your article?"

Dorina sighed. "It doesn't matter. Mr. Twinkie man torpedoed it. Thought I was on drugs for coming up with it."

"He's the one who should be on drugs."

"Anyway, I decided to give up on the whole thing. I got my migraine healed, that's good enough."

"Uh, huh. Well you may think differently about that after what I've got to tell you."

"What?"

From the other end of the line, Mitch cleared his throat. It was a sign he was going to talk about something that he thought was important. "I talked with some buddies in the office about your interview with Ms. Rayner and about that urban myth. It goes way further up the food chain than your Twinkie man probably even knows."

"Okay. Go on."

"Well, do you know who H.R. Lewandowski is?"

"Vaguely. I think I've heard the name somewhere."

"Well you know all about the _Portals Beyond_ movies, right?"

"Well yeah, doesn't everybody? When I went to the archives to learn about Jacy Rayner's career there were armies of people milling about, getting ready to make another one, 'Portals 15' or whatever the hell it is."

"Ok. Well get this. H.R. Lewandowski was one of the kids who was in a coma, who was supposedly awakened from it when they played the Galaxian TV show in his room."

Dorina paused to think. "Wait a minute! Yeah! There was an article I found from 1968 or something that said some boy named Ronald in Oklahoma was awakened."

"Yes. H Ronald Lewandowski. He's the whole mastermind behind the Portals Beyond series."

She leaned back from her computer to let that sink in. "No!" she said.

"It gets better. It turns out that for years... hell, decades the original producers of Galaxian have accused Portals Beyond of stealing ideas, being an unauthorized spinoff. They have some of the same characters in both, you know."

Dorina did some quick arithmetic. The last episode of Galaxian had aired well over thirty years ago. Portals movies had been around since the late eighties. "Kind of taking their time in doing something about it, aren't they?"

"No one's ever had proof of it," Mitch said. "All they really have to go by is the urban myth. Whenever they try to get Lewandowski's people to court their lawyers point out that the characters have different names, that the circumstances are different, that it's only coincidence that there are some similarities between the shows, that you can't patent an idea, blah, blah, blah."

Dorina suddenly had a thought. "Mitch, do you mind if I ask you where you're going with this?"

At the other end of the line, he cleared his throat. Oh, look out, Dorina thought. He said "I've got this buddy from the office who wants to meet you and discuss his ideas. The three of us could have lunch."

Dorina paused. If the lawyer was going to take her on a course that would involve attempting to sue Lewandowski and his production company, she wasn't sure she wanted to go along. "I don't know," Dorina told him.

"He's buying. Best Thai place in town. He's got some good ideas, I tell you."

"Okay."

She spent the rest of that morning writing her puff piece about Jacy Rayner, just in case she ever wanted to submit it somewhere. She concentrated mostly on the serene, almost ethereal beauty of the woman's garden. While she was writing, the phone rang twice with calls from ad clients promising to send money. A couple of her other co-workers showed up at her cubicle to have her check or sign off on things. Through it all she kept on having to downsize and upsize windows, while still pressing to finish the article by lunchtime.

She felt like a man she'd seen on an old-fashioned variety show she'd seen as a little girl: he would keep three spinning plates perfectly balanced atop three long stem like sticks. Yet by the time one o'clock rolled around she had completely finished the article, saved it, and printed herself a copy. She wondered new challenges were coming courtesy of Mitch's lawyer buddy.

Dorina arrived slightly late to the Gold Garden Restaurant off Wiltshire. When she

entered she saw curiously emerald-tinged subdued lighting and the hugest aquarium she'd ever seen, easily ten feet. Lacy, frilly angel fish the size of Frisbees floated in there among wavering sea ferns, their mouths gaping open. To arrive in the dining room area she had to cross over an artificial brook on a tiny wooden bridge. The tiny, polite hostess in an authentic, crisp satin kimono allowed her to swish through a doorway curtained with stringed beads and search the romantically lit dining room for Mitch and his friend.

She saw him sitting at a booth along the wall with his friend, a smaller guy with a strong jaw and hooded eyes. They both wore dark suits and her first thought upon seeing them was that they looked like mobsters. When Dorina walked toward them, they both rose.

"Hi hon," Mitch said, kissing her briefly, touching her shoulder. "This is Wayne Riddick from the firm." She shook his hand politely and was pleasantly surprised that he took her hand in both of his; usually only men bred on other shores did that. She also noticed that Wayne was somewhat older than they were, possibly thirty-five. Mitch indicated the chair for her while he and Wayne would take their seats on either side of the booth. When they were all sitting, Mitch signaled the waitress. The men ordered scotch and sodas while Dorina thought it was best to go with a virgin daiquiri.

When the drinks arrived, Wayne started talking and Mitch sat back and listened. At first it was safe topics such as where she was from and where she went to school. While Wayne spoke Dorina thought she detected a Great Lakes accent and then he revealed that he'd gone to Northwestern. From there, Wayne started to ask about what type of job she had at Spectrum and where she hoped to go with her career. She had felt like she was in a job interview but then realized that she was being cross-examined. Wayne was showing all the body language of a driven litigator, leaning in to her, hanging on her every word, narrowing his eyes in his appraisal of her. Next, he forged ahead to the stickier territory.

"So, you've spoken with Jacy Rayner about the urban myth, right?" he asked.

Dorina knew that it was a trait of lawyers that they generally didn't ask a question that they already knew the answer to. Mitch had probably already told him everything about the aborted interview. "Yes, I did," she said, surveying the room for their waitress, wondering when she was going to bring the menus for a much needed break.

Wayne shrugged, lifting his palm. "What did she say?"

"That she was glad the children recovered from their comas. We didn't really discuss it much because she had an emergency at one of her properties."

Wayne and Mitch glanced at each other. Mitch said "Wayne and I were talking this over a little bit in the car and he told me some surprising insights into the whole thing."

The waitress brought the menus to the table and silently set them down before each of them, the conversation continuing as if nothing had happened. Wayne said "It's possible that the urban myth could have been started by Jacy Rayner."

Dorina had already settled on a vegetable delight with soup and set the menu down. "That seems kind of unlikely," she said.

Wayne smiled slightly, not an altogether unpleasant smile but one that hinted of a mind feverishly at work. "How so?" he asked.

Dorina straightened, consciously thinking it would give her credibility and then she paused, wondering why she needed credibility when she was in the company of friends. "It can't have been for self-promotion because her career tapered off drastically after that. And based on my first impression in meeting her, I don't think she's the type of person who would perpetuate a hoax." After thinking it over for a moment, she added "Of course, that was a long time ago."

Wayne had glanced at the menu also, and quickly put it aside, apparently making a snap decision on what to order. He shook his shoulders, adjusted his jacket sleeves and said "Well, when you interviewed her, you must have done some research into the Galaxian show, correct?"

"Yes, I looked at the archives and I've seen the reruns before. I read a little bit about the behind-the-scenes stuff, if that's what you mean."

"Well there's one person who was involved with that show, more than any other, who's pushing the case against _Portals Beyond_. Tell me who you think it is."

The waitress returned and took their orders, with Mitch as the spokesperson. After the brief interruption, Dorina shrugged and looked at Wayne, with his perfectly groomed black hair. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe Rohrig. Wasn't he the creator and the director? I would think he'd be the most interested."

"Nope," Wayne said, shaking his head. "Rohrig died in 1980, right after the movie came out. Try again."

Dorina thought of Warberg, the commander and leader, having seen his overblown performances in a couple of the episodes. She told Wayne.

"Nope," Wayne said. "Warberg has been in and out of rehab so many times they have a permanent suite for him there. He doesn't have the energy."

The only other major character she could think of was the noble alien. "It's not that guy with the knobs on his head, is it? Korg?"

Wayne nodded, smiling. "Yup. Neil Neiman."

Dorina stared ahead for a moment. On the show, the Korg character was always the voice of reason when violence broke out or the ship veered disastrously off course. "It wasn't a very flattering role for him," she said. "You'd think he'd want to put it behind him."

Right then Wayne and Mitch grinned at each other conspiratorially. Like schoolboys at recess. The waitress brought out their orders of soup and Mitch leaned forward to explain.

"Wayne here has got an interesting little tidbit for you."

Wayne said "You are aware that Jacy Rayner and Neil Neiman were involved, right?" He paused for dramatic effect and added "Romantically."

Dorina nodded. "Yes I think I remember reading something like that. Tabloids." She also remembered what Neil Neiman looked like without the alien makeup: tall, blonde, chiseled good looks. "She could have done a lot worse. So?"

Wayne smirked, as the steam rose up from the bowl of soup in front of him, giving him a sinister air. "Did you know that Neil and Jacy had a child together?"

Dorina instantly remembered the stunning but hospitality-challenged Josette, vividly picturing her form languidly leaning against the opened front door. She had estimated her age to be somewhere in her early thirties. "Oh god," she said.

Mitch was busy with his soup and a teriyaki beef stick. Wayne arched his eyebrow, nodding, calmly fingering a spoon.

"Well they didn't marry, right?" Dorina said, instantly remembering that traditional marriage meant nothing in Hollywood anyway.

Wayne shook his head, sipping at a spoonful of the soup.

Dorina was letting her food get cold. "Well it still doesn't explain the urban myth," she said. "Why would she spread a story like that?"

Wayne and Mitch looked at each other, chuckled, and at the same time said "Woman scorned."

"That's ridiculous," Dorina said. "Think about what you're saying. She gets pregnant by one of her co-stars and he apparently isn't supportive. So to get back at him she gets someone to plagiarize from their show and they get a megahit, inventing an urban myth to make it seem legitimate."

Stabbing at a piece of pepper-fried steak Mitch said "Stranger things have happened."

"Come on! The other problem with that is that _Portals Beyond_ wasn't even thought of until the late eighties. You're saying that someone sat on the idea for twenty years?"

Wayne shrugged. "Maybe they thought everyone would forget."

Dorina finally allowed herself to enjoy some marinated vegetables. "You're reaching," she said.

"Well, it is something to think about it," Mitch put in. "But hey, we've got some of the best oriental food in the city in front of us. And it's a dish best enjoyed hot." All three of them concentrated on their meal for awhile after that. Dorina was pleased that her vegetables were so crisp and fresh and nicely blanched.

When they'd all finished and the waitress collected their plates, they sat back, relaxing over cups of tea and fortune cookies. Wayne delicately re-introduced the previous conversation by saying "Dorina, it's a win-win situation. Our firm can help Neiman and his company right the wrong of their ideas being plagiarized. You can get way ahead with Spectrum by being the one to break the story. From there, who knows."

Dorina looked at Mitch, who was uncharacteristically letting someone else do all the talking. He was passively nodding in agreement.

"Now I don't know too much about law," Dorina said. "But I know that you can't patent an idea. Isn't that what this is all about?"

Mitch, the science-fiction aficionado spoke up. "Some of the same characters exist in both series. The plot lines from the first two Portal movies are almost a direct rip-off of Galaxian. I'll bring over the DVDs sometime and show you."

"Well, you're not just contriving an excuse to sue someone with deep pockets, right?"

Mitch and Wayne looked at each other and shook their heads, smirking with exasperation. Dorina got the feeling that they'd both gotten comments like that leveled at them quite often. And she knew all the jokes, like: "What's the difference between a sperm and a lawyer? A sperm has a one in 10,000 chance of becoming a human being." Wayne said "I forgot to tell you that Dorina's dad is vice president at a big casualty insurance company. She's always telling me how she grew up listening to her father talk at the dinner table about how he'd been fighting with lawyers all day."

Wayne nodded. "Yes in the eyes of the public we're seen as scoundrels. Ambulance chasers. Blood suckers," he said. "But believe me, this benefits everyone."

Dorina asked "How?"

Wayne inhaled, widening his eyes, before spouting out with what to Dorina sounded like a canned reply: "Well, once it comes out that the Portal movies are based on Galaxia, then each of the series would gain new fans. Do you know how avid some of the fans of that old show are? They have conventions all over the country and these people go all out: costumes, autograph signing sessions, memorabilia, it's a huge industry. And it would be publicity for Portals. You know what they say"

Dorina finished the thought for him "Yeah, yeah, I know. There's no such thing as bad publicity."

Wayne chuckled, smiling. "But, like I said, it's something to think about."

"What's something to think about?" she asked. "What's my part in all this?"

Wayne said "The first thing to do is call Jacy Rayner. See if she knows H.R. Lewandowski and take it from there."

Her stomach frosted over. "Gee, I don't know if I should bother her."

Mitch said "She'll probably be receptive. She's the one who cut the meeting short, right?"

"True," Dorina said.

Mitch and Wayne, she was surprised to see were leaning forward, eyes wide open, apparently hanging on her every word. "So are you going to call her?" Mitch asked.

"I guess so."
Chapter Fourteen

Later that afternoon Dorina sat in her desk, vacantly staring at her keyboard. The activity around her resembled a beehive but Fridays were always like that. She wanted to call Jacy Rayner, but not necessarily for the reason Mitch and Wayne wanted her to. Without making a complete fool out of herself, she wanted to discuss last night's dream with her. And she had to admit that what her boyfriend and his business associate had to pitch to her had possibilities.

In the end it came down to two simple choices. She could elect not make the call to Jacy and continue on doing the same thing she did, week after week: crunch numbers and do ad contracts. Now, if she made the call to Jacy, well...who knew? Just before three o'clock she checked her email for the tenth time that day finding nothing but the latest blurb for donations and a memo about office supplies. When the clock on the lower right side of her monitor flipped to 3:00pm, she felt little creepers run up and down her arms. It was the ringing of the bell for the end of school and the beginning of her life as an adult. Anxious, heart beating faster, she positioned the ear pad more securely and poised her fingers over the numerical keypad.

She hit F6 for the dial tone and input the number then flicked enter. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings. She considered hitting F4 to disconnect but then someone picked up with the same rustlings and clunks as earlier that week. "Hello?" a voice at the other end answered. She could tell, just from that one word that the voice was crisper, higher pitched, and more nasal than Jacy's.

Dorina straightened in her chair. "Hello. This is Dorina Pettit. Am I speaking with Josette?"

A short silence. A small sigh. And then "Yes."

"Is your mother home?"

"What's your business?"

Dorina inhaled and counted to three. "I wanted to get her approval on some items of the piece I'm working on. Could I speak with her, please?"

She thought she heard a soft groan at the other end of the line in response. "I'll see if she'll take your call." Along with the clunk there was also a clattering and rustling which told Dorina that Josette may have picked up the French phone in the study. During the wait she listened closely. There were footsteps, gradually diminishing, then the sound of a door creaking open. She heard Josette call out to someone but couldn't make out the individual words. Then two voices. Like the volume switch of a stereo receiver had been turned up, she heard Jacy's inimitable throaty, sophisticated alto along with Josette saying something about getting ready to leave.

Jacy's voice came over the line "Hello?" and she managed to stretch the two syllable word into three melodically lilting syllables.

"Hello Jacy Rayner, this is Dorina Pettit."

"Oh, good! I'm so glad you called! I was trying to reach you earlier, but you know you did not leave a business card and _Spectrum_ is not listed in the telephone book."

She was right. It was listed under the parent corporation, most likely as an attempt to keep crackpots from burning up the lines after every issue. "Good. That's nice to hear," Dorina said, realizing that she'd have a lot of explaining to do had Jacy been able to get through somehow. "Anyway, I have a few questions for you if I could just have a few moments of your time."

"Certainly! Tell me, Dorina, have you ever studied ballet? Or taken any ballet classes?"

Dorina thought back to the plastic smell of brand new nylon and hand chalk, the roots of her hair burning from being twisted up into a severe bun and the first few strains of the violin during the Nutcracker suite. "Sure," she said. "When I was eight years old."

"Well I've got an idea. Josette and I are attending a class tomorrow afternoon at Madame Grigoriev's. Would you like to come join us?"

Grigoriev, Dorina thought. She was probably one of the principals in the Bolshoi ballet. Gad, the Russians were into everything! "Sure. That sounds like fun."

"Good! You own a leotard, don't you? Well I'm sure that even if you don't you can obtain one quite easily."

"As long as you don't mind me being a klutzy beginner."

"Oh, you'll do fine. You already move like a dancer. And I noticed that you've got lovely insteps and a graceful neck line." Jacy gave exhaustively detailed directions on how to get to the ballet studio. It was in an older, rehabbed part of town and she explained that the building was a converted warehouse and one of her family's real estate holdings.

"Thanks for inviting me," Dorina said.

"No problem a 'tall my dear. We'll have you en Pointe by the end of the session."

Dorina shook her head. "Excuse me?"

"Just kidding. Till tomorrow!"

She disconnected and then spun her chair away from the monitor to ponder what she was getting herself into. At that same moment Vic passed the entrance to her cubicle. When he saw her he stopped and looked down at her quizzically out of his beady eyes. He said "What are you looking so puked out about?"

Dorina told him. "I assure you I'm anything but puked out at this point."

Vic raised his eyebrows and walked away, shaking his head.

A couple of short hours later she was free to start her weekend. She would have Friday night completely free as Mitch had already told her he would be spending time with his buddies. Her best friend Tracy would be going to Anaheim to watch an Angel's game with her boyfriend. Dorina began her weekend by grocery shopping for a few staples and a frozen dinner. On the way home she stopped at the video store.

The _Portals Beyond_ movies took up an entire rack in the science fiction section of the store. The "Television Memorabilia" section contained most of the old Galaxian episodes including those featuring Empress Tigra. Dorina was about to rent two of the movies and one of the Galaxian episodes but then stopped short. She decided that she would serve herself better by limbering up and making sure she had something suitable to wear the next day.

It turned out that she still owned a pair of ballet slippers that fit. Her first thought after that was to go with a crop top and bike shorts. She knew that Jacy would probably think the bike shorts were too constricting for lateral leg lifts so she dug more deeply into her wardrobe. Then she found the jazzercise electric blue color block leotard and a pair of footless suntan shimmer tights that might have been part of her high school wardrobe. They would be perfect for ballet.

For the rest of that night Dorina worked out wearing her improvised ballet outfit. First she put the yoga tape on. By the time she'd gotten to the cat poses, she decided that yoga was too staid and serene for her mood that night. She took that tape out and put in the INXS "Live Baby Live" recording someone had once given her. While the late Michael Hutchence strutted, pouted and dramatically sung to her soul the band behind him played their special brand of "sway-along" rock and roll. Dorina just moved her body in the directions the music took her to, losing her in the moment. By the time the tape ended she lay down on the couch, spent, mindlessly watching an old Molly Ringwald movie.

Before she nodded off completely, she wiped her face free of makeup and hand washed the leotard and tights in the sink. As she hung them up to dry on the tall lamppost, she wondered again what she was getting herself into. More importantly, when she decided to turn in early, she wondered what type of a dream she would have while she slept.

It had been a trying week and Dorina slept through the night, the way she had as a little girl. She did not remember any dreams but as she learned from her psychology class that did not mean that she did not have any.

Samantha had been sleeping on the pillow beside her when she woke. This was another sign that she had slept unusually soundly. When Dorina would ordinarily toss and turn, the cat would get discouraged and walk off to find her own bed. Bright rays of sunlight sliced into her room from the east. That Saturday morning had been more beautiful than any she had remembered in awhile. It seemed to hearken a new beginning for her and she leaped out of bed to begin the day.

Jacy said that the dance class began at two o'clock p.m. and it was only seven-thirty. She would have to wait until much later in the morning to call Mitch. His Friday nights out with his buddies usually involved a lot of drinking. It was best to let him keep that part of his life separate. That week he hadn't specifically said that they would go anywhere Saturday night and Dorina wondered if she should let the answering machine pick up all day to let him sweat a little. She had seen an unfamiliar side of him during the lunch with Wayne, the drab, driven, money-grubbing side. While she had met him at the office for lunch dates before and had met all of his co-workers, she had never seen him in action. The Thai lunch was the closest she'd come to seeing him perform his job.

By the end of her breakfast of cocoa crispies and an orange, she had decided to do something else that Saturday night, without Mitch. She wondered what Tracy was doing. It would be nice to hear her viewpoint about the whole matter involving the mysterious Jacy Rayner. By nine o'clock she decided that it was time Tracy should be up if she wasn't up already. When she called her friend's number, the answering machine picked up. Dorina sighed. Tracy had probably spent the night with her new boyfriend.

Dorina decided to perform mindless chores and let Saturday night take care of itself. If that meant she was just going to stay in and watch chick flicks on DVD or play computer games, so be it. She cleaned her bathroom from the top of the mirror to the floor using the vinegar solution she'd learned about on the Sierra Club website. Then there was lots of dusting. Just one cat pawing the litter could make clouds of the stuff, dropping sediment on her bookshelves and dresser tops.

With the excess energy she vacuumed the living room, hallways and bedroom, wiping down the TV and computer screens. Finally, it was on to the kitchen, where she used baking soda and an old toothbrush on the tile grout of the countertop. After the floor was swept and washed she decided that she may as well tackle the one job she had avoided for weeks. She completely cleaned out the inside of the refrigerator. At about twelve noon she was ready for a cheese sandwich and leftover salad.

There was still time for a short nap before her ballet class. When she lay down on the couch, Samantha curled up beside her. Dorina asked her cat "What am I getting myself into here?' and Samantha just blinked at her before they both took a cat nap together.

An hour later she decided she was ready to set out for the converted warehouse and her ballet class. Checking her hair and makeup one last time, she put on her sweat pants and left the apartment dropping a butterfly hair clip into her purse on the way out. When she left the parking lot she once again marveled over how the hustle and bustle intensified on Saturdays rather than dying down. Families going shopping. People scrambling around to take care of personal business they'd neglected during the week.

She thanked her angels that traffic moved well, if in thick swarming patterns. Dorina sped by all the cars in the electric lanes. The dance studio was a twenties era building that had been sandblasted and re-molded nicely, along with receiving some fresh new landscaping. When she arrived there, it was one forty-five. She didn't want to risk walking into the door before Jacy and Josette so she stopped at a yogurt store for a tropical cooler. When she sat down at a flimsy table in there to sip it, she lavished it, letting the nutrients in, imagining they were infusing all her cells with energy.

By the time she left the yogurt parlor it was a minute after two. It would take awhile for her to park the car, walk to the door and find the studio. By then, she decided, she would arrive safely behind the woman who'd invited her to the class. They'd added a prismed atrium to the outside of the building and potted, lush tropical plants awaited her when she pushed through the doorway. She entered a wide corridor with brand new carpeting and painted murals on the walls of feet en Pointe in toe shoes. A young woman with flat hair, wearing glasses sat at a desk with a small lamp. She noticed Dorina glancing around at her surroundings and said "Can I help you, miss?"

Dorina walked toward her. "I'm supposed to go to a dance session," she said. "I guess there are several different studios in here?" She could hear piano music down one hallway and what sounded like a rousing orchestra reverberating from upstairs.

"Do you know which teacher is holding the session?" the receptionist asked softly.

"Madame Grigoriev, I believe."

At the mention of the name, the woman nodded knowingly. "You'll find a door down at the end of this wall, on the right. When you open it you'll find stairs leading up to Studio D, where that session is taking place."

Dorina followed the wall with its layers of textured paint. She could hardly believe that the building she'd entered may have once housed pallets full of machine parts or kegs of beer, grunting men on forklift trucks moving them about in the dust and grime, the smell of propane in the air. The door at the end of the wall did lead into a metal stairway painted bright orange. She expected to hear music playing, growing in volume as she climbed further and further toward the top. The rousing orchestra music must have come from one of the adjoining studios.

When she'd almost reached the landing, she could hear women's voices talking inside. The door had a glass pane imbedded with old-fashioned wire netting but before she even opened it she could see that sunlight from high windows flooded the studio, giving it a cheery feeling. She could see Jacy standing against a barre bar on one wall, speaking with another woman in her sixties with her salt and pepper hair swept up into a tight bun. Dorina decided that it must have been Madame Grigoriev.

Jacy had been facing the door and apparently keeping one eye on it. She had pulled back her hair into a pony tail, securing it with a colorful scrunchy. Her willowy frame and still spectacular torso had been dressed in a classic black leotard, high cut at the thigh to accentuate her long, sculpted legs, encased in matte pink. By the time Dorina twisted the doorknob, Jacy's features brightened and she called out to her.

Dorina entered the room and Jacy called out "There you are! You made it!" She walked gracefully along the gleaming hardwood floor to greet her. When she reached her, she gave her arm a quick squeeze, and then surveyed the room. "Before we get started, I want to introduce you to everyone. Josette you already know." She pointed to the far corner where her daughter, who was fumbling around in an equipment bag, smiled meekly at her.

Josette was wearing a stylish teal and gray crop top and coordinated Capri tights outfit, her lush hair gathered neatly upward in a butterfly comb. Then Jacy pointed out a group of girls who appeared to be in high school or early college, dressed in crop tops and shorts or t-shirts and Capri tights. She said "That's Marta, Jasmine, Jennifer, Nicole, and Brooke."

After Dorina nodded greetings to all of them she considered herself lucky that this was probably a beginner level practice session. None of the high schoolers looked like accomplished ballerinas. She glanced around the room and saw practice mats and equipment bags. In the opposite corner a small table held a Bose Wave music system and an assortment of CDs. Jacy led Dorina across the room to the Russian instructor. Age had thickened her middle and left her face matronly fleshy but she still carried herself with youthful grace, wearing a serene expression. "This is Madame Irina Grigoriev, prima ballerina with the Bolshoi Company." Dorina delicately shook the woman's hand. Jacy said "Dorina, I guess you can lay your things over there next to Josette and we can get started."

The session started out slowly. Madame Grigoriev spoke in halting, heavily accented English about the aim of the ballerina, to fly. The girls all looked on casually, shifting their weight, glancing out the window or staring ahead blankly. In a sequence Dorina barely understood the instructor spoke about the need for "quiet, delicate strength," while Jacy stood beside her, nodding in agreement.

They would first perform floor stretching and bending exercises and all the students reached for practice mats to cushion them from the hard wood floor. At first there were the catlike movements. Dorina and the other students got down on their hands and knees while Jacy and Josette also followed along with the instructor. They were all told to arch their back and lead forward to the floor with their face, pushing back up with their arms. For a pattern of three repetitions the small class arched and lifted through the movements again and again.

From there it was the side stretches and arm stretches. Madame Grigoriev told them to sit upright and then spread their legs outward, toes pointed. The exercise then concentrated on the upper body and arms. They would all have to lean forward over one leg and reach for their toes, trying to touch them or an ankle if they could. The next repetition called for them to bend sideways toward the left leg and lead with the right arm, stretching it as far as possible along the leg. Dorina glanced over in Jacy's direction, amazed that the woman had executed a perfect split. Her legs were so long that her ankles cleared the edges of the mat by several inches. She noticed that Josette was able to split, also, but not quite as cleanly as her mother. In addition, Jacy was able to bend completely at the waist so that the side of her face rested against her knee. She reached forward with her hands and cradled her foot with them.

Both actions were repeated on the other side while Madame Grigoriev kept exhorting her class to bend, stretch, and reach. Some of the high school and college girls grunted and moaned, whispering among each other. Dorina was already getting to feel quite limber and loose from the stretching and reaching. She realized it was all part of an elaborate warm-up and expected the prima ballerina to ask them to stand and head for the barre bar next. Instead, she kept them all on the floor.

The next exercise was a reverse of the cat routine. They were all told to form what was known as a "bridge" posture, which called for them to sit, and then rise up, table like by bending their knees and pushing against the floor with their hands, buttocks suspended. She asked them to hold there for several moments and "breathe, breathe, breathe." The next command surprised Dorina: "Rise up on your toes!" and she somehow found the energy to rise all the way up, lifting her knees high in the air. Jacy, who was working out at an angle to Dorina, was able to turn her head and glance back at her. "Very good Dorina!" she said, her voice not strained in the least.

They were allowed to drop their heels, which she was glad for since all the toe raising had started to burn her calf muscles. That was not the end, however. "Lift your right foot," the prima ballerina said and Dorina strained to bring it up, struggling to keep her knees together. She thought that if she did this type of exercise every day she would quickly lose what little of the "secretary spread" she had.

"Point your toe," the ballerina continued and Dorina realized that she got an uncanny burst of energy from straightening her limb, as though it served as a divining rod for a wellspring to healing. She called for them to hold that posture for several moments, after which they were free to let their foot drop. Again, Dorina heard a few exasperated gasps and sighs around her. It was time for the other foot, and she was glad that lifting that one, on her left side, was much easier. She also pointed the toe on that foot, along with all her other classmates and got the same type of invigorating rush as she'd had before.

What was next? Would the prima ballerina make them balance on only one arm and one foot? She realized that it would be good for endurance and stamina, but would tire her out greatly. Dorina belonged to a gym, which she attended at least a couple of times a week, either for a spinning class, some aerobics, or a little weight lifting. From time to time she also boarded the treadmill or the Nordic track and place her hands on the metal sensors for her heart rate and tested her fitness level. The machines had always fed her back scores as "Good" and on at least one occasion "Excellent." She was more fit in her estimation than the average woman her age, and definitely more fit than the average office or desk worker.

Yet, ballet exercises were tough!

Madame Grigoriev finally called for an end to the floor exercises. The girls to the right and behind Dorina struggled to their feet, apparently feeling more spent than she did. Jacy and Josette sprang to their feet, Jacy smiling broadly. Her complexion glowed as the exercise seemed to fuel and nourish a deep need in her. The ballerina stood at the front and asked the women to form a circle so she could see them all equally. "Time to check your line and foot positions," she said.

Dorina had forgotten the foot positions, as she realized that it had been about fifteen years since she performed them. To her surprise, Josette showed up beside her and showed her the repertoire. "Watch me," she said. "First, second, third, fourth, and fifth." Dorina watched Josette's narrow feet swivel and point through side, heel to ball, heel to toe, heel to arch, and feet spread and apart.

"Thanks," Dorina said, "but that was a little quick for me. Could I get you to slow that down a little?"

She expected Josette to sigh in exasperation but instead she cheerily said "No problem and performed the motions slowly, pausing at each of them to show her as she said "First, second, third, fourth, and fifth."

Dorina set her feet apart in first position. Then Josette asked her to try them. She slowly, deliberately shifted her toe and heel and shuffled her foot to execute the positions.

Josette said "Very good! You're doing it!"

At that moment Madame Grigoriev called out for Josette to put in a CD, something ending with the word "fifth" and soon the sounds of piano and violin filled the room. "Ladies it's time for the plie." Dorina did, at least remember that movement, in fourth position, which was a bending of both knees while attempting to keep a good "line." This time the instructor executed the movement along with them as they kept bending and lifting, bending and lifting. Dorina realized that she was keeping time with the music, as if her bend and recovery were following the rhythmic sway of a metronome.

Their next real movement was an "arabesque," where, standing in first position all the women were told to stand in first position. All at the same time, they were to raise their arms, lift onto the ball of their left foot and point backward with their right toe. "Glide, glide," the instructor told them. Dorina glanced over and saw that Jacy was rising to a perfect Pointe when lifting, raising her arms and eyes high heavenward. She was so taken with Jacy's total immersion into lifting her body skyward that she lost her balance for a moment and teetered.

Josette must have been watching her because she said "Be careful! We don't want you to get hurt."

Their next step was considerably easier. They were simply to stand and lift one foot out, tracing their toe on the floor. Dorina felt herself getting progressively stronger and at the same time more delicate as it became easier for her to approximate the movements. The music accompanying changed timbre and she thought she recognized Mozart. She was not sure whether or not that composers melodies were conducive to ballet or not. Madame Grigoriev called out to Josette to change the selection once again, reciting what sounded to be a list of numbers. The exciting crescendos were quickly replaced by the more delicate rising and falling piano melodies.

"Everyone to the bar," the instructor said.

At first the instructor positioned all the students along the bar. She put Dorina beside Jacy, who was placed near the end, toward the window. The bar was wood and ran parallel to the wall, about eight inches from it. Metal brackets connected it with the wall joists at several different locations. Still, Dorina wondered how the bar, which was not thick at all, could withstand the stresses of eight women leaning against it.

Madame Grigoriev was helping all the other students ready themselves for using the bar and Jacy was helping Dorina. She placed a hand gently against her back and said "Okay, now let's get your leg up there. Come on, you can do it." Dorina steadied herself and lifted her left leg, from the hip.

"Good," Jacy said. She then set about patting Dorina at several points. For a moment she felt like an airplane traveler selected for a security check, but Jacy's movements were quick and light. She caught her under both of her arms and straightened her then gently patted her on the midriff and small of her back, to straighten her in that direction as well. "Good, very good," she said. Dorina glanced down along the bar and saw that everyone, including Josette at the very end of it, had put a leg up.

Dorina glanced behind her and saw that Jacy had fallen in also and had sleekly placed her leg up on the bar with the rest of them. What Madame Grigoriev taught next was a movement she had seen in ballet many times over the years, either in short spots on television or in movies with ballet scenes. They were told to lean back, extending their left arm, and then slowly bring that arm forward, bending, reaching, trying to touch the toe raised on the barre bar. They continued on, keeping time with the music, languidly reaching forward, falling back and Dorina felt like a lily on a long stalk swaying in the breeze.

Their session was an hour long. "That's all we have time for today," Madame Gregoriev said. A few of the five girls started talking to each other. One of them, in a U.C.L.A. t-shirt approached Jacy.

"My friends want to see you do the Firebird Suite," said the girl Dorina thought she remembered as Marta.

She wasn't sure, but she thought she detected a blush on Jacy's cheekbones as she smiled shyly and covered her eyes. "Come on Miss Jacy, lets see the Firebird," another one of them said.

Two others started repeating the words "Firebird, Firebird, Firebird," gaining gradually in volume until it sounded like a cheer at a football game.

"Come on mom, go ahead," Josette said. Madame Grigoriev stood back and smiled.

Dorina was puzzled. She remembered "The Firebird Suite" by Stravinsky as a frenetic piece that was more suited as a movie soundtrack accompaniment to a chase through the streets of London rather than as a dance piece.

Another of the girls poked Dorina and said "You've got to see this. It's really cool."

Jacy said "Okay."

The girls picked up mats from the floor and placed them in a neat pile along the wall.

Quickly, Jacy took her place at the center of the floor, standing tall but with her head bowed slightly. She appeared to be deep in concentration. From the corner, Dorina could hear CD boxes clattering. Jacy broke concentration and looked up across the room, smiling wryly at Josette.

"I can't find the friggin' CD," she said, rummaging through the thin plastic cases more frenetically. "Oh, hear it is."

Jacy took a few deep breaths and resumed her stance, waiting for the music to begin. When Josette had finished queuing the track and the first notes of music came out of the small but powerful stereo system, Dorina realized that she had forgotten all about the majestic final movement of the piece. It began with a few beckoning notes from a coronet during which Jacy slowly, tantalizingly rose to Pointe. Outside the window clouds gathered overhead and momentarily dimmed the sun, then receded and allowed it to shine fully once again. Dorina was in awe as the expression on Jacy's face became beatific, otherworldly.

Her movements were fluid, frozen in time while she stayed en Pointe and even wavered back and forth drawing a hand back and forth with a graceful flourish. The next notes came from cello strings and a lilting flute while violins gently built to a crescendo.

Jacy lowered down, appearing to draw into herself, reaching inward. Then the triumphant brass sounded and she sprang into a spin, covering the entire floor in two indescribably sprightly steps slapping the soles of feet on the second bound. The action of bringing her feet together twisted her around in mid air and, swanlike, she flew downward her right leg gracefully extended behind her.

She finished by making a quick, whirling run around the perimeter of the room before spun down and around into a full split, her legs pin wheeling around. Her chin and face had drifted only inches from the floor while she brought her movement to a close with the music and she sat astride her legs, straightening her back, looking over her shoulder at Dorina and the girls. When they all realized that the music stopped and so had Jacy, they applauded wildly for her.

And Dorina understood why some people, when describing an outstanding ballet performance said that "Time seemed to stop."
Chapter Fifteen

The girls attending the class quickly left when it convened, briefly thanking Jacy for her spectacular performance. Madame Grigoriev mentioned something to her about that coming Wednesday and Jacy remained about twelve feet away, still gawking at her. She was in awe of the fact that the stunning, athletic performance she'd just witnessed came from a woman who would be sixty eight years old on her next birthday. "Mom I have to check on something with someone downstairs," Josette said. Dorina remembered that their family owned the building and she probably had to check in on some type of business matter. When only Dorina and Jacy remained in the room, the younger of them approached the virtuoso as if she were a delicate, ethereal being.

"I'm speechless," Dorina said, still shaking her head in disbelief. "That was utterly, profoundly exquisite. Why in god's name haven't you been a bigger star?"

Jacy giggled like a teenager and dismissively waved a hand at her. "It's nothing," she said. "Like breathing. I've been doing this since I was seven years old."

Dorina was suddenly embarrassed. "I'm so sorry I said that."

"Oh?" Jacy said. "The star thing?" She touched Dorina on the arm. "I was as big a star as I wanted to be."

Mitch came to mind, and the point for her call to Jacy had reoccurred to her. "I guess I should tell you I already finished the article for _Spectrum_ ," she said. "I told your daughter I needed to talk with you about it, but that wasn't quite true."

"Oh?" Jacy said. "Oh. Well I knew that you probably had, deadlines being what they are and such. Was there something else I could help you with?" Her gaze was fixed intently on her and she truly got the sense that there was no one or nothing as important in this world as their conversation right then.

"I was going to tell you something..." she started to say but could not think of a way to bring up her dream from the other night without seeming like a lunatic or at least neurotic. "I'm going to ask you a strange question. When you were little, did you have a radio in your living room?"

"Why yes. Everyone did. That was long before television, you know."

"Did you like to catch butterflies.?

"Yes, I did. My little friend Catherine came over and we would watch them fly around the yard, especially in the spring. Why do you ask?"

Dorina's stomach frosted over. She could have sworn that she remembered Jacy referring to her as "Catherine" in the dream. "Well it's sort of strange but..."

Jacy was looking at her intently, in a very mothering kind of way, as if encouraging her to go further and Dorina continued. "Well a few nights ago, I had a dream and you were in it. You were little, about seven or eight. I was your friend. We listened to the radio in your living room and then went out in your yard to catch butterflies."

Jacy looked out into space blankly, to ponder the thought. "Isn't that uncanny," she said. "Did we have fun?"

Dorina was a little taken aback that Jacy didn't seem to think that her dream was anything out of the ordinary. "Well don't you think that it's kind of strange?" Dorina asked.

Jacy was reaching for her gym bag. She pulled a pair of warm up pants out of there and a pair of running shoes. While slipping the pants on, she said "Dreams are very mysterious. Like ballet in a way. It's very often best to leave them be, and try not to overanalyze them." Dorina helped Jacy steady herself while she finished pulling on the warm up pants. She lowered down to the floor to put her shoes on. Dorina retrieved her warm up pants and street shoes from the other side of the room. She joined Jacy on the floor to put them on.

"Well there's something else," Dorina went on. "It's about the urban myth. Do you know H. Ron Lewandowski?"

Jacy paused and glanced up at the ceiling to think. "I think I've heard the name. Oh yes! He's a director. He does the _Portals Beyond_ series."

"Then you've seen the movies?"

"I know there are many of them. Possibly the second or third one. It's been many years. Very wonderful special effects. It's amazing what they can do nowadays, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Dorina shifted on her haunches to position herself directly in front of Jacy, so that she could make sure her next point was being heard. "H. R. Lewandowski

was one of the children who may have been awakened when Galaxian was played in his hospital room. There are people who think that since Galaxian and the Portals series contain many similar characters and storylines, that he plagiarized the idea."

"I don't think they were that similar." Jacy brushed off her pants and started to stand. Dorina stood with her.

"Well, I'm going to go out on a limb here," she went on. "I had a dream with you in it, from a time in your life when you were small. Do you think it's possible that H. R. Lewandowski could have had a dream based on the suggestions from the Galaxian show and it helped him awaken from his coma?"

Jacy smiled. "Anything's possible," she said, smiling, lifting her gear bag. "But it seems to me that Mr. Lewandowski would be the one who could tell you how he awakened from his coma."

They parted shortly after that. Jacy told her that she could come back to the session any time she wanted to. It would always be held at two o'clock on Saturday afternoons.

For the first time in her short career, Dorina actually looked forward to returning to work on Monday morning. On that Saturday night she ordered out for seafood and spent the rest of the evening surfing the web for ballet, lucid dreaming, the Portals series in particular and H.R. Lewandowski in particular.

The ballet portion of her web search was not very productive or fulfilling. All she could find were a few encyclopedia entries on her online program. One of them featured a spooky black and white film of a couple doing a romantic, slightly seductive dance entitled "Pas de Deux." Most of the other things she found were general, fifth grade history lessons about the evolution of the dance form. The lucid dreaming websites she visited were also a disappointment. She found that she only had the patience for just so much vivid descriptions of climbing mountain peaks that reached into the stars or running through fields of wildflowers that stretched on forever. A further mark against the Institute for Lucidity was that when she tried to visit their site and read the latest scientific findings, three different pop-ups appeared trying to sell her things.

She wondered if she should go out and rent a video but then she came up with the idea of doing a search on "H.R. Lewandowski," typing his name in the search field. The engine took a few moments to respond, which was a case of there being no entries or thousands of them. She would find out it was the latter.

At first she tried the obvious biographical sites. The first one gave information about the director as if he'd been a nineteenth century literary figure. Name, birthplace and birth date. He had been married and divorced twice and had a daughter from the first marriage and a son from the second. The site described him as one of the richest and most powerful men in the industry, which gave credence to her "going after the one with the deep pockets" accusation against Wayne. Unfortunately, he was also one of the most enigmatic of all the major directors, according to the author. He rarely gave interviews and was generally inaccessible to all but those under his employ.

Dorina studied the photo of him on a "Hollywood Facts" site, since it was larger and in color when the others had been in black and white or blurry. He had sandy blond hair in a long, brushing the collar style that had been popular in the seventies. Overall, he looked quite young considering that the calendar said he was nearing fifty. His skin was ruddy and tanned; Dorina knew that it could have resulted from the good life and trips to exotic sunny locations or maybe he liked to be "hands-on" when directing outside. Mostly what caused the man to look young to her were his soulful, dark brown eyes. In the photograph they gazed out at her warmly and she imagined that in real life he was charismatic. To have amassed a cinema fortune, he would have to be.

She searched for interviews and could not find a single one. There was, however, a site for an unauthorized biography, so she clicked on it. The author began by describing H.R. Lewandowski as "the ultimate self-made man." He had been only a fair student in high school, interested mostly in art and creative writing. After graduation his plans for college got sidetracked when his daughter was born. Since high school, he'd worked a few unskilled or low wage jobs, such as a dock worker at a large retail store. To support his wife and daughter he entered the more lucrative field of long distance truck driving. Life on the road and in endless hotels had been lonely so he'd turned to one of his childhood loves, reading. He re-read Tolkien and all the science fiction trilogies he'd always enjoyed along with thriller and horror best sellers.

According to the text, he received a "thunderbolt of inspiration" while driving on highway 40 in Arizona during May of 1985. He stopped at a motel, bought three pads of writing paper and set out to write for three days, never calling the trucking firm to explain what happened. The load of plywood and building supplies were supposed to go to Oklahoma City, yet when H.R. finished a one-hundred page treatment and synopsis, he turned around and headed back to California. The trucking firm fired him, and he decided to stay in Hollywood and attempt to sell his idea for "Portals Beyond" to a major studio. Unfortunately, the major producers resisted the idea at first on the basis that movie audiences had mostly outgrown science fiction and fantasy during the 1960's.

Mr. Lewandowski persisted, however, working odd jobs in construction and hotel management while he spent his spare time rewriting his treatment and screenplay and knocking on doors.

His big break came at end of 1987, when Universal Studios purchased his screenplay and the production team of Meyer and Lewin saw possibilities for it. To keep costs down, the studio hired a cast of unknowns for the major roles. The complicated project required numerous re-shoots for special effects continuity and editing problems further delayed its release. Several times the project was almost shelved until H.R. Lewandowski volunteered to edit the final cut. During the holiday season in 1988, _Portals Beyond_ hit theaters.

The studio's initial goal for the movie was to break even on a forty million dollar budget. At first, box office for Portals was lukewarm since it had not been advertised heavily. Scores of good reviews and word of drove up receipts, however. A long run also helped, since the movie stayed at first run theaters well into March. Overseas box office also added to the total because the movie became popular in Europe and India. At final count the first installment of _Portals Beyond_ grossed $125 million and paved the way for H.R. Lewandowski's spectacular success over the next decade and beyond.

Dorina checked the titles and release dates of the movies. A new installment was produced at least every two years. When she had stumbled onto the beehive of activity in the studio lot beside the Archives building, she learned that the cast, crew, and technicians were getting together to produce the seventh movie. All of them made money, in fact the article stated that only _Star Wars_ had been more popular with the movie going public. Out loud, Dorina said "No small potatoes, that Wayne character was discussing.

Details about H.R. Lewandowski's empire and hints about his private life continued. "Starwind-Voyage of the Enlightened," the third Portals movie hit theaters during the summer of 1993. Post production was accomplished at the brand new "Vortex," his huge underground soundstage and special effects laboratory. Apparently, the exact location of the complex was secret and only employees of Mr. Lewandowski's production company "Merlin's Lair" had access. Most industry insiders and Portals series enthusiasts agree that it lies east of San Bernardino, in the desert.

Forbes magazine listed H.R. Lewandowski as one of the fifty richest men in America during 2001. The article detailed how investors line up to help bankroll his new projects because the rate of return is practically guaranteed and lucrative. Many of the newest cinematic special effects techniques were developed and perfected at "Merlin's Lair" and the organization pioneered digital film making by installment six of the series: "Zeus Revisited." It became the first major studio release to have been completed without using even one can of traditional celluloid film.

The last section of the website offered ideas and insight about the enduring popularity of the Portals series. Storylines pursued in the movies were usually conceptual and thought provoking and featured unforgettable characters such as rogue knight Zephyr Mnemnon, High Priestess Alhambrina, and Cleric Matthew. Each new installment somehow managed to stand as its own independent little universe. Critics often remarked that "the uninitiated, who had never seen a minute of s Portals movie, could still thoroughly immerse themselves in the action of the newest installment as a new and original story. When a new Portals movie was released, video rentals of the previous chapters boomed, presumably because all the new fans obtained would want to see what they'd missed previously.

In short, it was resounding success on a grand scale.

Dorina exited the website and closed the browser window. Her cat, Samantha jumped onto her lap as she checked her personal email accounts again. As she petted the feline creature gently, she looked down and said "Well Sam, it looks like mommy's going to make another visit to that studio back lot." The cat blinked at her and then closed her eyes, settling into the soothing feel of her owner's touch.
Chapter Sixteen

Sunday morning around ten o'clock Dorina's telephone rang, She was in a playful mood and decided to answer it: "IRS, recovery division, Selma Blumenberg speaking, my badge number is 10225-3, how may I help you?"

Masculine laughter pealed from the other end of the line. "So, you're going to tax me to death, are you?"

"Maybe. Do you have something to hide?"

"Well I might want to do something to you to the death but it won't be taxes."

"Hey."

"Hey back at ya, What have you been doing with yourself."

"Nothing much," she said, though it suddenly occurred to her that she'd learned something new about the lawyer side of Mitch's personality. He didn't ask a question for which he didn't already know the answer.

"Well I called you yesterday afternoon and you were out, so I left a message."

Dorina glanced across the room at her answering machine, sitting atop one of the shelves of her étagère. The light at the top right side of it was blinking.

"Then I tried you again a couple of times last night and guess what! Beep! Beep!"

"Yeah. I was on the web. Why didn't you try the cell phone?"

"Why didn't you have it turned on?"

"Oh." She quickly realized that while she carried the phone in her gear bag to the dance studio, she'd turned it off before her session, not wanting to offend Jacy or the dance instructor. But she'd forgotten to turn it back on.

"Oh. So is he bigger than me?"

"What?"

"The guy you spent the weekend with. Is he bigger than me?"

"Oh no, I've been really boring. Stayed in my jammies Friday night and played video games and pigged out on Chinese. Went to a ballet class yesterday afternoon, of all things. Last night I surfed the web."

"Well I've missed you," he said. "How would you like to take a little road trip today?"

Dorina said "Okay," and hoped they would be going to the beach. He would arrive by lunchtime. She got ready for him by taking a long shower and then shaving her legs and continuing high up along her bikini line. A day at the beach would be a nice escape and probably healthier than hanging around the apartment web surfing, talking on the phone or watching videos. It was what she kept herself in such good shape for, she thought, as she packed sun block, tanning lotion and her high cut vivid floral maillot swimsuit in her gear bag. The suit was Mitch's favorite, as he never tired of telling her. "It makes your legs look like they're a mile long," he would say. She also put a couple of large beach towels in the gear bag because she could never depend on Mitch to bring along his own.

On the news they said it would be very warm and sunny that day, topping out at over eighty degrees. Dorina decided to wear one of her favorite summer outfits, a lavender gingham romper and sandals. She could even round out the look with a stylish beach hat.

When Mitch appeared at her door a short while after that, she was surprised by what he wore: faded jeans, a t-shirt and Nikes. He looked like he was going to help a friend move instead of go to the beach. "Cute outfit," he told her when he saw the romper.

Dorina was almost afraid to ask what his plans were for the afternoon because they almost certainly didn't include going to the beach. But she had to: "What kind of a road trip did you have in mind?"

"It's kind of a surprise," he said. "I'll tell you along the way."

"I was hoping we would go to the beach."

Mitch waved a hand dismissively, squinting. "Some other time. What we're going to do today doesn't involve fighting traffic, being forced to look at fat mamas in swim dresses, or balding idiot dudes in banana hammocks. And it could end up being very profitable."

Dorina wasn't sure she liked the sound of that. "Should I change?"

"No, honey. You look adorable."

Instead of the gear bag with the beach towels and her swimsuit, Dorina packed a picnic basket with grapes and fixings for Swiss cheese sandwiches. She also threw in two Tupperware style juice boxes filled with spring water she kept on hand.

"Darling, you don't have to go to all that trouble," Mitch said while he watched her wrapping zwieback cookies in plastic. "We can just grab something along the way."

"That poison slop that they dish out at drive-thrus? No thank you."

Dorina remembered the first time she'd ridden in Mitch's beloved car, the "Silver Bullet." Though not yet a partner at his firm, Mitch ponied up a pretty penny to buy his BMW. "In L.A.," he said "You are what you drive." Still she worried about him overextending himself to get his dream mobile but changed her mind somewhat after she'd felt the cushiony leather and the richly appointed interior which included authentic wood grain on the dashboard. It was the first car she'd ever ridden in with a changeable face instrument panel. Mitch clicked what looked like a reset button and brought up several different configurations of virtual gauges. Surprising her even further, when Mitch had taken her out onto the interstate and dropped the pedal, a calm woman's voice came on after a certain point and purred "Speed. Limit. Exceeded."

Yet Dorina wished he would be using that car to take them to the beach. Instead, she realized that they were headed east, to the mountains or the desert. She noticed a file folder in the console with what appeared to be map printouts. "So where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," he said. "Hey, dial up Spiro Gyra on the MP3, would you?"

Dorina pushed the button on the far right side of the dashboard screen and the keypad and readout ejected from the wood grain. The car's sound system could either access programs via satellite or go online and pull up audio libraries. She simply typed in "Sp," entered and selected Mitch's favorite release from the band. Within seconds the first notes of jazzy brass sung sweetly from the high-end factory installed speakers.

Mitch said "Turn it up a little."

Dorina took the cue to play their game again. She cupped her ear with her and said "What?"

"Turn it up a little!"

"WHAT?"

Mitch, who had been looking out at her out of stern eyes, softened his features and started to laugh, shaking his head. He dropped the subject of turning up the volume, concentrating on the road ahead. Dorina wished they could drive without any music at all but it was not her car and not her decision. She had lots of questions to ask him about the new mercenary attitude he'd shown a few days ago and about his alliance with Wayne. She realized that it may have to wait until their next quiet conversation together.

When they drove together and Mitch turned up the stereo at too loud a volume for normal conversation, it ironically reminded her of her father. They found little to discuss when they rode in the car together and didn't have a stereo to fill the often deafening silence. Her father would contrive conversations about school and what she was learning and which subjects she liked. Throughout her school years Dorina liked to keep the subject of school confined within the school building from eight o'clock to three p.m. Monday through Friday. "You won't get into a good college with that way of thinking," her father had said, though Dorina thought things had turned out all right. She even had a sense that her future may even turn out brighter than she'd ever hoped although she didn't know how just yet.

The third cut on the studio release was quieter and softer, a mellow, reflective tune.

Dorina seized the opportunity to put a few words in her boyfriend's ear. "How long have you known Wayne?" she asked.

Mitch shrugged. "Ever since I started at the firm. He's a cool guy, isn't he?"

Dorina thought back to their Thai lunch together. He had been striking looking with his dark hair and intense eyes but otherwise had seemed like an automaton to her. When she was about nine years old and started religiously watching MTV and VH1, she remembered watching a music video called "Lawyers in Love." Although she had trouble remembering the artist or even the basic melody of the song she remembered the concept. About a hundred nearly identical lawyers in navy blue suits and Clark Kent glasses formed a Busby-Berkeley style dancing line, swinging their suitcases through the air as they stepped and kicked. Dorina felt that Wayne would have fit in well as one of the faceless lawyer-dancers. She kept the observation to herself, though, so she wouldn't offend Mitch.

"He's okay," she finally said. "A little personality challenged, but okay."

Mitch shook his head, turning briefly to look at her. "That's what you say about anyone who isn't an over-the-top buffoon. Not everyone can be the life of the party."

Dorina was confused. "That's not really what I meant, though. He just seems overly concerned with, you know, money."

Though keeping his eyes forward, Dorina could see his eyebrows rise. "I got news for you kid. Poverty sucks."

She looked around at the lush carpet, leather, and state-of-the-art electronic accoutrements. Just then a faster, louder song came over the sound system and if she wanted to engage Mitch into a philosophical argument about greed, she would have to talk over the volume or just switch the stereo off. She quickly decided that it wasn't getting a blood pressure spike over and leaned back in her seat. They seemed to be moving out of civilization and into what she called "Tumbleweed Country." Maybe he was planning on taking her to Las Vegas but if so, he probably would have dressed nicer.

Dorina glanced at the subdivisions cut into the dry foothills. The large, expensive houses sprang up in neat rows, most likely habitats for commuters to Silicon Valley. The earth had been artificially tilled and irrigated; topsoil probably trucked in, to give the homeowners perfect, emerald green lawns. She laughed to herself when she pondered human's ability to recreate their own world. Mitch suddenly said "Hey!" and she turned quickly to see him waving his hand in front of her face. "Turn the volume down on that, I want to show you something."

Dorina pushed the button and lowered the volume on the flip-out keypad so that they could barely hear the brass and percussion. Mitch pulled the file folded with the map printouts from the console. He gave them to her.

"We're going to try to find Merlin's Lair," he said.

She had to shake her head, to make sure she was hearing him right. "Merlin's Lair? Isn't that the underground soundstage for H.R. Lewandowski?"

"Yes ma'am."

"But I heard that it's hidden. How do you propose to find it?"

"That's what all the maps were for."

Dorina thumbed through a stack of topographical maps that represented the desert and foothills way out east of L.A., on the way to Nevada. "Where did you get these?"

"While you were surfing all weekend long I did a little bit myself."

She looked at the maps again. They looked confusing to her, riddled with elevation lines and notations that she felt only a geologist might understand. And these maps are supposed to tell you where you can find Merlin's Lair."

"That's what they said on the web site."

After turning the printer-generated sheets sideways and upside down, Dorina shrugged. "I don't see an 'X' that marks the spot."

"Well of course not, Sherlock. You have to decode them a little and you have to know what you're looking at."

"Oh. And you can understand these hieroglyphics?"

"Good enough to get by. I took a geology course in undergrad. They touched on this kind of stuff."

She turned sideways in the seat, so that she was facing him. The best response, she thought, was a little humor. "Okay. Let's say that using these, you're lucky to find the entrance and somehow get into Merlin's Lair. What then?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean do you do spy work on how they make those movies or do you try to find the man himself and flat out ask him if he stole his ideas from Journey Galaxian?"

"Whoa, whoa. You're getting way ahead of me here. Let's just take it one thing at a time, shall we? The first order of business is to find the site."

"And then what? Try to charm our way past security?"

"Well, it's not like it's Fort Knox or something. Why do you think I'm dressed like this? We make like we're a couple of film students out on a little jaunt. They wouldn't turn us away. It'd be bad publicity."

"Whatever." She turned again to face the dashboard and look out the windshield at the wide open vista, checking to see if buzzards circled overhead.

"He's a lot more likely to be candid with a couple of college students rather than a room full of suits in a high pressure negotiation."

"Makes sense to me. When do you want to eat?" She noticed that he was paying more attention to roadsides and landmarks.

"I think we're getting close. Gimme that map." Dorina was going to ask which one but instead handed over the stack of papers. Mitch wasn't quite ready to receive them and some of them slipped through his fingers, fluttering down to the floorboard.

"Babe, there's plenty of places to pull off around here. If you think we're close, then you can look over the maps and we can stop and eat while you figure out what to do next. It's better than just driving around with only a vague idea of what you're looking for."

"Good point. I am starting to get a little hungry."

He eased the car off onto a patch of weed choked desert sand, driving slowly along to distance themselves from the road and the diesel of oncoming semis. At first he simply wanted to stay in the car, but Dorina convinced him they should try to take advantage of the warm, beautiful day and make a picnic out of it. When he opened the trunk lid they discovered that they could put the picnic basket on the trunk floor. The rear bumper made a nice, convenient bench for them to sit on.

Dorina's picnic basket was of the old fashioned variety, made of wicker and deep, with a twisted wicker handle at the center and two flat covers. One side served as a shelf for her to put the sandwiches together, setting the slices of bread atop paper towel. Mitch dropped grapes into his mouth and munched on them while looking at the maps quizzically. She busied herself by slathering dollops of sandwich spread. When she started placing down dill pickles sliced lengthwise she brought sound to the desert quiet by continuing her thoughts out loud about their trip. "Mitch, another thing I was thinking, how do we know that H.R. Lewandowski and Merlin's Lair haven't already worked out some kind of deal. You know. Off the books, under the table."

Mitch kept looking at the maps while he responded to her. "Because those kinds of things aren't done."

"Oh no? What do you call Enron? Or WorldComm?"

He reached for the first finished sandwich. "That was accounting. They got the Galloping Gourmet to cook the books." After he chomped off a corner of his Swiss cheese and lettuce treat, he continued his thought, talking with his mouth full. "Besides, old Mr. Neil Neiman wouldn't still be pissed off if they'd cut a deal."

"Swallow, please." She waited for him to finish his first bite then asked him the next question. "How do you know he's pissed off?"

"Because I know. That's one of the great things about being a lawyer. You get to find out things the public wouldn't get to know in a million years."

"You've personally talked with him?"

"Well I know people who have talked with him. People who have had him as their client for years and years."

"But have you talked with him?"

He paused to look at her for a moment, narrowing his eyes. He appeared to be looking at her as if for the very first time. "No. But what's the difference. He's pissed off, and I know he's pissed off."

"So you think it's wrong that H.R. Lewandowski might have gotten his ideas from the old Galaxian TV series and has gotten really successful."

Mitch had taken another bite of the sandwich and paused to ponder her question.

"Yes, I think it's wrong. It's like looking over your neighbor's shoulder and copying their answers during the final exam. It's like copying something out of a book or magazine and claiming it as your own words." He looked at her, squinting from the bright sun, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead from the heat. "Why are you asking me all this?"

She shrugged. "Priorities, I guess. I just get the feeling from talking with Jacy that it isn't all that big a deal. And I don't think she and Neil Neiman are enemies the way that Wayne said they are."

"What, did you see them together, all lovey-dovey or something?"

"No. But I just don't believe Jacy Rayner is the type of person to hold that kind of a grudge. Definitely not for twenty years, anyway."

Mitch let the matter drop after that and continued to look at his maps. Dorina finished her sandwich, noticing that heat from the desert sun had melted the cheese.

Soon after that, Dorina packed up the picnic basket and they headed back inside the car. They took their spring water drink boxes with them as Mitch eased the Silver Bullet back onto the road, creeping along at first. "From what that map tells me," he said, "we're right in the area."

Dorina said "I guess we just have to look for the great big billboard that says 'Merlin's Lair, next exit."

Mitch smiled wryly at her. She noticed that an eerie calm had settled over the mesas and buttes of the California desert country. It was surprising to her that there were so few other cars on the road with them. Maybe everyone else went to the beach, she thought.

The virtual speedometer reading on the dash wavered around fifty-five to sixty-five, which was unusual for Mitch, who had always liked to get where he was going.

A couple of high, fluffy clouds passed overhead. Out here the land was so wide and expansive that Dorina could see their shadows passing over the sand and wind-gouged rock formations. Mitch was still looking as intently at the map printouts as he was the road ahead of him, but suddenly his eyes got very big. "There it is!" he said, bouncing up and down in the seat. "Right there! That butte!" He showed her the paper. "See that swirly, whorly thing on there that looks like a thumbprint? It's that butte over there."

Dorina looked at the topographical map again and again wondered how anything that cryptic could be representative of the land they saw around them. "Well, I don't see any other roads around here," she said. "You'd think they'd at least have a road leading up to it or something."

"No, that's too easy," Mitch said. "Tracks, tracks. Let's look for tracks. They probably go off road or something for awhile and then catch up with it off the beaten path."

"What kind of tracks should we be looking for?" Dorina asked, looking at the side of the road.

"Anything," came the reply. Suddenly Mitch saw what he was looking for. He said "Voila!" and eased the Silver Bullet off the road again. He pulled up within a few feet of some tracks in the sand.

They both got out of the car. To Dorina the tire tracks seemed wide, like the kind made by a dump truck or at the very least, a ZUB. She traced them down the sand to where they curled around another butte and disappeared.

"Let's go," Mitch said running back to the car and opening his driver's door.

She followed him. "Are you sure you want to drive off road like this? Those tracks looked like they were made by a truck with big tires." Besides that, his precious vehicle might get all dusty and pitted by pebbles and rocks.

"Well what else are we going to do?" Mitch said, "Walk?"

When the Silver Bullet cut the ground along the path made by the larger vehicles, it kicked up small clouds of dust. Dorina could hear pebbles tink and ping off the underbody and exhaust parts. They reached the butte where the path turned and saw that it led down

a hill. It was a gradual grade, but Dorina still wondered if they would get enough traction to make the return trip.

Up ahead, barbed wire fencing. Dorina noticed that it stretched on in either direction as far as the eye could see. Like the Great Wall of China. Directly ahead of them on the path, however, was a gap in the fencing guarded by orange and white highway girders.

Mitch laughed out loud. "Now you tell me that this guy doesn't have something to hide."

They parked immediately before the girders. Mitch kept the engine running, got out of the car and pushed the girders aside, leaving a wide enough space for the Silver Bullet to pass through. "I'm not liking this too well," Dorina said. "I don't think we should go any further. We're not supposed to be here. We don't even know if this is it. It could be some kind of government thing like a place where they keep alien spaceships that crashed into

earth or an evil think tank."

"You read too much," Mitch said, gunning the engine as the car lurched ahead and through the fence opening. The sand was smoother and more hard packed past the fence

that near the buttes. Dorina wondered if earth moving machinery or steam rollers had flattened it. "Over there," Mitch said, pointing to something to his far right. At first glance it looked like an adobe to Dorina. They were a couple of miles away. When they drew closer she realized that the edges were sharper and she saw that it was an entrance to a garage.

Dorina shrieked as the wail of sirens pierced the air. She glanced all around and saw five white cars with green stripes marked "Security" converging on them. Blue lights flashed atop their roofs. She realized that she wasn't the only one screaming. Mitch had let out with an open-mouthed howl, grabbing the steering wheel, yanking it one way and then another. The car shifted and jerked on the sand as though it had been a roller coaster car on a zig zag track. "Stop, Mitch, Stop!" Dorina shouted, and she saw him jam his foot on the brake at the same time as three of the cars swirled in against them.

The tires from the other cars also screeched to a halt and volumes of dust and sand had been kicked up, making a heavy, amber colored cloud. Some of the dust seemed to have made it inside the car, because both Mitch and Dorina started to cough as they struggled against the seat belts, which had bound them to the seat like rubber bands. When Mitch finally realized they had stopped completely, he pounded his steering wheel with the side of his fist. "Those assholes could have killed us!" he shouted.

Dorina reached out with an arm, to shush him. The cloud of dust gradually settled around their car and she could make out human forms milling about around them. She had counted five cars, but it seemed like up to ten men suddenly circled their car. They wore wide brimmed Mounties style hats which she felt was strange since she'd never seen that kind of head gear on any California police officers. When the dust cleared even further, she could make out their expressions and their distinctive facial features and body type differences. There were tall ones, short ones, young ones, older ones, and they all showed genuine looks of concern instead of cocky looks of anger, the way she expected.

A tall one bent down near Mitch's driver window. It occurred to Dorina that the gentleman must be very brave or trusting. Or stupid. "Roll down your window, Mitch," she told him.

"I'll roll it down and punch out this motherfucker," Mitch snarled.

When the window came down it revealed a fatherly looking man in his early fifties, with salt and pepper sideburns dropping down from the brim of his hat. "Good day," he said when the window had opened completely.

"Do you realize you could have killed us back there?" Mitch said. "You better have a really good reason for swarming us like that."

Dorina noted the nametag affixed to the gentleman's shirt pocket. It read "Raphael."

The insignia on his hat read "Security" and nothing on any of the cars or any of the other men indicated any kind of state, county, or municipality affiliation. "Sir, you're on private property. That roadblock near the fence was put there for a reason."

None of the security guards were armed as far as Dorina could tell. She felt instinctively that she could diffuse the situation by getting out of the car. That way the officers could tell that at least one of them posed no immediate threat. When she opened her door, however, Mitch grabbed after her. "What are you doing?" he said. "They didn't ask us to get out of the car."

Not yet, Dorina thought as she was aware of the other eight security officer's eyes on her when she walked around the car to talk to Raphael. She had to step carefully. The criss crossing tire tracks had carved deep grooves in the sand that left high ridges that may have tripped her if she didn't watch where she was going. "I know we shouldn't be here and we really don't mean any harm. We'll leave quietly, I promise you."

Mitch still stayed in the car. "Why this big show of security, anyway? Don't you think that all of these cars swooping down around us is getting into overkill?"

"We're necessary for the purpose of apprehending unauthorized vehicles," Raphael said, droning his words in a militarily precise cadence.

Another man stepped forward to converse with Mitch. He was rounder and younger than Raphael. Dorina looked for his nametag. It read: "Queensbury." "Sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave," he said in a firm, but polite tone. "If you'll allow us to escort you back to the highway, there won't be any other problems."

Mitch narrowed his eyes at the second officer. Dorina knew that her boyfriend had a low opinion of people who carried around more than a little extra weight. He seemed to think that it showed a lack of discipline. "What makes you think we're not authorized?" he asked, with a slight sneer in his tone.

Dorina wanted to say something, but Raphael beat him to it. Patiently, he said "Sir, that's not important. Now I'm sure you'd like to avoid any further problems and it will be much easier if you'll just allow us to take you back to the highway."

Mitch pointed to the bunker-like structure a mile in the distance. "What is that, anyway?" Again, Dorina thought, never asking a question to which he didn't already know the answer.

Raphael started to open his mouth to speak, but Queensbury interrupted. "We can't tell you that. Now if you'll just follow us peacefully we'll resolve the situation without any further problems."

Mitch still wasn't budging. "This is very irregular," he said. "Who do you guys work for, anyway? And who gives you the right to chase and detain people."

Dorina was getting angry. She walked up to Mitch's driver window and bent her knees, bracing her hands against them to crouch down to his level. "These men are being very patient with you and you know you're not supposed to be here. Now I'm going to get back into this car and we're going to leave." Mitch turned his eyes upward and snarled.

Dorina walked around the car and re-entered through her passenger door. Once she had settled into the seat and closed the door, she turned to Mitch. He said "I'll tell you, this guy's got something to hide."

She hissed "Honey, this may not even be what you think it is, despite what that god-forsaken map says. Ever think of that? Now put the key in there and let's go!"

Reluctantly, Mitch started the Silver Bullet's engine. The security officers surrounding them all dispersed and swung themselves back into their cars. They all backed away from the Silver Bullet while Mitch executed a corner turn in reverse and maneuvered the car toward the chain link fence. While he drove toward the opening, two security cars flanked him and three others followed closely behind. The three security vehicles remaining tailed him out the gate, down the sand, and back around the butte. They accompanied him all the way to the highway as they'd promised. "I'm sure the congressman for this district will be very interested to learn about all these little shenanigans these 'officers' pulled."

Dorina wanted to tell him that they were lucky they weren't shot at, but thought that such a comment would make matters worse. "Let's just go home," she said. "Before we get into any real trouble." They drove back to her apartment in silence, mercifully filled in by more jazz music playing loudly on the Silver Bullet stereo. Seventeen years earlier, almost to the day, the "thunderbolt" of inspiration H.R. Lewandowski received occurred during another lonely afternoon in the southwestern American desert. Here is how it happened.
Chapter Seventeen

May, 1985. Jacy had just locked the front door of her house, took heavy steps down the winding front walk and tossed her largest purse into the shotgun seat of her thirteen-year old convertible. Before getting in herself, she walked around to the trunk, keyed it open and for the tenth time, gazed at the hodge-podge of suitcases packed tightly inside there. She started to reach for the smallest one, which contained her checkbooks, credit cards, and caches of money but caught herself. Instead she sighed and said, out loud "Now or never," for only the birds to hear in the early morning sleepiness. She slammed the trunk lid down.

When she walked from the trunk to the driver door of the lemon-yellow car, she realized that time had taken on that frozen quality she had not felt for quite some time. Each small action seemed deliberate, ponderous, and even sacred. And when she gently tugged the driver's door open and slid behind the wheel, she used one fluid, languorous motion. She allowed herself the luxury of pausing, once again, to let the moment wash over her.

Thirty years before, in the Thunderbird, she'd had a ritual she always followed. She would test the way her hair fell against her forehead, smiling in the rear view mirror, and wriggle in the seat to conform it to her contours before she would drop the choke and twist the key. She fantasized that instead of her trip to the lot for a dance lesson she had instead climbed aboard a light beam Einstein-style, and that trip had astrally propelled her to this point, in that land of bid hair and savings and loan scandals known as the eighties.

Her soon-to-be ex-husband Stan was a casualty of the scandals, but on that bright, sunny morning she chose not to think about that. Her sixteen year old daughter Josette had traveled north to spend time with her father. Jen, her live-in housemaid, would take care of things while she was away. She had no worries.

When she looked into the mirror she saw the tiny wrinkles that formed around the corners of her eyes. She tested her smile and saw faint furrows spread across her forehead. That morning she'd gone without the coating of egg whites and also without the foundation, liner, shadow and rouge. She'd pushed her long hair away from her face with the help of a silk scarf, checking to see how long the ends of it dangled. Vaguely she remembered about how the famous dancer Isadora Duncan choked to death when her long flowing scarf caught the spoked wheels of a speeding Bugatti as it drove her along.

Her friends had been pestering her to get rid of the Mustang and instead treat herself to something newer, sleeker, and fresher, "especially after the way that bastard did you" as Terri said. But she loved the old car, sighing when just a quick turn of the ignition caught the canister and all four barrels exploded to life. It was too late for the paperboys and too early for all the power brokers and Jacy could have backed out of the driveway blindfolded. Instead she turned to look behind herself for her first glimpse of the open road lying ahead.

The engine thrum reverberated off the stone and slate rooftops as she screeched around corners past manicured lawns and gleaming street signs. There was no phone in the car. It did not have a postal address. Not even a telegram could reach her. The pony express of her steed would deliver her into a sorely needed, introspective adventure.

Once she cleared the neighborhood, she knew from decades of experience that the gray, greasy cloud would hang over her until she had thundered miles past San Bernardino.

At her first stop for fuel she gave her money to a sleepy looking man in early middle age with the porcupine-like sprouting of a few days' beard growth. He nodded and smiled at her, ringing out her purchase. To him, she supposed, she could have been any glamour grandma type taking a spin on a beautiful morning, possibly to alight on one of the sprawling shopping malls in the valley. She stopped in the service station's restroom to give herself a once-over in the mirror.

Maybe the glamour grandma bit was underestimating things a bit, she thought when she lifted her chin, turned to one side, then the other, and inhaled slightly to inspect her cheekbone hollows. There was a stray reddish brown eyebrow tendril jutting from beneath one of her high arches. She was able to press the long, healthy nails of her thumb and index finger together and grasp it, yanking it free. She wore a plain, cream cable knit sleeveless top and mauve slacks that day. Before climbing back behind the wheel she slipped on a paid of big, clear-framed sunglasses she'd seen on Santa Monica matrons, which completed the exact incognito departure she wanted.

She'd kept herself psychologically numb to the tall buildings and sunlight dancing off the glass. There were golf courses carved into the desert and palm trees flanking the roadside. Airplanes. Motorcycles. Children playing on street corners. She was staring straight ahead, riding in a car named after a horse, with blinders on.

After what had seemed like an hour to her, the space on either side of the road widened and gave way to wide expanses and cliff tops. Brown desert and mesas. Defiance and pent-up hostility found their way to her right foot, which plunged down onto the chrome-edged gas pedal, lurching the car forward, rocketing her into America.

She didn't know what prompted her to look into the rear-view mirror on her way to Arizona. Her angel, maybe? But in the reflection she saw the tell-tale blue lights and her stomach froze over. "Oh, no," she said, all the while pulling back, as if yanking the reins, edging the wheels onto the gravelly shoulder. Thank god, she thought, I never changed my name. She edged the wheels of her car onto the shoulder and applied the brake, lightly at first but pressing down to halt the car onto the softer surface. Out of the reflection in the rear view mirror, she could see that the police car kept a distance of a couple of car lengths behind her, as it had been towed by an invisible cord. She took off her sunglasses.

Her side view mirror had been angled in slightly and in that reflection she watched the police car behind her, waiting for the door to open. She wondered if he was just going to sit there and watch her from his driver's seat, but finally the door did open. Slowly. Like the lid on a coffin. A boot emerged from the opened door, sought solid ground and landed on the pavement.

Jacy watched a knee follow, then another leg, an arm, and then a white-hatted head as the officer emerged from the car empty handed. She would have thought that he would have carried at least his ticket writing pad. The officer walked toward her and when the size of his reflection would no longer allow her to follow him, she turned around. She clutched her purse to her side more tightly, her fingers seeking around inside for her billfold and her driver's license. The next time she turned to the side she could see the glint and flash of sunlight off the badge. He said "Hello, it's a nice day, isn't it?"

She looked up at him, surprised at the pleasant greeting. It was still early morning, she realized, and light from the rising sun in the east must have been trained directly on him. There was an uncanny, other-worldly glow to his clothes, his skin, and his hair. The blue in his eyes seemed flecked with shining silver. He smiled at her warmly, beatifically. Moments passed and it suddenly occurred to her that neither of them had spoken since she affirmed his comment. He asked "Can I see your license, please?"

When she lifted the small, laminated care up to him, he grasped it and quickly glanced at the picture. She had been scrubbed down the day she'd had it taken, her hair tied back. For a moment she wondered whether anyone at all had ever seen the picture besides herself and the clerk at the Department of Motor Vehicles. The policeman gave her the license back and she quickly studied his lapels or breast for a name tag. She found it, on his side opposite the badge. It read "Gabriel."

"You were traveling pretty quickly back there," Gabriel said. "I thought maybe something was wrong."

"No," Jacy said. "Nothing at all."

The policeman nodded while looking down at her. "Can you just sit tight right here? I have to get something from the car."

She wondered if he would return with a ticket for her, taking a moment to try and remember exactly how fast she was going. This time she did not watch him walk back to his car. She was surprised when he returned so quickly with something that did look like a writing pad. He pulled the top leaf off and handed her the thin, flimsy, pale yellow piece of paper. The top of it read "Notice or Warning." She sighed, relieved. In the next instant she realized that there had not been enough time for him to write anything down.

"Just try to stay mindful of where you are, and where you want to go," the officer said as he backed away, ending their encounter. Jacy scanned the writing on the ticket and saw that he had transcribed her name, address and details about the car onto the warning ticket, plus a couple of short lines describing her transgression: "traveling along Highway 1 at an excessive rate of speed."

Jacy was going to call out after the young man, ask him whether he had somehow written the ticket out in advance or whether he had speed-scribbled it. He had already lowered back into his squad car though, the engine firing, the wheels spinning and the vehicle lurching back onto the roadway. It occurred to her to look out after Gabriel's car, to watch what direction it went to, and make sure that it did converge with the dot on the horizon rather than disappearing.

After sitting there for a few more moments dumbfounded, Jacy just folded the ticket in half and tucked it away inside her purse. Something inside her told her not to give the matter a second thought. An eerie calm descended when she turned the ignition, engaged the gear and resumed smoothly onto the highway for the rest of her trip.
Chapter Eighteen

Ron Lewandowski had thought it would be an unusual day. He had awakened at a place called the Lone Cactus Motel in Needles, with his usual thundering headache, caused by the dry air. Since he was thirteen years old he had been susceptible to weather changes that seemed to wreak havoc on his sinuses. As he got older and his head got further and further from the ground. At twenty-one when he finally stopped growing, he was six feet five inches tall.

For ten years he had become immune to the musty rooms of endless cut-rate motel rooms around the country. The one he'd had the night before added to the ranks of the nameless and faceless. It was actually part of a modular building; Ron had lain in bed wondering if it had been built that way from the ground up or if they had just jammed together five or six mobile homes. He had grown up in Tulsa, Oklahoma and as a child had often fantasized about watching a tornado rip apart a mobile home park. As long as all the inhabitants had already been evacuated, that was. Would it just pulverize it instantaneously into a huge pile of matchsticks or would it pick up the entire cracker box style structure and hurl it, Wizard-of-Oz style, shuttling it off to some kind of a never-never land?

Toto, I don't think we're in California anymore, he thought, when later he passed the "Welcome to Arizona" sign. Suzy the rig had seemed like she woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Grunting and groaning, then whining. He had come up with the name because of the way the engine screeched through the higher gears. It reminded him of a fiery-haired girl he'd sat beside in art class during his junior year.

High school? Fourteen years ago? It didn't seem possible. There was the blur of those first years out, when he felt like he should have been a student at Oklahoma State University because he always ended up there every weekend. He was actually a dock clerk at the J.C. Penney's at the mall and had three friends in the dorms at Stillwater. Ron should have been there, honing his talents for art and creative writing (his junior year English teacher had always told him he had the best imagination of any student she'd ever encountered). The one thing that kept Ron out of college during those years was the same thing that always messed up his life: his penchant for speed and adventure. That same year he'd sat beside fiery Suzy in art class he'd totaled his father's Plymouth Fury. It happened one night when he'd sneaked the vehicle out for a night of joy riding during the summer with his friends.

He and his friend Bob had creaked open the garage door and then Bob, who was a guard on the football team, pushed the car into the driveway after Ron had put the transmission into neutral. They managed to get some older college guys to buy them beer and then picked up four more of their friends. Someone named Ray, who was a friend of Bob's said there was a honky tonk way out in the country that stayed open late and would let them drink there. Four o'clock in the morning, on their way back from the bar, with six people drunkenly yelling, Ron approached a sharp turn too quickly. To compensate, he yanked the steering wheel, which through the big car into a fishtail. It skidded off the road and down into an embankment, slicing into a tree.

None of the three other guys or two girls had gotten hurt, but the Fury went to automotive heaven. Ron's other friend Jerry had jumped behind the wheel and gunned the engine, in a vain attempt to back it away from the tree and pull it up the grade. Since the bumper and front end had been crumpled and the radiator punctured, the constant vroom of the gas pedal led to a loud series of clunks and hissing sparks from under the hood.

Ron walked a mile down the country road with Alice, one of the head-banded girls before they found a house.

He called the tow truck before he called his father, which made a series of bad moves even worse. In the bright, torturing light of the next morning, he and his father looked at the crumpled remains of the Fury. It had been dropped onto the pavement in the lot of a service station. His father, a soft spoken controller of an aggregates and concrete company looked at the wreck for at least fifteen minutes silently holding his folded arms across his chest. Ron was about to beg him to shout, yell, cuss or at least tell him where he stood when his father finally spoke. Finally he spoke, squinting, the white hair alongside his temples rising. "You have two choices," he drawled. "Get a job and pay for this or go in the Marines. I ain't paying a dime for your schooling until you do."

Ron was dumbfounded. "What, buy you a new car?"

"Thought I made that clear."

"That's gotta be about four and a half, five thousand dollars. Don't you have insurance? Can't it pay for at least part of that?"

"I don't think you're seeing the point here, son. Pay for this or go in the Marines. Or maybe we oughta just put you straight in the marines. It straightened me out. Might do the same for you."

"But that's not fair!"

In a quick, violent motion, his father yanked a handful of Ron's t-shirt and pulled him close, staring hawk-like into his eyes. "You want to talk about fair? I'm in bed fast asleep and get woke up to find that my only son has stolen the car, got juiced out of his mind and almost killed himself and five other parent's children."

"Okay, okay dad. I'll pay! I'll pay! I'll pay!"

Ron toiled at J.C. Penney for three years hoisting boxes off of trucks, checking in merchandise. By the summer of 1973 he celebrated his 20th birthday by giving his father the final installment of $85 for the new Fury. Things were starting to look up. He'd met a shy blond haired girl at Hambrick's cafeteria. She worked the cash register there, in the opposite end of the mall. A name tag pinned to her blouse read "Kimberly." While he paid her for his Salisbury steak dinner he looked at the graceful lines of her neck and her cheekbones and the way her flawless fair skin seemed to glow. To his friends he would later describe her eyes as "the same color as an aquamarine crayola." Simple things about her also captivated him, such as the way her lips pursed and tensed slightly while she calculated change. The sum total of it all made his heart melt. He was going to turn away and walk out the door to the final few hours of hoisting freight when he turned back to her instead. "So, Kimmie, why don't you give me your number so I can ask you out sometime?"

She found a matchbook beneath the cash register and scribbled him a note on the blank inside cover: "646-7492, and please call me Kimberly." That Saturday night they saw "The Poseidon Adventure" at the Towne Center Theater. Dates that followed brought memories of house parties, more movies, and long talks over a pool table when they would often stop and kiss. Kimberly's older sister Susan had gotten married the following April and her father had booked a whole hallway of rooms at the Ramada for visiting relatives.

Ron and Kimberly found themselves alone in one of the rooms. Emboldened by champagne and a few shots of Jack Daniels, Ron coaxed Kimberly out of the mint green bridesmaid's dress she wore.

The following Memorial Day weekend during a loud and boisterous, beer-soaked cookout at the apartment complex, Kimberly took Ron aside and said "I'm late."

He married her about a year later; giving her a few months to get her figure back for the ceremony after their daughter was born. For the first year it had been blissful. Long lazy Sundays in bed, outings with other married friends, the joy of watching his mother and father gush excitedly over their baby girl. Then came the long hours at work, followed by the scramble to learn the more lucrative career of truck driving. The anxious late nights with his cranky, feverish daughter. The boredom. The weeks at a time he was on the road away from his family. The girlfriends. The discovery.

The lawyers. Like so many couples who married in their early twenties, Ron and Kimberly soon realized they'd grown apart and before their fourth anniversary, they divorced.

Ron had just spoken with his eleven-year-old daughter Merilee from a payphone outside the hotel the night before. She needed new Reeboks, she said. A new bike. Stone washed jeans instead of the old, stiff plain blue kind. Money, money, money, money. Just thinking about it caused Ron to snap inside and smack the steering wheel with his palm.

Out of the peripheral vision of his left eye, he saw a flash of yellow. It then darted in front of him: a lemon yellow 1973 Mustang convertible. It reminded him of twelve years before, when he'd finished paying off his father for the damage to the Fury. He'd wanted to spend money on a car he could call his own. At the local Ford dealer he'd sat behind the wheel of a Mustang Mach I. A vicious looking navy blue one. When Kimberly broke the news about the conception, his dream of a sports car swirled away into oblivion, though.

The more feminine version of the sports car he coveted sped ahead. Impulsively he jumped on the pedal and threw down another gear, pushing himself to catch up with it. When he neared the car he saw a bright swatch of fabric trailing back from the driver's head. He realized that a woman drove the car, seeing further the graceful lines of her delicate arms and slender hands clutching the wheel. A twinge shot through him as he breath caught in a ragged gasp inside his cab. Her skin glowed as if she were an apparition. A flash of red at the rear of the car distracted him and he realized that she'd slowed down to angle toward the exit. Unblinkingly he angled the rig behind her, in tow as if she'd been a magnet, impelling him along with her.

He watched her guide the car into a parking space in front of a truck stop restaurant. Had she noticed him chugging off the ramp behind her? He'd have to coast further down the parking lot anyway, into a stall beside the pumps. She would already be seated and maybe even ordering her meal by the time he strolled in. Suddenly, getting a look at the face and hair of the woman beneath the silken scarf she mysteriously loomed more important than two years worth of paydays.

After shutting off the truck and securing it, he took in a deep breath. His arms and legs felt stiff and wooden when he crawled down from the cab and slammed the door behind him. While nearing the restaurant, he thought about how he would approach her. What if she'd grabbed a table just inside the door? He'd just have to find a table across from her and think of a way to sidle forward and introduce himself.

When his hand caught the metal door handle he felt an electric tingle and a surge of anticipation. Once he'd cleared the foyer and the hostess stand, he stood on tiptoe to look around, remembering that at six-five he probably hadn't had to do that since he was thirteen. The restaurant smelled of pine-sol and fryer grease mixed with brewing coffee. She was sitting on the other side of the large room, near the window. Without the scarf to restrain them, glorious waves of brunette tresses tumbled past her shoulders. She was, unfortunately, facing the window, her back toward him. He would either have to secure a seat directly across from her or catch her outside to get a look at her face.

An elderly couple sat at a table immediately beside her, or else he would have stationed himself there. A coat rack flanked her. Solitary truckers sat in tables forming a fanlike pattern around her, as though they were guarding her. The sign beside the hostess stand invited him to seat himself and he could only get within about thirty feet of the mysterious Mustang lady. He knew that if he failed to plop his butt down in the next few moments they might arrest him for loitering.

A scant moment after his posterior rested onto the vinyl cushion a waitress appeared. She was short and plain and regarded him out of tired eyes. "What can I get you, sir? Coffee to start with?" Ron muttered some type of an affirmative reply, adding that he needed a minute or two to study their menu. While looking over the choices of open-faced tom turkey sandwiches or double-decked burgers, he glanced upward at the woman across the room. She lifted a teacup to her lips, languidly.

When the waitress re-appeared with a coffee pot, Ron quickly ordered a bowl of chili and a cheeseburger, something he thought the cook could slap together in a couple of minutes. Having rid himself of the waitress, he leaned back in the chair and put his foot atop his knee, folding his hands on the table before him, studying her. He wondered if it was his imagination that he sensed an inner light emanating from her. His eyes perceived it as having a faint bluish cast. He shook his head, feeling like Daffy Duck doing an over-the-top wet, slobbery double-take. The light still remained after he refocused his eyes on her.

As a grade schooler, he'd befriended a boy down his street named Jeff. He only saw him after school and on the weekends because Jeff rode a bus to a Catholic school across town. Other kids in the neighborhood made fun of Jeff for the starchy white uniform shirt and evergreen clip-on tie he wore, but Ron liked to run with him. He was the only one in the neighborhood who could keep up with him on his sting ray bike. And his father kept an awesome train layout that covered nearly every inch of the basement in their house.

His middle school friend had come to mind again, because at one point Ron visited the Catholic Church Jeff and his family attended. It had been the first and only time he'd witnessed one of their unusual services, with all the standing and kneeling. Throughout much of the celebration, which they called a "mass," Ron's eyes wandered, alighting on the ornate statues and explosively colorful stained glass renderings of the station of the cross. On one wall hang a painting of Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ. Pale blue light shone from her the same way as it had from this woman in a truck stop restaurant.

The waitress carried a large oval platter bearing Ron's food and several other orders. He tore into the cheeseburger as soon as she laid the plate in front of him. While he ate, a plan for approaching the Mustang lady suddenly occurred to him. He could over tip the waitress and encourage her to carry a note over to her.

What to say, though? While enjoying a spoonful of chili he thought of a few possibilities: "Hi, my name is Ron Lewandowski and I've been sitting her admiring you from afar." No, he didn't want anything that would sound too corny or trite. All he wanted to do was meet her and get a good look at her. From there he could move on to other things. Finally he decided on something simple: "Hi, I noticed you from the other side of the restaurant. I was hoping we could talk. My name is Ron." He always carried scrap paper in his shirt pockets or the button-down outer pockets of his jeans. Between yakking on the CB and writing down "to-do" lists there was always something to jot down. He found a nice, crisp clean little scrap to compose his important little note. He scrawled his thought down on paper while munching on the remainder of the cheeseburger. Once he had finished he wrote a second draft, this time taking extra care to write smoother cursive. In high school he'd received a 500 word theme back with the teacher's comment "Can you please print or type? I'm going blind trying to read this."

Once Ron had finished the final version he waited for the plain little waitress to appear, feeding himself more spoonfuls of chili. He surveyed the black and white checkerboard tile restaurant floor, craning his neck to look toward the kitchen, thinking she might have sneaked back there to collect orders. When he turned his attention back to the dining room, he found himself looking at the belt buckle and attached radio of a burly policeman most likely tall enough to look him in the eye.

Ron looked upward, scanning the crisp, pleated lines of the khaki shirt and a name tag which read "Gabriel" then to the smooth, clean-shaven face of a fair-skinned officer who seemed to be in his early thirties. "Can I help you, officer?" Ron said, drawing from his years of experience of the best way to deal with the law: polite, almost fawning respect.

The policeman spoke in measured, deep tones. "Do you have the red Kenilworth rig with Oklahoma plates?"

"Yes."

"We need you to move it, sir. It's blocking one of the entrances for the weigh station."

Ron noticed an uncannily delicate china blue quality to Officer Gabriel's eyes. He said "No problem," and stood up, pushing himself away from the table to walk back outside. On his way out he turned to glance at the woman and she turned for a moment. Long enough for him to see the contours of a high, sculpted cheekbone.

He walked back to his rig on the windless, early afternoon of what would be a warm day. How could a big policeman have entered the diner without him noticing, he wondered. A guy like that could not have just skulked in. He shrugged it off, climbing back up into his rig, firing up the engine, yanking on the wheel and the shift lever. It took him only three gears to get the rig into a safer spot, well away from the fenced weigh station.

He picked up his pace when walking back to the restaurant. The woman had arrived several minutes before he had and might be finishing up as he walked inside. If it took standing up to hunt the waitress down to give her the note and instructions, he would do it. But then, what was wrong with simply walking up to her table and saying "Hi, I noticed you from the other side of the restaurant and thought you might be interesting so I'd like to introduce myself." What was she going to do, shoot him?

When he cleared the restaurant foyer and smelled the pine-sol, he found to his shock and amazement that she had gone. No sign of Gabriel the cop either. The waitress, however, loomed in the area of the tables on the other side of the restaurant. When Ron had reached her she had reached the woman's vacant table and was scooping up a couple of bills and change. She snapped her neck around, startled, when she saw him.

Ron said "That woman who was sitting here, she left, right?"

The waitress nodded.

Ron hastily dropped a five and a couple of bills at the place where he had sat and half-walked, half-ran for the exit, trying not to appear like a crazed maniac. Once outside he ran around the building to the side, where he knew the lady had parked the Mustang. By the time the car came into view, he saw that she was within thirty feet of it. He scampered for the remaining yards to close the gap between them, not wanting to get him winded, and unable to speak.

Once he reached conversational distance he realized that the woman was tall. Close to six feet. Sunlight in the parking lot radiated coppery wisps into her way mane. He still had yet to see her face. She turned.

Ron stepped back. He first saw the arch of one high, delicate eyebrow as she regarded him. Time expanded: he could have been looking at her for a second or an hour. There was a slight, almost imperceptible head tilt paired with the quizzical sparkle of her modestly slanting eyes, offsetting her flawless, fair skin. When she spoke, her lips formed the words expressively, as if she had been trying to hit the correct notes along a musical scale. "Good day young man. Can I help you?"

The formality of the greeting and the woman's hypnotic tone silenced him momentarily. He shook his head, pausing to breathe in before addressing her, unable to keep his hands from awkwardly flailing in front of him, though, in a waving-off gesture.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, miss," he said, cringing at the choked-up way the words escaped from his mouth. "I thought you were someone I knew."

She smiled, revealing two flawless rows of pearl white teeth, the corners of her eyes crinkling girlishly. "That's quite all right," she said. Ron walked away slowly but stopped to watch her swath her hair with the silken scarf and start her engine, heartened by the reverberation of all the barrels kicking in. When the car pulled away, he committed the license plate to memory: "MEW-339."
Chapter Nineteen

Ron followed her.

When the woman had gone to her Mustang, he had pretended to shuffle off toward his rig. While walking he had turned to look over his shoulder several times. She fired up the engine, eased the car out of the lot and angled off on a course east. Same as him.

He decided that he would leisurely tail her. For the first several miles she was not yet in view so he wondered if she was a lead foot. While driving, he briefly looked up at the sky. It was so much bigger out west than in the plains where he'd grown up or the crowded claustrophobia of interconnected megalopolises of the northeast. There, in Arizona, he could sit tall and stare down the straight highway clear to the vanishing point on the horizon. Miles ahead the vehicles all appeared to be fleas, scurrying in an orderly, straight line. So far, no yellow.

Watching the road, pounding the clutch and jerking through all the gears he re-summoned his mental photo frame of the woman. Her height had fascinated him; he had always been drawn to females of taller-than-average height, ever since high school. In high school, there had been the "Twin Towers" of the drill team, Wendy Tyree and LeeAnn Veigle. Each of them easily five-ten, he liked to watch them twirl and strut on the football field. The Mustang lady was taller. Then there was that billowy, glorious, cascading brunette hair, emanating an aura that set her apart from all the similarly-tressed ladies he'd ever seen.

Her eyes seemed wise, disarming. When she'd looked at him he had to stand back and catch his breath. They seemed slanted yet she was clearly not Asian. Maybe it was the way the sculpted cheekbones balanced off against them. Ron had long considered himself a connoisseur of feminine beauty. While he and his friends would look at a centerfold or pictorial from Playboy or Penthouse, they would often toss out predictable comments like "I'd drink her bath water," and "I'd like to stick it in her!" Ron would instead offer a detailed analysis. "The way her faces seems out of focus it looks like they had to do some heavy-duty airbrushing on her," and "her forehead is too high for size and set of her eyes," or "shorter hair cut, in a bob with Betty Page bangs would make her look sexier."

If the woman in the Mustang had been in a magazine pictorial, Ron imagined it would have been a classy one: possibly laying atop a grand piano, in profile, propped on her shoulders, head leaning back, her hair flowing downward, tickling the piano keys. Her body at once hidden and tantalizingly revealed by a cleverly placed fur draped atop her. Her feet strapped in by high-heeled sandals. Ron instantly realized though, that the 'Stang woman was several years older than the typical girl they featured in such magazines, possibly decades. It was more the knowingness of her expression and the elegant ease with which she carried herself, more than any wrinkles or dull, dry skin. On an objective standard, she could have been thirty or fifty.

But there was more to it than just that.

An odd sense of "rightness" compelled Ron forward, seeking the upcoming stretches of asphalt for her. For a moment he thought of the sappy role Richard Dreyfus played in the movie "American Graffiti." He sees a glimpse of a beautiful blond in a white-on-white '57 T-Bird convertible and she captivates him, goddess-like and he spends the entire rest of the movie searching for her, scouring the streets. Was this something like that, but on a vaster scale? The immediate difference was their ages: the woman in the yellow Mustang could possibly have been old enough to be his mother.

Was it, then, an oedipal thing? The English literature classes revealed to him that weird things happened in Shakespearean era plays. A guy turned into a donkey; an upstart killed a king, chopping off his head and jabbing it onto the end of a club; two lovers killed each other because their parents couldn't get along; and finally, that kid with a thing for his mother that drives him into a possessed trance that compels him to kill his own father.

Was this like that?

No.

There was something larger than just normal horny curiosity or white-lined boredom at work. Maybe if Shakespeare had been alive today he might write a play about a long distance trucker entranced by a muse. That was it! She must have been some kind of a spiritual guide for him. Not in that sickeningly sweet Olivia Newton-John way from "Xanadu," but in a way that she was divinely sent for him.

If nothing else, it took the drudgery out of another long run. He realized that in his daydream about seventies movies, Shakespeare plots, and ethereal beings that he'd allowed his speed to drift downward. This was the Great American West, for crying out loud. He jumped down on the pedals and slammed the shifted down, fancying for a moment that he was in a medieval jousting duel, fighting for the lady's honor.

His speed climbed from sixty to sixty-five, then seventy and nudging upward. In the higher gears the Kenilworth's engine droned sweetly, like the high-pitched whine of the buzz saw from his grandfather's basement. The tool he'd used to construct a coaster car for him out of planks of pine. Ironically he realized that his load behind him consisted primarily of plywood and pine which would become part of the inventory of some giant super hardware store chain.

So where was she? Ron realized that she'd had several different opportunities to angle off highway 40, either north or south. For all he knew, she could have been on her way to either Mexico or the Grand Canyon. She seemed headed on the same beeline as he was, however: due east. The truck strained when he threw down another gear. It climbed a gradual grade, and for a moment his view of the road ahead had been limited to the crest of the grade. Once he reached the top, he leaned forward in the cab. Traffic had increased, since he was drawing near to one of the top tourist destinations in the universe. Still he saw a flash of yellow among the cars ahead and his pulse quickened. Instinctively he tromped down on the gas pedal and the rig lurched forward.

It was her.

He sped up slightly, to keep pace. She may have been a pretty woman with a delicate face like a china doll, but she had kept a heavy foot on the gas pedal. During his years on the road, he'd flirted with many women from his high vantage perch. The dance usually involved speeding up, cruising ahead of them, then slowing down, allowing them to ride in the back draft for a few miles. If a woman suddenly bolted out in front of him and stayed there for a few miles, then he knew she was interested and responding, playing into his game. Sometimes hours would pass while they would play "now you see me, now you don't." Inventive lady drivers would flash him glances of long, slim, tanned legs or cleavage. Other drivers he'd talked to had told him of even more spectacular goings-on. One of them, named Randy had described passing a taxicab where "the girl was paying for her cab ride, but she wasn't using money."

In this case, Ron thought it best simply to hang back and tail her. She'd tied her hair up in the scarf again and put on big sunglasses that covered the top half of her face. Her motions were few and very limited: she would occasionally brush a stray strand of hair off of her cheekbones or adjust her sweater collar. Other times she kept her hands on the wheel, in the ten and two o'clock position and gaze out at the open road ahead. She seemed to be entranced. Ron considered playing his game of pulling up alongside her just to see if she would react to him and break out of her spell. He even started to swing the wheel around and grab for the shifter knob, plunging down with his foot once again but decided it was best to lay back.

Something was guiding him. He thought it must have been his imagination, but he could sense a pale violet aura around the entire car. It emanated a force field that kept him back at a distance, watching her. It was a lonely stretch of highway, on a day during the middle of the week, in the early afternoon. Cars and trucks passed them headed the opposite direction on I-40. Up ahead he could see other cars also headed east. Yet it seemed that other vehicles, other entities shared the road with them. The more and more he thought about it, the more and more his skin tingled. Goosebumps on a hot afternoon on a desert highway in Arizona in May.

Ron made note of their surroundings: they were headed into Grand Canyon territory. The main national park was still several miles north of the highway but it was still possible to view many of the great gashes in the earth from the roadside. As a kid he had learned of the national park in his geography class and had seen pictures of it on television, during travelogues and in westerns.

The movies had always shown it as a place of spectacular, awesome grandeur, but as far as natural wonders were concerned, Ron felt that the Niagara Falls had it all over the Grand Canyon, hands down. True, the Grand Canyon was sprawling and majestic, with beautiful rock formations but it was also dry and dusty and barren. The falls had enraptured him from the first moment he'd seen it. They seemed to have been perfectly sculpted by nature. The way the countryside fell off in a perfect shelf and a flowing, surging river rushed over it in a perfect, steady stream, creating beautiful rainbows was a treat for the eyes in a way that the Grand Canyon simply could not compare in his eyes. Instead, the canyon seemed to be the very antithesis of the falls, possibly after millions of years of wind and climate changes, plus an ice age or two. It had all diminished the raging river to the pathetic little trickle of the Colorado, thousands of feet below.

Ron snapped out of his geographic inner soliloquy long enough to realize that he'd fallen behind her again. He grabbed for the shifter, nearly knocking his thermos off the console. At that moment the sun peeked out from behind a fluffy cloud and shards of sunlight sliced through the windshield and pierced through his vision, piercing hot pokers of pain into his brain. He cried out in the cab, and grabbed his temple, wincing. The pain was so intense he wondered if he should slam down the clutch and angle the rig onto the shoulder to allow it to subside. Instead he paused for a few deep breaths and pinched the skin on the back of his hand. It was a trick his family doctor had taught him when he was sixteen and had been having the headaches for four years.

Ever since his accident on the moped. When he was eleven years old he'd seen an advertisement for the moped in the back pages of Boy's Life magazine. His friends from the neighborhood had already abandoned their sting ray bikes the year before and most of them had moved on to racing bikes with high wheels and skinny tires. The moped looked much different from the racing bikes. Shorter, wider wheels for one thing, and it contained a small engine that would power it, similar to a motorcycle. No special license was required to ride or own one. To Ronnie it seemed only a couple of small steps away from driving a car, and it cost only $199.99.

The first time he'd shown his father the picture of the moped, he had simply smirked. "Yeah, I can see you becoming the human hood ornament for a semi rig," he said.

His mother wouldn't even discuss the idea.

After several lengthy pleas at the dinner table, his father finally relented, in his sighing, resigned style. "All right, Ronnie," he said. "I can see this means a lot to you. I thought it was going to be a passing thing. If you can come up with the first $100, I'll match you the other $100 and you can get your moped."

And Ron set out to save every dime of his allowance and comb the neighborhood for other money making opportunities. A freak blizzard hit Tulsa that following winter and had dropped over a foot of snow. Ronnie and his friend Jerry knocked on several doors that week, bundled up in ski clothes offering to clear people's driveways for ten dollars. By the end of that week he'd done eight driveways, splitting the take with Jerry sixty-forty (since Ronnie was bigger and stronger, able to clear away much more snow). When spring finally arrived that year he arranged to borrow his father's lawnmower and cut lawns for five dollars. By the time school let out for summer vacation, he had his $100.

Ron could remember the event as if it had happened the day before yesterday. His father took him to Reed's Hardware supply, a business that also dealt in bicycles. They carried the same exact Moto Guzzi moped he'd seen in the magazine. He settled on a bright orange one that had been marked down to $185 because of a scratch on the paint and a speedometer glass that had cracked on the edge during shipment.

When Ron took it for his first ride he'd hyperventilated in his giddiness and had trouble keeping the vehicle standing upright. As if he'd somehow forgotten how to ride a bike. It was a bright, sunny day in early June, and as Ron cut in and out of car traffic around the Will Rogers shopping plaza, he felt as if his life had finally become perfect. A few drivers had shouted at him out of their windows but he paid them no mind. Their indignation was a sure sign he was being recognized as a daredevil, a young man on a fast track to life's inner circle.

None of the other kids in his school had a moped, though many of them talked of either getting that or a motor scooter. Over the next few weeks, Ron pedaled or cruised on his moped everywhere, to Lack's market for licorice shoestring runs or to Downey Acres pool where all his friends with their water slicked hair would enviously watch him circle the parking lot beyond the concrete poolside.

By the fourth of July the bright orange machine had paled somewhat and Ron longed to go faster, to feel more power beneath him than the tiny moped engine could provide. To further worsen things he saw Terry McNeely a red-haired guy just a year older than him, riding a small Kawasaki. Suddenly the moped seemed only slightly more exciting than a Big Wheel. Still, he continued to ride it. He realized that something as fast and flashy as a Kawasaki loomed many snowy driveways and overgrown yards away. He would need a license, also. In the meantime, Ron discovered a trick that would make his lowly moped seem more powerful and faster. He could pick up speed if he accelerated at the top of a hill. Gravity would take over and for a few moments he'd feel as if he rode a mechanical steed, nimbly cutting in and out through cursing drivers in traffic.

Halfway through August the odometer passed the 2,000 mark. Exhilarated, he wondered how far he could have gone if he traveled that distance non-stop. California, where all the movie stars were. During the last week before school started he rode his steed practically every waking moment. His favorite trick was to catch Riverside Avenue at the aqueduct and turn the corner to McBride parkway. The gradual grade would carry him past Lacey's cards, The Hobby Shack, and the post office before he could turn quickly into Landmark Way and slow down.

That August day was cool and misty, as if the gods were preparing everyone for the coming school year. Traffic was thicker than normal with parents scurrying to back-to-school sales. Sounds Incredible records across the street was playing the new Beatles album over the outdoor speakers and when Ron sped down Riverside Avenue, he could hear the chorus of one of the songs: "Let me take you down, cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields...nothing is real.. And nothing to get hung about" When Ron turned quickly at Landmark his tires hit a wet patch at the corner. The moped skidded sideways, into the path of an oncoming sedan that could not stop. The front wheel of the moped caught under the car's bumper, launching Ron out of the seat.

Strawberry fields forever.

Ron shuddered when he thought about it, eighteen years later. He'd been thrown forty feet, bouncing off the roof and hood of a pickup truck before hitting the pavement. His shoulder hit first, and then his head slammed down violently, sending him into a coma that lasted one month, keeping him in the hospital until around Halloween. He'd shattered his collarbone and arm, split open his skull and broke both of his legs when they tumbled behind him, raggedy-Andy like. All these years later sharp temperature changes still caused the blinding headaches.

There were no such sharp changes in the Arizona desert, just heat, heat, heat. He glanced down at the convertible and the corners of the woman's scarf fluttering in the wind. Something caused his skin to tingle and his insides to shiver though the air conditioning barely worked inside the cab.

He remembered that he'd awakened bald-headed and sore, with a mouth so dry it felt as if it had been sand blasted. There was a fuzzy outline of something that at first looked like a giant white crab coming at him. The picture gained clarity gradually, like the picture on an old TV set with its tubes slowly warming up. Eventually the crab's claws metamorphosed into a nurse's arms and the pointed shelled head revealed itself to be her white cap. Then he could hear her saying "Ronald, can you hear me?" and it seemed like she had to shout over loud talking and singing coming from somewhere.

He thought at first that she'd met him at the side of the road where he'd landed after his encounter with the pickup truck. Another nurse appeared, then a young doctor with bushy hair and scared-looking pale eyes, the pupils merely pinholes. Later on, his overjoyed mother and father came to see him and then a few of his school buddies. Someone showed him a newspaper clipping about his awakening. It said that his first words were "The Empress saved me," and he had always chalked it up to delirious talk.

The CB radio squawked loudly, blasting him out of his meandering daydream of long ago. His right hand wavered, knocking his opened thermos bottle off the console. He bent over quickly to retrieve it, before it spilled out all the lukewarm black coffee. On the way down he caught a glimpse of a highway exit for the Petrified Forest National Park and a view of the convertible. When he returned upright, he decided to gun the engine and catch up to the Mustang. She was in the left lane so he would be able to get a good look at her.

While he gradually pulled up even with her, the same cold shiver returned, gaining intensity, causing him to tremble. Clouds above had blotted out the sun's rays, adding to this effect. He pulled the cab ahead, to get a look at her face and she suddenly took off her sunglasses, dropping them into the console. He saw her eyes and said "Oh, my god."
Chapter Twenty

At a Tulsa, Oklahoma children's hospital, thirteen-year old Ronnie Lewandowski lay in a coma. Three weeks before he had ridden his moped, which he had bought through money earned over two summers, very fast on a busy street. He turned a corner at a high speed and crashed head-on into an oncoming car. The front wheel of the moped had caught under the car's grille and front bumper, the force from the sudden, jarring stop catapulting him skyward. He rolled off the top of a pickup truck cab and fell to the pavement, his left shoulder hitting first, his skull following.

He was not wearing a helmet.

He lay on the hospital bed in the Intensive Care unit, eyes slightly open, still and calm. A ventilator helped him to breathe. Casts held his shoulder and right leg, which had shattered on impact. Cardiac monitors showed that his heart was beating at a steady, healthy rhythm.

Ronald's mother stayed with him continually, sometimes sleeping over on a cot the hospital provided, while her husband would only be able to visit after a long day's work at the plant. Alma Lewandowski held tightly onto a handkerchief, which she would often cry into. "The doctors say that there is brain activity," she said to her husband, looking at him out of glazed, red eyes and a washed-out, pale face, her normally neat honey blond hair disheveled.

George, her husband curled an arm around her and pulled her in close to him for an instant. The brief, simple gesture never failed to calm her. "Then there's hope, right?" he said, voice gravelly from a cigarette habit he'd picked up while overseas during World War II. They looked down at their son, who seemed as innocent as a newborn.

"G, what are we going to do?" Alma said, in a voice that creaked and crackled with the exhaustion of leftover, wracking sobs.

He could only sigh. They stood there for what could have been an hour or just fifteen minutes. When Alma lifted her head from his shoulder she saw a violet dusk sky outside the window. Moments later a nurse appeared. This one seemed more mature and self-assured than the other caregivers. She was about average height and sturdily built with a calm yet intense demeanor that had probably seen more than its share of crises in a nursing career that may have spanned a couple of decades. The nurse glided to Ronald's bedside and in fluid motions checked his temperature and pulse and listened to his heart. She blithely acknowledged Alma and George.

To Alma, the nurse seemed efficient, yet approachable. She continued on, jotting notes onto a chart, inspecting Ronald's tubing and the monitor sensors while his mother searched for the appropriate question. "Is there anything at all we can do for him?"

The nurse, whose tag read "Diane" glanced down at her patient and then looked at his parents. "Well, he knows you're here," she said. "Go ahead and talk to him."

"Talk to him?" Alma was incredulous. She had assumed that Ronald was unconscious, asleep.

"Sure," Diane went on. "He can hear you. He can understand you. Tell him anything you would tell him if he were wide awake and sitting up."

George seemed suddenly sheepish to Alma, the way he often did at emotionally charged times. Such as the time he proposed to her while they drove home from a VFW dance in 1949. "Well, I'd feel kind of silly just talking to him, if he can't answer me," he said, softly.

The nurse smiled. "Just a word here or there," she said. She glanced around the room and noticed a television on its perch above them, in the corner. "Does he have a favorite TV show? You can turn on the television and he might be able to enjoy it."

George and Alma looked at each other again. "What shows does he watch?" he asked. "Seems like he likes that one with the monster family."

"The Munsters?" Alma said. "I think they took that one off the air."

George strode toward the television, searching for an "on" button or knob. "Hell, let's turn it on anyway. If he's awake and understanding things like this nurse says then maybe he's getting bored to death if nothing else."

The second the words escaped from George's mouth he winced, his skin turning red around his temples. Alma's heart had skipped a beat and she instinctively clutched at her chest, gasping. Diana said "There's a remote switch at the end of a cable on Ronald's bed. That's how you turn on the TV." She reached for it and plunged the button down, the picture on the color set rapidly materializing. Within a few moments, the sound of a commercial jingle filled the room.

When the nurse left, Alma felt grateful for the diversion of the television show. "George, let's sit down," she said and they both found institutional vinyl stuffed chairs and slid them across the linoleum toward Ronald's bed. Alma reached for her son's hand and held it as the opening credits flashed across the screen for a show entitled "Galaxian."

George wrinkled his nose while gazing up at the images. A narrator with an exaggeratedly enthusiastic voice recanted the events of the previous week's show while excerpts of it played out on the screen. To Alma it looked like a bunch of grown men in identical bright red knit shirts in some type of cops and robbers game that took place in outer space. There was a beautiful woman in a skintight tiger-striped costume who glowered down at them from a throne. "These costumes on these shows are getting kind of racy," she said. "That looks like it's painted on her."

"I know this one," George said. "This is the show that don't make no sense. Just those guys blasting off here and there, running around all over the place, always getting in trouble or something."

"See what else is on," Alma said.

George pressed the button on the remote switch and discovered that "Bonanza" was playing on the other station while the third played a dry-looking news program about patients in mental hospitals. "Well, what do you think Ronnie likes better? Cowboys or astronauts?"

"Put that space show back on," Alma said. "The music is livelier. Maybe he'll be able to hear it better."

George complied, and after the opening credits of "Galaxian" faded, a commercial about a furniture spot remover appeared. Alma glanced down at her son's calm, peaceful face. For an instant she thought she could see one of his eyelids twitch. She leaned forward to examine him more closely. Her husband asked "What's the matter, honey?"

After that her son lay completely still. Alma concluded that she must have imagined it in her desperation to bring Ronald back around. "Nothing," she said. "I thought I saw him twitch, but I must have just been imagining it." She settled back into her chair for the beginning of "Galaxian."

The intense brunette woman with the costume cat ears was sitting at a conference table with a group of strange alien creatures and two of the Earth men wearing bright red knit shirts. "That's Jacy Rayner," George said. "Heard some of the younger guys at the plant talking about her, all ga-ga like."

Unknown to both of them, Alma's prayers were about to be answered. Jacy Rayner, as Empress Tigra, was about to get through to their son. This is how it happened:

Ronnie woke up. The first thing he was aware of was that he was sitting on his haunches. If he had been sleeping, he thought, he should have felt groggy or had problems focusing his vision at first. Yet he could see as clearly as if he had been awake for hours. He saw sand and pebbles in the bright sun. Where was he? The last he knew he had been on his moped rounding a corner, but that seemed as if it had happened days, weeks ago.

When he stood and raised his head to survey his surroundings he realized that he was not at home. Tulsa was flat, with trees and farmland to go with ponds and rivers. He found himself in a bright, barren land with mountain ranges in the distance with glassy, craggy peaks. Most of the ground beneath him was covered by the same sandy, pebbly soil on which he stood but strangely his line of sight was broken up by strange forms of vegetation. There were thatches of spiny turf which may have been a type of grass except it was in the strangest color he had ever seen: lavender.

He saw trees also, but they were quite different from anything he had ever seen at home or even during the time he had driven out west with his family to see the Sequoias in California. They were short, only about ten feet high at the tallest, and the tree trunks glistened like snakeskin. The trunks were usually about the thickness of a telephone pole and complex networks of branches and twigs would fan out from them. The branches carried large iridescent leaves which would twinkle and glisten. A small breeze would rustle them, revealing silvery greens, muted pinks, and red vein like threads.

Ronnie was on a hillside and in the valley below, about a hundred yards away a crystalline stream babbled. He had never seen water that clean before, outside of a pool. He could see rocky prominences below the surface which reminded him of an underwater river that ran in caverns he'd visited with his parents when they went to St. Louis. How did he get here? He was reminded of the scene in "The Wizard of Oz," when Dorothy lands in an enchantingly colorful place after having been dropped there inside her house, by a tornado.

She says "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." Partly because he wanted to make sure his voice still worked, and partly because he wondered how his voice would carry in this strange environment, he said the words out loud: "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." After pausing for a moment, he added "But where are we?" And why weren't there any other people around?

He didn't know whether to head toward the pure, crystalline stream or to the strange thatches of grass but decided to inspect one of the vivid leaves from one of the serpentine trees. Once he started to walk he felt that his footsteps were unusually light. When he would lift on his toes to propel himself forward it felt as if he went airborne for a millisecond or so and then his foot would gently impact the ground. In gym class at the end of last year he'd weighed about one hundred and fifteen pounds but thought that in this strange place he probably weighed about half that. Compulsively he broke into a run on the hillside, amazed that with the slightest effort he took great leaps and bounds and felt that he had to grind his heels into the dirt or else he would bypass the tree.

All the while he glanced all around him to try to find any other sign of life besides the plants and the river. He reached up to tug one of the leaves from the tree, surprised that it held fast. He pulled down on it harder, hearing a "pop" when the leaf was freed from the branch. With the leaf nestled into his palm he inspected it, tracing a fingertip over the vein like ridges. As he turned his palm, the colors of the leaf turned first a yellow green, then tinged with pink to a darker fuchsia and then finally to red. When he would turn his palm the other way, the sequence would repeat in reverse until he was once again looking at a yellow-green leaf. "Where am I?" he asked, in a confused, hushed whisper.

His words seemed to have been heard by someone further down in the valley because a man's voice shouted out the command "You there! Stay where you are!" The sound echoed, coming from all directions at the same time but Ronnie looked down along the riverside and saw a grotesque apparition, a large man with a bushy head of hair, and from the waist down, the body of a horse!

Ronnie instinctively ran in the opposite direction. To his horror, he could hear the strange equine creature chasing him, hooves pattering on the ground. He reached the crest of a hill and realized instantly how limited his scope of vision had been. The hill descended the other side into a sprawling plain and a sparkling city miles in the distance, buildings made of a translucent glassy material that shone pink in some areas and sapphire in others. The sun shone down from beyond the buildings and at first washed out the details of the three men and one woman climbing the hill, wearing glistening, supple armor. Frantic, Ronnie looked back the other way to see the man-horse closing in on him, the sun shining from over his shoulder. It was impossible! He shifted toward the plain and the city first, then back to the hoofed creature that gained on before he could confirm that yes, there were two suns shining.

When the horse creature neared him, Ronnie could see the details and expressions of the man's face and saw a wizened look of caring and kind compassion. He instantly felt his anxiety evaporate when the man said "I won't hurt you boy, just stay where you are."

The four armored warriors reached them just moments later. Ronnie thought it was weird that none of them wore helmets but each one wore a belt with several small objects attached to it. While he was still surveying the faces of the strangely pacific looking knight like people, the man-horse said something in a language Ronnie could not understand. It sounded like a rapid succession of clicks, squawks and gurgles to him. The largest of the knights, a man with auburn hair, pale skin, and wide shoulders nodded, taking in the information, seeming to understand. That man pulled one of the objects off the belt' it was the size of a small walkie-talkie, and sure enough, he talked into it, using the same type of language as the man-horse.

Centaur, Ronnie realized, was the name for the half-man, half-horse creature in his midst. He asked "Where am I anyway?"

A woman's voice answered, the lone female knight who'd ascended the hill. "You are on the planet Abscaria, summoned for special audience with our Empress."

"How did I get here?" Ronnie asked, looking at the faces of the other knights, realizing that somehow, everybody present knew English along with the other strange, gargle-sounding language. "I don't remember getting onto a spaceship or anything. And it would take a long time, wouldn't it?" He looked in front of and behind himself again, at the two suns.

One of the other warriors spoke up, the smaller one, with the low forehead. "You were riding your bike and you got lost," he said.

"You mean my moped," Ronnie corrected him.

"Come on, we're going to take you to the empress," the man-horse said, trotting toward the glass city down in the valley. Ronnie again looked at the hooves of the man, amazed. They clip-clop, clip-clopped just like horses he had seen back home. When he started to descend the hill with his strange new companions, he realized that no one had ever told him how he'd ended up there.

"I got lost," Ronnie said, "but how did I get here?"

"You had a bad fall," the woman said. Feathers that had been stitched into her coppery hair glistened in the light.

Ronnie suddenly remembered his last moments on the moped. He took a turn, saw a glimpse of oncoming traffic and discovered that he could not stop. "Oh no," he said, instinctively looking down at his hands. "Is this a dream?"

The warriors all stopped and the Centaur tumbled for a moment on some loose rock when he tried to slow down. They looked at each other and then at Ronnie. With all the attention, he suddenly felt queasy at the pit of his stomach.

An even brighter light, the brightest light Ronnie had ever seen in his life, flashed in the distance, behind the glass city. Once, when he'd tagged along with his father to a diesel repair shop, he'd seen a man weld two pieces of metal together with a torch. The spark at the end would melt the metal so he could fuse the pieces together in the same way he had used model glue to put the fender of a plastic car onto its chassis. They stood about fifty feet away from the man, who wore a full face helmet to protect himself while welding the metal.

Ronnie's father told him not to look at the end of the torch once the man started welding, because the light was so hot, bright, and intense. Instead, he did the opposite, his attention riveted onto the end of the sticklike torch as the man turned a knob and gas escaped from a tank with a whooshing noise. The small, bright light had been so intense that he had to look away immediately, even when watching from a distance of fifty feet. The light in the sky that Ronnie saw at that moment was like the light from that torch, amplified about a hundred times. Strangely, however, he could look at it without blinking when he could not stand to look at the sun for more than two or three seconds.

The light traveled, coming toward them, and for a moment Ronnie thought of Tinker Bell. He looked down at his hands again, slapping them together, feeling sharp pain as his fingers and knuckles knocked together. He also jumped up and down to stamp his feet on the loose ground but felt frustrated since he seemed to float a little when he jumped up which made it difficult for him to come down with any force.

Ronnie had had vivid dreams before, some of them pleasant, like the time he rode the back of a benevolent dolphin in the ocean, just like Bud did on "Flipper," but then there were nightmares, too, such as the time he dreamt of playing soccer with his fourth grade class and when he kicked the ball toward the goal, Craig Musetti tripped him. It caused him to fall and break his leg into a grotesque, impossible angle. This strange land, was not a dream in the sense that those other experiences were dreams. But what was it?

He looked up, into the light and details of a human body started to materialize. Ronnie recognized a head and shoulders, and then the chest appeared. The man in the light seemed to be headed directly toward him and details of a face gradually appeared until at once a giant being in the sky looked down at him. The head was the size of a house and while the man looked down at him calmly, Ronnie felt like a bug on a twig. The expression of the face was kind, however and made him feel comfortable even though right then another part of him knew that he should have been screaming or something. The warriors and the man-horse stayed in place, right where they were. To Ronnie that was strangest.

"Are you God?" Ronnie asked, and the giant man chuckled softly, and Ronnie knew immediately that he must not have been. God, the all-powerful, would have been fiercer than this.

When the man spoke back to him the words came to him from the inside, reverberating through him. "No, I'm not," he said. "But I was sent by your father." Ronnie's knees felt weak, and then he suddenly, magically floated into the air to become one with the giant, angel-like being. He remembered the pictures of winged creatures he'd seen during Sunday school. To Ronnie they looked ineffectual, with their horns and their robes. To be lifted into the air with angel was exhilarating.

The only other experience he'd had to compare it with was when his uncle Hank took him for a ride on his small airplane at the Muskogee airport. Of course that time he'd been surrounded by seat cushions and aircraft metal. This sensation was like being lifted up by the most gigantic Ferris wheel in the universe where, on the other side of the arc he was gently placed down on the ground in front of one of the glass buildings.

A man with gray hair and a beard met him in front of a door that must have been fifty feet high. Ronnie thought that he looked like the kind, unassuming type of man who would umpire at a tee-ball game. "Who are you?" Ronnie asked.

"My name is Warberg," he said, calmly and politely. "I'll be taking you inside."

Ronnie balked at going inside the building, however. To him, the gentleman appeared to be further up the strata than the soldiers back on the hilltop (who were probably following some sort of an order) or the Centaur (who might have also had half of an equine brain). "Maybe I can ask you," Ronnie started, as the man took his hand off a lever that probably opened the door. "Where am I?"

The man named Warberg looked down at him before offering an answer. He had the firm, appraising manner of a school principal or a policeman. He swallowed briefly before speaking. "You are on a planet in another solar system and another galaxy. The planet has a name but it is in a language that is different from any on Earth and it would be difficult, if not impossible for you to pronounce."

"But the lady back there said I was on the planet 'Abracadabra' or something," Ronnie said, but Warberg walked on, ignoring him. Before he could respond, though, Ronnie jumped ahead to his next thought: "If it is in another galaxy and another solar system, how in the world did I get here?" The question seemed to disarm the gentleman. He glanced around at the hard pavement beneath them and took Ronnie's arm as he guided him away from the wall.

When Ronnie turned, he saw a delicate, ornate bench a few feet away. The only other place he'd seen one like it had been in a city park. There was a fancy, wrought iron one there where the metal had been forged into an elegant pattern of flowers and leaves.

While that one had been solid black, this one on the strange planet appeared to be made of solid gold, glistening in the light. Ronnie swore to himself that it had appeared out of thin air. When they had passed that way only moments before the broad expanse of pavement surrounding the building had been completely empty.

"Maybe we'd better sit down," Warberg said.

Ronnie felt wary of sitting on an object that had just materialized out of nowhere. He reached out and touched the bench, lightly grazing it with his fingertips at first, and then pressing down on it with his palm. Meanwhile Warberg bent at the waist and sat down, the bench holding steady. Ronnie followed, sitting at the other end, opposite him. He looked away pensively, narrowing his eyes. "So tell me," Ronnie said, leaning forward, thinking he might have to wave at him to get his attention. "What am I doing here? How did I get here?"

Warberg inhaled deeply before he spoke. "You were brought here by Empress Tigra."

"I don't remember getting on any flying saucer or anything. And even if I did, wouldn't it take me a long time to get here? The last thing I remember was riding my moped out near the Ribbon and a car was coming from the other way." Then with a blinding flash, he suddenly assumed the worst. "Wait a minute. Am I" and he felt the words stick in his throat as the rest of it was just too overwhelming to contemplate.

Warberg looked across and him and smiled faintly. "You're alive. You were badly hurt when your motorized bicycle collided with that other vehicle. But you'll be fine."

"You know? How? What happened to me?"

"Your skull was fractured and you also broke your collarbone, your arm and several ribs. Your leg was shattered and the doctors had to put it back together with metal pins."

Ronnie instinctively reached up to touch his scalp and found that it was the same as always, clean and unbroken, covered with thick hair. "That's impossible," he said. "And how was I able to walk around back there? He quickly stood, jumping up and down, flexing his knees. "How could it have gotten better so quickly?"

Warberg reached out to him from the bench and gently grabbed hold of his hand. "Your body is healing back at the hospital near your home."

"Well then, how could I be here, too?"

Warberg closed his eyes briefly, once again apparently searching for an answer. "The mind and your soul are larger, vaster than you can imagine."

Ronnie was looking back at Warberg and felt his arms and legs freeze up. Warberg's eyes seemed to tell him more than his words were saying. The eyes were the color of the sky, the ocean, and the brilliant twilight all at once. He still looked at him even as Warberg rose from the bench, still clasping his wrist. A moment later, though, he let go and stepped forward, patting Ronnie on the back, urging him toward the giant door. "Let's go in."

Ronnie peered inside as the door swung open all the way and in keeping with everything he had encountered in this strange world so far, saw the inside of a building like none he had ever seen before. Not even in any dream he could remember. At first it reminded him of the funhouse hall of mirrors at Lake Texoma amusement park, with all their glass surfaces and distortions. People walked in different directions, criss-crossing paths with each other, some toward them and others away from them. Ronnie wondered where he and Warberg would walk. He let the old man lead the way.

While they walked in he looked upward. The ceiling was solid and appeared to be fifty feet above them. The air swirled in the room, circulating, rushing into his mouth and nostrils, invigorating him. Their footsteps and those of all the other people echoed gently through the floors and walls. It reminded him of a large, spectral library without books.

Ronnie knew that one part of him greatly wanted to know more about this strange planet and the way they'd somehow summoned his soul across the galaxies. He wanted to know who this "Empress" was and what her plans for him were. Here, billions of miles away from Earth, they all knew how to speak English and he wondered how that was possible. Yet he pressed on, walking behind Warberg, finding a sense of trust in him after looking into his eyes a few moments earlier.

Ronnie was to learn that the city unfolded in onion like layers as, when he followed Warberg through the labyrinth of glass and passers-by, they came to another portal. A giant puffed frame surrounded an opening which was large enough for a truck to pass through. Ronnie thought the frame looked like a giant doughnut but then he realized that it actually stretched out and formed the walls of a tunnel beyond them. Bright violet light flashed on them when they walked through and Ronnie felt the fuzzy hairs on his arm stand up and a stat icky warmth buffet him when they both neared the end. From behind, as they neared another opening, an older woman scurried past them. She was shorter than Ronnie, with black hair slashed with neat white and gray stripes. While she appeared frail, she moved quickly and gracefully, like one of the girls at Ronnie's school.

The tunnel ended at what first seemed like a courtyard to Ronnie. When he looked up, though, he realized that at first there appeared to be no ceiling. Instead, he discovered that it was hundreds of feet upward, at the top of the structure. Ronnie was trying to both keep up with Warberg, who kept a brisk stride, and take in all his new, fantastic surroundings all at once. He immediately noticed tubes overhead, which ran from one glass wall across the open courtyard to a wall on the other side.

Several of the tubes branched out from the walls. Some of them appeared to reach straight across the courtyard, but others angled downward or upward. All of the tubes carried people and appeared to be several feet taller than a man and wide enough to accommodate strange, hovering scooter-like vehicles that people rode by straddling them and holding tight, riding from one side of the building to the other. Many people just walked through the tubes, and Ronnie wondered if any of the scooters had ever slammed into one of the walking pedestrians. He realized that it was like looking at a giant version of the most complicated and intricate hamster cage imaginable.

Warberg suddenly reached out again to clasp Ronnie's shoulder and stop him. "Now stand still," he said, stepping behind him and steadying his other shoulder as Ronnie heard a series of clicks and buzzing. At their feet a clear, circular wall sprung up out of the floor. Ronnie watched this wall grow and materialize, forming a two-inch thick barrier around them, rising up until it reached over Ronnie's head and stopped growing when it had reached a height equal to the top of Warberg's head. Ronnie reached out to touch the walls of pale green glass and found them smooth and rigid.

They had been walled into a tube which left them with a circle to stand in measuring about a yard and a half wide. The circle then rose out of the floor with a whooshing sound and was beginning to carry them upward. Strangely, Ronnie found that he could not react to the strangeness of the fantastic situation in a way that he thought he should. Part of him shouted out inside at the shock and thrill of an elevator growing around them but something in the air, something about the way the lights, the subtle sounds, and Warberg's reassuring voice and eyes caused him to keep quiet. It reminded him of the way he felt in the winter, when he had a cold and his mother would spoon him out various kinds of cough syrup. There was always the side effect of slight disorientation and wooziness.

Ronnie watched layers of the building float past them and felt as if he were gazing out on fantastic terrariums of human activity. The floor was solid and since they were walled in, he had trouble seeing how far upward they had traveled. Straight up, out of the opened tube, he could see the ceiling. As they had loomed closer to it he realized that it had been constructed of an elaborate honeycomb and that reflected sunlight through its surfaces hurt his eyes if he looked at it for too long. He knew they were almost half way up the building as the ceiling drifted toward them with each passing second. The elevating action of the floor and the tube slowed down right then, as Ronnie noticed that the floors and beehives of activity had flashed past them at a lesser speed.

Another loud buzzing and stat icky sound like bad radio reception amplified by hundreds filled Ronnie's ears. There was a series of loud clicks and a loud pop as the part of the tube directly across from and behind them dissolved instantaneously. They had apparently connected with one of the tubes running across the building, their elevator burrowing up to it in some way. The floor beneath them disappeared: it was no longer the solid pavement they had stepped on but somehow dissolved into the tube running across, between the courtyards of the building. Warberg gently nudged Ronnie so that he would walk the fifty feet to a portal on the other side, high up on the walls of the massive building.

When they walked through that portal, the wall sealed behind them and suddenly Ronnie found himself in a room which had been much more typical of those he had seen back on earth, during his life. White, solid walls, the line broken by translucent windows at precisely spaced intervals. A couple of male warriors approached them from the other direction, one of them large and hulking, the other shorter, but still stocky and powerful-looking. Their faces showed a single-minded, resolute quality that reminded Ronnie of those pictures he'd seen from England, of the red-coated Buckingham palace guards with their high, puffy hats and their swords.

Ronnie discovered that the end of the wide hallway led to a cavernous room, like the inside of an arena. It seemed dimly lit by flickering lanterns or candles but he could see so flames. Once Warberg and Ronnie cleared the threshold, they saw a dais raised on a pyramid shaped platform fifty feet above them. A throne sat atop the dais, occupied by a woman who languidly draped herself across it, like a cat napping atop a sofa. Ronnie could see from the distance that she wore a close-fitting striped garment.

"Come here, young Ronald," she said, in a rich alto that reverberated off the stone and glass of the cavernous chamber, sparking a light of tingling warmth inside of him. "I am Empress Tigra. I do not bite." Both Warberg and Ronnie hesitated at their portal. Ronnie glanced back for a moment at the bright light of the entranceway. The chamber before them was dim, but the Empress was enveloped in bright, warm light which seemed to glow from beneath and above her, bathing her. Warberg moved first, striding toward the steps of the dais. As they climbed, she gazed down at them calmly, but with intense eyes. The warm light lit contours of her high cheekbones and arching eyebrows along with the ornate plume of her thick hair luxuriously emanating from her crown, which had bundled it behind flashing jewels and gold lattices.

As they rose toward her, Ronnie felt that he should feel frightened. He thought about turning back, but somehow calmly persevered. Something inside of him told him it was the right thing to do. And what other choice did he have?
Chapter Twenty-One

His pulse quickened as they neared her. Within moments they came upon the dais. The Empress was as close to him as if she had been a guest at his family's Thanksgiving dinner. He could reach out and touch her if he wanted to. Warberg had stepped aside so that he could approach, but at first Ronnie could not speak. Empress Tigra was easily the prettiest woman he had ever seen, even prettier than Elizabeth Taylor or Audrey Hepburn from the movies. Her skin was smooth and seemed to glow with an inward light, especially when she smiled at him, her eyes glistening, sparkling, as she said "You've come a long way, child."

Her smile calmed him but he was also aware of an aching at his chest, a mysterious longing, and almost painful connection to her. Warberg's hand pressed lightly against his shoulder, which further encouraged him, and one by one the questions bubbled up from the wellspring of his troubled consciousness. "Did you bring me here?" he was able to ask, his words coming out in a tight throated whisper.

She nodded.

"Why?"

"You were in trouble," she said, barely above Ronnie's whisper. The precise and melodic way she enunciated every syllable kept Ronnie spellbound in rapt attention. It nevertheless occurred to him to bombard her with questions such as how he had traveled this far, what was the purpose of the man-horse creature, and who was the giant who'd plucked him from the front of the meadow and lowered him down in front of the city containing her palace. Yet the hall around them changed suddenly, distracting him. The walls containing them had somehow dissolved and sunlight entered, as if they'd all been transported magically to a mountaintop somewhere.

Curiously, the pillars of the arena remained, and beyond their framework Ronnie could see the scenery down the mountainside and beyond, into a valley. He recognized a few of the tall buildings of Tulsa in the distance and a church steeple and a radio tower from his own neighborhood.

How could that be? Ronnie kept glancing from the buildings and faraway activity of his hometown and the Empress sitting on her throne in front of him. The pyramid and the dais, surrounded by the pillars of the hall, had wound up somewhere in Oklahoma, resting atop a mountain. But the land was flat; his mother used to clean the house singing a song about "the wind rustling in from across the plain," and while on vacation with his family one summer, they'd had to drive nearly a whole day before they reached the mountains of Colorado.

Ronnie stepped to the edge of the dais, to gaze around in all directions at the panorama beneath him. "How did we get here?" he wanted to know. He thought he heard the Empress laugh at him, in a kind way, the way Glinda the Good Witch of the North did when she explained to Dorothy that "only bad witches are ugly."

The Empress lifted herself off the throne and gestured toward the scene below them. She was quite tall, Ronnie noticed. Towering over her mother, and quite possibly, even her father. "While it appears quite real to you," she said, "It is just an apparition, a spirit of the city where you live. The one we must return you to." With a flourish of her hand, the dimness returned as if an eclipse had blocked out the sun. The stone and glass of the walls inside the chamber re-materialized.

Ronnie realized that it must all be part of some kind of an elaborate trick, the way she was able to make it appear as though they'd been transported to a mountaintop overlooking Tulsa. Still, it left one question unanswered. "How will I get back?"

The Empress seemed to take much longer to answer the question than Ronnie would have thought was necessary. She gazed away in the distance for a moment, as if pondering what she would say. Finally she turned to him and said "Do you want to go back?"

Ronnie chuckled. "Of course."

The Empress smiled. She said "Follow me."

She stepped past them and descended the steps of the pyramid supporting the dais. Over her shoulder she said "Warberg, get the room ready."

Warberg agreed and when they reached the floor at the bottom of the pyramid, he walked toward the opposite direction, encircling the pyramid and choosing a door on the other side of the hall. Ronnie and the Empress walked through the portal back into the bright light of the building. At first it occurred to Ronnie that it seemed odd for such an ethereal, powerful being to have to walk. At the very least, he thought that four burly guys would carry her on the throne, holding it up in the air atop two poles, the way he'd seen in biblical epics at the movies. He stared down at her feet. She wore sleek boots with a slight shine and smaller tiger stripes. Once she had her back to him while they walked, he could see that a cape like garment draped down her back from her shoulders. It billowed out in folds and swirls like an opened parachute canopy which has fallen to the ground. He wondered if it could spread out from her like wings and enable her to fly. If any living, breathing being could fly on its own, he thought, this woman could.

They ended up back in the strange courtyard, with its ascending and criss-crossing tubes. Before stepping onto a tube, the Empress held out one hand, palm up, long fingernails pointed downward. At that point Ronnie saw something that he hoped he would never forget. Tiny symbols emanated from her palm and trickled down into the air, vanishing like bubbles. A crossing tube opened for them right at that moment, and Ronnie was sure that the little characters flowing out of her hand had caused that to happen. "What is that?" he asked. "What are you doing?"

"It's a communication device," she said calmly, as she led him out onto the tube to cross the courtyard.

"How do you make those numbers, or letters, or whatever they are come out of your palm like that?"

The Empress shook her head as she stopped them about halfway to the courtyard, lowered her palm down and bubbled more characters out into the air before them. That time, Ronnie bent down to try to get a closer look, wondering if it was words or numbers she was emitting from her hand. He discovered that it was individual characters like none he had ever seen. All kinds of points, sharp edges, and whorls. The only lettering he'd ever seen to compare with it had been the sample of Chinese writing from his Social Studies textbook in the eighth grade.

A small round platform appeared which brought them down. Ronnie looked at the Empress and shook his head. "I have a question for you," he started. "If the only thing you wanted to do was help me get back home, why did you take me there in the first place?"

The Empress smiled wryly, acting as if the question had slightly stumped her. She then answered him with confidence, speaking softly. "Ronald, your body is back at the hospital bed."

Ronnie felt slightly frustrated. He thought that people sure liked to talk in riddles in this strange place. He slapped his arm again, feeling the same sting of pain as he had before. "But I'm here," he protested. "How can I be in two places at once?"

The Empress paused again before speaking to him. The platform had slowed, which meant that they were probably nearing their floor. She said "Ronald, the mind, the soul is a very mysterious thing. It's better if you learn the answer to that later."

"Okay. I guess."

The platform stopped, having intersected with another horizontal tube. It seemed to Ronnie that they were re-tracing the route and Warberg had taken when they went to the hall of the throne. While they were walking along the tube, another thought occurred to him: if she could conjure up a complete likeness of the entire city of Tulsa somehow, then she could probably come up with a way to show him his sleeping body in the hospital bed in Tulsa. It would surely stump her. He waited until they reached the building again before he said anything and then decided it would carry more weight if he worded it like a command.

"You were able to show me the whole city of Tulsa at the bottom of a mountaintop. Why don't you show me in the hospital bed?"

Ronnie thought the proposal would shock, or at the very least dismay her, but she grinned knowingly, as if his request were part of a grand plan. She angled her palm downward again, this time pointing it at a door that looked like it opened into an office. The characters again flowed out of her, disappearing into the air. This time Ronnie noticed that they were slightly larger, darker, and more pronounced. More of them came out of her palm and for the characters lingered visibly for a longer period of time than before.

When the flow of characters ceased and she closed her palm, she turned to Ronnie and said "Okay. Now open that door."

At first, Ronnie was hesitant. He reached toward the doorknob, which wasn't a knob at all but was a lever. His fingers glanced over it, as though he expected it to generate heat. Out of a corner of his eye he could see the Empress looking on, patiently. When he realized that the metal of the door was not going to scald him, he reached out and grasped it. A rectangular pane on the door was translucent and the room behind it seemed to be lit but before he opened the door he could not see any shadows of objects in there. He pressed down on the lever, heard a clunking sound and pulled the door open. When he saw what lie beyond the threshold, he gasped.

The image seemed to materialize before his eyes the split second the door had opened for him. At first he saw what appeared to be a bed with a lumping of pillows on it. A box sat atop a pole on a pedestal of wheels beside the bed. On the front of it he saw a screen with a squiggled line that moved across it. He had seen screens like that in submarine movies that showed radar images of approaching subs. An even stranger machine flanked the other side: it contained a pump that pushed up and down with a rhythmic, whooshing sound, like a heartbeat and pushed fluid through a tube.

The Empress loomed gently behind him as he crept into the room. She placed a hand gently on his shoulder as the lumps on the bed grew more detailed the closer he came to them. He realized that the lump at the head of the bed was a pillow and he looked down at his face and head as it had sunken into the linen and goose down. Throughout his whole life he had seen pictures of himself and home movies and he looked at himself in the mirror every morning. Yet to himself his own countenance looked vulnerable and innocent as he lay there, unconscious, the machines around him whirring and whooshing. "This doesn't even look like me," he said. "I look like a baby." The Empress nodded at him, gesturing as if to encourage him to look at himself more closely.

Ronnie realized that the other lumps coming out of his body casts. His whole right side had been covered in plaster. A cap like bandage covered his head. Before the accident on the moped his hair had started to get long, like a British rock and rollers, his bangs nearly covering his eyes. The doctors and nurses had either pushed his hair back beneath the cap or they had cut his hair, possibly shaving it all off. Yes, they had shaved it all off, he discovered when he leaned to the side and saw stubbles of it at the base of his skull, below the cap.

His chest rose and fell with his breathing, and he thought he could see his own eyelids flicker. This caused him to jump back. What if he had somehow awakened and saw himself standing in front of the bed, looking down at...himself? The Empress reached around behind him and held his shoulders tenderly, the way his mother sometimes did. "Be brave," she said, softly.

Ronnie turned, his nose bumping into the Empress' chest and neck. He could smell something that reminded him of the cool, rainy spring when he would walk home from school and pass the trees in the park with their lavender blossoms. "I'm scared," he said. "Let's get out of here."

The Empress led him back through the door.

When they were both out in the hallway, the white haired, bearded man Warberg reappeared. He said "The portal is ready." The Empress nodded in acknowledgment. Ronnie remembered that "portal" was a word they used a lot in television on futuristic space shows and science fiction movies. He thought he had heard it on "Forbidden Planet."

"What's going on?" he asked her. "Am I going to get onto a spaceship or something?"

The Empress smiled wryly again, causing a dimple to appear beside her lips. "Something like that," she said, then dropped her wrist down again to aim some more complicated looking characters out into the air. The edges of a wheel appeared to them. It looked like a bicycle tire. The Empress grasped it, tugging it toward herself. Ronnie watched with rapt attention. As she pulled it closer, he saw a connecting bar appear, then a seat, a crossbar, and the handlebars. She was pulling the bicycle out of thin air the way a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat.

She presented the strange-looking bicycle to Ronnie and he grabbed hold of the handlebars to examine it. The seat appeared to be exactly the correct height for him yet instead of pedals, two foot stands jutted out from the frame. The front tire fork and the crossbar seemed thicker than any other bike he had seen on earth but he could not find an engine. The bike was a gaudy, fire-engine red color with yellow accent stripes. He reflected that he would never pick out the color for himself. It looked like a girl's bike. Finally, there was a light housing on the center of the handlebar and when he glanced down at the wheels; he noticed something curious about them. There were no spokes! The bike frame appeared to be suspended in mid-air. Ronnie reached toward the wheel center, where the spokes normally would have been. When his fingertips bounced against an invisible resistance, he leaned forward for a closer look. He realized that there were, in fact spokes on the wheel but they were microscopically thin, thinner than the strands on a spider web.

He had kneeled down to take the bike into his hands and look it over and from that low vantage he looked up at the Empress, who beamed down proudly at him. "What am I going to do with this bike?" he asked.

The Empress replied, calmly "You will ride home on it."

Ronnie looked up at her for a few moments. What she had said seemed incredible to him but when she looked down at him she smiled slightly, without opening her lips to reveal teeth. A light seemed to radiate from just beyond her shoulder and he had to look away. She was holding out the bike for him, offering it. He grabbed hold of the handlebars and she released it to him, stepping back.

The Empress said "Sit, Ronald," and helped him onto the bicycle. It fit him perfectly, as if someone had adjusted the seat height and constructed the frame as an exact match to his body. There were still so many questions to ask, but before he could speak the Empress leaned down to gaze deeply into his eyes. He felt as if she could read his thoughts and expected her to respond to them. To be that vulnerable felt slightly awkward, even embarrassing since Ronnie often had thoughts he couldn't understand and wasn't sure if he wanted anyone else to know.

"We're going to the portal now," she started. "Ronald, you must be very, very brave." She pointed to a button on his handle bar. "This will accelerate your vehicle when you press it in with your thumb. A light perched here will illuminate your path. Press the button, Ronald. Try it. For me." Ronnie stared down at the button on the handlebar, at first afraid to touch it. This, after all was a world where elevators appeared beneath your feet and entire replicas of cities could be created. The Empress nodded, smiling, gently urging him on.

Finally, he touched the button with his thumb and the bike lurched forward as though it had a rocket pack mounted on the rear. Bright light exploded from the housing, washing out all the details of the doorway before them. When he lifted his thumb from the button, the tires screeched on the floor and the bicycle stopped abruptly, bucking Ronnie out of the seat for a moment.

"Wow," he said. "Do I get to keep this when I get back? Nobody's going to believe it unless I show them."

The Empress appeared to ignore his question. She was looking over his shoulder at Warberg, gesturing him toward the doorway with a tilt of her head. Ronnie saw Warberg angle his arm downward with his palm opened and little characters flowed from the skin of his hand as they had with the Empress. The symbols he formed seemed more faded and broken, however. The doorway then opened in layers of wall spreading apart, like the aperture on a camera lens. Ronnie felt his heart race in anticipation of what the parting layers would reveal. What he saw at first looked like a cave, leading into a dark tunnel.

Ronnie looked into the abyss, which was only let at the mouth from the light of the hallway. "I'm supposed to ride through there?" Ronnie asked. "It looks like I'd be riding off into nothing. I can't do it! I'm scared!"

The Empress closed her eyes, nodding deeply. "I understand," she said. "It's the only way. You must be brave. Remember, I will always be there."

He eyes and the soothing way she spoke calmed him. His fear suddenly evaporated. She laid her hand on one shoulder and Warberg laid his hand on the other and together they gently led him to the tunnel. Ronnie looked up at the Empress, then at Warberg as they beamed down proudly at him. Swallowing hard, he then gazed ahead at the black opening and pressed down on the button with his thumb. The cave, however, suddenly looked like a huge, gaping maw. Ronnie looked up at the Empress and said "But I can't..."

Then the ground collapsed beneath him, jolting him forward into the tunnel. Before he plunged into the darkness, he looked up at the Empress' eyes one last time.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Screaming, Ronnie fought for balance on the bicycle and plunged down hard on the button. The light mounted on the front of the bike lit the walls of the tunnel, flooding them with luminescent intensity. They were pink and glistening. He again remembered his trip to the caverns around St. Louis. This cave had the same type of granulated rock structure with fissures and crevices but the whole time it had been clear that he had been looking at hard rock that formed over hundreds of year's time. This was different: the walls seemed to pulsate outward, throbbing gently as he zoomed past them.

His moped at home could never perform the same way as this ethereal vehicle! For the first few yards it seemed as if he had been riding in a narrow cavern passage. He thanked the Almighty that it was flat and straight as far ahead as he could see. It was also wide, nearly wide enough to permit a car such as a Volkswagen bug or a Cooper Mini.

The walls still seemed similar to cavern walls, especially with the vivid pink and clay colors intertwined with tans and beiges. Faint violet lines also snaked through at intervals like intermittent thunderbolts. Light from the headlamp caused the colors to glisten and for a moment he wondered if they were wet from a recent flood.

While he was contemplating the shape, size, and texture of the tunnel, he was glad he kept the major part of his attention on the pathway ahead. The tunnel veered to the right. A surge of panic shot through him as he realized there were no brakes! He quickly checked the handlebars for grips (there were none) and he pushed down with his foot for a coaster pedal. Rather than forking off abruptly, the tunnel veered with a soft curve. It gave Ronnie time to think. His thumb would cause the motorbike to rocket ahead at full throttle.

What if he let up on the button slightly? It couldn't be like a light bulb that flickered on and off at the touch of a switch. There was not much time to waste as soon the tunnel would bend again. The first clue that he could decelerate in this way happened when the headlight suddenly dimmed. It startled him, and he plunged down harder on the button reflexively, the motorbike spurting and sputtering ahead. Soon he found a smooth rhythm, cruising along at a dimmer, slower speed, gliding through the curves.

When he had visited the cavern in St. Louis, he remembered expecting there would be an echo. Instead, the air was still, sounds muffled. A tour guide had led the way for them. When he spoke, Ronnie got the sense he was pushing the volume in his voice to keep his words from falling flat in the stillness. As he rode in the strange cave presently, the only sound he heard was the sluicing of water and mud from the tires, like riding his bicycle on a damp spring day. To test his voice he shouted out, "Hello! Hello! Hello!" but his words fell blankly against the walls and floor.

Would there ever be an end to this labyrinth? So far he seemed stuck in the cavern in what must have looked like a maze if a giant were looking at a cross section view from above. The Empress had said "I will always be with you," and suddenly Ronnie wondered what she meant. Was she actually his guardian angel? It made as much sense as anything else he could think of. There was not much time to think deeply about the subject. He knew if he slipped on the floor of the tunnel, missed a turn and rammed into one of the walls, dropping the bike, there was no one to help him. If he hurt himself, he would probably just lie there in pain and agony, possibly die, for real. Yet, could he actually get hurt? He wondered. If his actual body was languishing on a bed back home in Tulsa, what was this body? It was like a dream but he could feel pain when he pinched or slapped himself. But could he actually injure himself?

The floor seemed to drop out from underneath him and the vista broadened. He seemed to be riding on a rigid, gauzelike substance, able to see beneath the floor into a huge room lit by the headlamp to reveal a snakelike network of tubes and coils, all glistening in reds, violets, ambers, and yellows. In the larger, open space the sound of the tires splashing carried further and echoed. "Hey Empress lady!" he shouted out, his voice booming and echoing in the wide expanse. "What's going on? Where am I?"

Still only the sound of the tires sluicing water and mud as a response. Right then the path up ahead dropped down like the first hill on a roller coaster. That was when he heard the Empress voice call out, her melodious alto booming in the cavern, jarring him but also soothing at the same time. "Ronald! Be brave! Hang on!"

Ronnie gripped the handlebars more tightly and leaned forward, the same as he would do at home when coasting down a high hill. The winged two-wheeled vehicle plummeted down a hill and he felt like one of those men on a bobsled during the Winter Olympics. He still kept the button pressed all the way down, a reflex action from gripping the handlebars so tightly. The engine and the downhill force synergized to rocket him through the twists and turns of the gauze, translucent tunnel.

He could still hear the Empress' voice but the roar of his heart pounding in his ears drowned it out. She would shout out commands and suggestions like "Turn left!" and "Let up on the button!" and he thought he heard her say "You're almost out!" but there were other voices as well. Snarling, angry voices like those of unkind, frustrated teachers lashing out at him or his father bellowing names at him during one of his temper tantrums. He could also hear his own screams and sobs as the bike tore through the tunnel pathways.

Ronnie realized that the cave had brightened, as if the wattage on his headlamp had increased one hundred fold. "Where am I going?" he shouted out, thinking that he had rocketed so far past the Empress she wouldn't be able to hear him.

But she responded. "You're almost there!" she said. Her voice was so clear and sharp he felt as if she had perched herself on the back of the bike and was whispering the words of encouragement directly into his ear. The light ahead brightened by the second and was soon so intense it washed out all the details of the cave, the violet and red tubes below him and the gauze floor. Yet the light did not hurt his eyes, strangely. He could keep them opened wide while gazing ahead.

Next he realized that he was no longer riding on the tunnel floor. He seemed to have been catapulted out into space and was now flying for real. "Angel!" he shouted out into the void, "Where am I?" He had kept poised ahead, holding tightly to the handlebars, but the bicycle had dissolved beneath him. He floated onward toward the bright light. "Angel! Anybody?" he kept shouting out over and over, the words thundering in his ears.

Someone responded.

The voice sounded much different from the Empress. More ordinary and very faint. "Ronnie? Are you there? Can you hear me?" It sounded like someone had turned on the radio with the volume dial at its lowest point, barely audible, but Ronnie was ecstatic that someone had heard him.

"Yes! I'm here! Can't you see me? Where are you?"

"Ronnie? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Yes! I can hear you!"

The woman's voice was louder now, but still barely above a whisper. Ronnie wondered if there was a way he could kick and use his arms and legs to swim toward this person speaking to him.

"Ronnie, are you there?"

He wondered if this was some sort of a cruel joke. He had told her over and over that he could hear her and she couldn't seem to hear his reply. Suddenly his body became leaden, heavy, and with a whoosh he was pulled toward something which felt like a whirlpool. Like the drain on the bathtub swirling down but a thousand times stronger, the force of the escaping water able to pull him along with it. The force pulled him feet first and he still felt a sensation of rocketing forward yet he was lying down, as if on a sled.

Gradually his arms, legs and body felt heavier and the rocketing sensation slowed but all the while the woman's voice called out to him in an ever-increasing volume: "Ronnie, are you there?"

The bright light dimmed, and he was aware that he could see shadows and shapes. His shoulder ached and his hip felt as if someone had slugged him with a baseball bat there. And his head burned with a feverish ache that throbbed against his skull. "Ronnie, are you there?" the voice repeated, yet again but this time the echo had vanished. He realized that now he was in front of this woman who had been calling out to him. The shapes and shadows he'd been seeing slowly materialized into her hair, the corners and tip of a cap she was wearing, her eyes, her nose, and her moving lips, forming the words, calling out to him.

She was a nurse. Dark haired and pretty. When he could see all the details of her face clearly, he could see a light of joy in her wide-open eyes and a smile of triumph. "Ronnie, just nod if you can hear me. Squeeze my hand!" He allowed his chin to drop. His head seemed to have been restrained in a box-like object. The nurse was clasping his hand tightly and, as she asked, he squeezed back for her. "Oh my God, Ronnie, you're back! "It's a miracle!"
Chapter Twenty-three

Dorina had hoped to make it back to her apartment in time to receive her weekly phone call from her mother. This time she let her do most of the talking, giving her all the latest news about her youngest sister Michelle and how it had begun to get hot up in that part of the country. At one point she asked "How's your sweetie?"

She just blurted out "He's fine," and quickly changed the subject to recipes.

The next morning she arrived at work early, surprised that she was one of the first to arrive at the office. She logged into her desktop, which would stay lit up for the entire day, and checked her email accounts. The first one from Vic made her smile. In the topsy-turvy world of magazine publishing, the year was turned inside out. It was still a couple of weeks away from Memorial Day, but in his memo, Vic was already asking for ideas for the big Holiday issue.

Dorina had many more immediate things on her mind. Was that bunker-like object actually the entrance to Merlin's Lair? It had seemed somewhat too austere for her. If it had been a top secret government installation, which had been the other possibility, the agents would have been much more foreboding, carrying firearms and aggressively shooting out Mitch's tires. They would have surrounded the car, pointing pistols at it, demanding that he get out with his hands up. After that he may have been handcuffed and searched and possibly jailed. The group of security officers was the most peaceful, yet efficient law enforcement personnel she'd ever heard of.

Part of her thought the episode with the desert bunker would have dissuaded her from further thoughts about H.R. Lewandowski and the Portals series. Yet the opposite occurred. One by one her co-workers arrived around her, blank looks on their faces, possibly dreading the start of another work week. Vic was always among the last to arrive, lumbering down the aisle between cubicles, red-faced and tousle-haired, as if he'd just awakened from a three day drunk.

Once again, she typed "H.R. Lewandowski" into the "find" field of her search engine and the familiar series of articles appeared on her computer screen. Since Dorina used the same ISP account at work and at home, she could see that the entries she'd selected on Saturday night still had been shaded in dark. She decided she might get somewhere and learn something new if she hit on one of the virgin listings she hadn't looked at before.

There was one entitled "H.R. Lewandowski the Enigma."

At first the new site simply glossed over and rehashed everything she'd learned about the man on Saturday night. His early life, his early marriage and how his life completely changed during a routine trucking run in the southwest. The article described how inaccessible the director had been, refusing practically all interviews. She hoped the information wouldn't corroborate what Mitch had suspected, that the mogul had something to hide. Yet, a new entry piqued her curiosity: "Behind the camera with H.R.: the strange case of movie alchemy."

Dorina clicked on the site page, which contained a free-wheeling interview with a former cameraman from Merlin's Lair. The Portals movies had been so profitable because they had been relatively inexpensive to make, considering the spectacular special effects they contained. While the typical big budget film was prepared by an endless array of script conferences, story boards, and mock ups, many times the Portals movies seem to have been shot on the fly. William Bitzer the fourth, the cameraman said "A lot of times the man seemed to make up things as he went along."

Even stranger than that was the mysterious metamorphosis that often occurred in post production. "H.R. would say 'That's a wrap,' and I'd wonder how in the world he was gonna piece together the hodge-podge of scenes we'd thrown together. I mean I'd been there through it all, seen every shot and there was no way he'd gotten enough material for any kind of a story. No way. But then months later, boom, there's a perfect, spectacular filmed rendition of another world. And I swear, I tell you, I swear, I don't remember shooting even half of what ended up onscreen."

Dorina wondered where all the footage came from. Digital characters and effects still needed to play off a real-life framework that could only be achieved by shooting in real time. Or so she thought. When she read on, the author of the new website confirmed what she'd heard on all the others. H.R. Lewandowski was as close as anyone in the western world to being completely untouchable. The secret location of Merlin's Lair was only the start. He also employed an office staff in Los Angeles, New York, and in Scotland, where they often filmed location work. The main reason he was so inaccessible was that a thick bureaucracy shielded him from all the Hollywood players and the public.

Jacy's words came back to haunt her: "Mr. Lewandowski himself would be the one to tell you how he awakened from his coma."

The more and more Dorina read about the man, the more and more she was convinced that whatever happened to bring him out of that coma had had a profound effect on his startling success. She would find out what it was.

She closed out all the windows and brought up her inbox and the work-related email account. The mere sight of the mundane ad deadlines and collection schedules caused her eyelids to droop and brought on a headache of dread. Out loud, she said "I'm just not up to this today." But she went through the motions anyway, because while her work was mind numbing, for now it paid all her bills. And she made all her calls, filled in the data spreadsheets, and made copies while on auto pilot, the greater part of her mind still devoted to her obsession with the Portals mystique.

By 10:30, when her stomach usually began to growl in anticipation of lunch, she had a brainstorm. The enigmatic director was thickly shielded from all types of curiosity seekers including reporters. Yet each new Portals movie contained a whole new list of characters including the staple players who continued on from film to film. She knew that many of the scenes contained casts of hundreds, whether it was an exodus or a battle, or simply a typical street scene in an exotic "otherworld." They had to hire these extras from somewhere!

Her electronic rolodex contained a list of casting directors and talent agents that she'd often interviewed over the phone as part of legwork for other reporters doing a story on Hollywood happenings. Excited, Dorina defined a list of agents and called it up on the screen. She poised her fingers over the numerical keypad and positioned her headset and microphone. The phone rang at the first talent agency office. Would the person answering recognize her voice? Possibly or possibly not, but while she waited for someone to pick up she decided to use her all-purpose alias. When a receptionist answered the other line with a cheery "Colston agency," she sprang to action: "Hello, this is Serena Blumenberg. I was calling to see if anyone has any information about how I can become an extra in the new Portals movie that's filming right now."

There was a short pause at the other end of the line and the receptionist said "Let me connect you with Ms. Haliburton."

Moments later, the agent came on the line, and Dorina repeated her question to her.

A long silence ensued. "That's strange, I didn't know they were doing anything," the agent woman said in a sophisticated, smooth way. "Do you have a SAG card? And have we worked with you before?"

Dorina told her that the answer to both questions was no, and thanked her for her time. She swallowed and proceeded to the next name. The male agent who fielded her next query said "Lewandowski likes to work with unknowns. The thing to do is to keep your eyes and ears open for an open call. But I don't think he's going to be having one anytime soon, or else I would have heard about it. But good luck."

She received the same type of lukewarm response from three other agents on the list. All of them seemed totally unaware that a new Portals movie was in the works. One of them tried to schedule Dorina to come in and register, fully aware that she didn't even have a comp card or a head sheet to offer.

There had been numerous Portals employees at the back lots near the Archives building just the week before. Maybe she could show up there that afternoon and see if anyone knew when an open casting call was going to take place. She was considering a way to get Vic to give her the afternoon off when her phone rang. "Features, Dorina Pettit," she said, upon picking up the line.

A male voice chuckled at the other end of the line and she felt slight chills race up and down her spine. "Man, you are one tough lady to reach," Mitch said. "Are you trying to be editor-in-chief or what?"

Dorina sighed and said "Hi."

There was a pause at the other end of the line and a faint rustling. She imagined him pulling the handset away from his ear, staring at it in disbelief, the way she'd seen him do during many a phone conversation. "Well, hi back," he said. "You don't seem too thrilled to hear from me."

"Well I'm just kind of...distracted. Hectic morning. You know Mondays."

"Yes I do. Hey, I just wanted to tell you, I know I acted like an ass yesterday, and I'm sorry."

Dorina's first inclination was to blurt out "Mitch, I don't think now is the time or the place," but instead she just said "How's your car?"

"Fine. After three trips through Sudsy-Dudsy she was looking like she did when I first saw her on the lot."

"Oh."

"I decided that for acting like such a jerk, I owe you lunch. Deal?"

Dorina lied. "Oh, I'm sorry babe. I can't today. I have a meeting."

"Really? Who with?"

She blurted out "Jacy Rayner."

"What? Are you doing her biography or something? I'll give you a tip: it won't sell unless you get her to talk about all the big-name guys she slept with."

She pinched off the microphone so he wouldn't hear her sigh of exasperation. "Listen, there are four other perfectly good days of the week. I'll make it up to you. We'll do something tomorrow or Wednesday."

"Oh. Okay," he said, clearly sounding disappointed. If someone at Spectrum was reporting on her relationship for an article, she would say that the power balance had swung over in her favor. Yet it didn't feel good, in fact she felt rather queasy.

"Call me later?" she said.

"Sure hon," Mitch mumbled before he disconnected the line.

Dorina ate her lunch in the cafeteria that day, dining on a Swiss cheese and lettuce sandwich she'd put together from the leftovers in the picnic basket. She sat at a table with her friends Miggy, the earth mother from accounting (who had somehow gleaned that nickname from "Margaret") and Isaac, a gangly African American who worked in the mail room. They did most of the talking as she listened, munching on grapes, keeping the better part of her mind active on the story she would give Vic that would enable her to leave for the afternoon.

The hour lunch break, as always, lapsed in record time. Dorina finally decided that the direct-but-vague approach was best. When she returned upstairs just after one, Vic was convening a meeting of senior reporters in his office. She pulled him aside and said "Can I talk to you out in the hall? Something important. It won't take but a minute."

"So what's up?" he asked her when the door closed behind them.

"Vic, I know this is sudden, but I need the afternoon off," she said.

"What's the matter? You sick?"

"No, just something personal I've got to handle."

He shrugged and said "Whatever tingles your tuner, gal. Just don't come crying to me if you get behind later in the week."

"I'm on top of it, like always," she said. "It'll be fine."

"Okay." And he excused himself to start his meeting.

When the door shut and she was alone in the hall she thought that it was almost too easy. Before anyone else in the office would notice her leaving, she returned to her desk, closed out all her programs, logged off and shut down for the day. She grabbed her purse and headed out for Suzy Blue.

Once she hit the freeway, she learned all over again the advantages of having a free hybrid. Traffic in the slot lanes was snarled by a grid problem. Status boards showed that the delay would be ten to fifteen minutes but she'd known commuters in slot cars to be mired in standstill traffic for much longer. When she whizzed by in the outer lane she saw cops on the far shoulder writing tickets. The foolish people in slot cars who jumped the median into the outer lanes were almost always caught and it was not a cheap traffic ticket.

Within minutes she reached the back lot and the Archives building.

This time, however, she received a shock. It being a Monday, the streets around the barrack-like buildings were busier than normal, but they lacked the frenetic beehive of activity that she'd seen during the previous week. She found the identical parking spot near the hangar-like, blue metal building that she'd used days earlier. When she got out of her car and walked on the sidewalk, she passed a couple of people in craftsman type uniforms but no Cushman vehicles whizzed past or hard driven studio types barking into their cell phones. What was the deal; she thought as she rounded a corner and headed toward the open door of the hangar building.

Days before the warehouse-type structure had teemed with people yet that Monday she found only one solitary workman lathing a piece of wood near the back. He had a droopy blond mustache and wore a vinyl apron and safety glasses to protect his eyes from wood dust. To Dorina he looked like a surgeon when he held the metal file to the revolving spindle of wood. She approached him and tried to get his attention by standing and waving.

The lathe emitted a loud humming and she wasn't sure if she could be heard above it without screaming.

Finally the woodcrafter noticed her and straightened, flipping the switch on the machine. He propped the safety glasses onto his forehead and addressed her with a slightly annoyed look on his face to go with a gruff tone. "Something I can help you with, ma'am?"

Dorina raised both her palms up. "Where is everybody?"

The solitary worker looked taken aback, squinting. "What do you mean? There's two other guys working today but they're out on a food run."

"Well last week this whole place was crawling with people rushing all over the place, driving Cushmans and all. Somebody said that Portals Beyond was back in town and everybody was getting ready for that."

His eyes widened and his mouth formed a small "o." "That's news to me. I ain't heard nothing about that."

"Well, were you here last week?"

"Yeah."

"Every day?"

"Yeah."

"You don't remember all those people running around last Tuesday or Wednesday?"

"No." He grinned a little, and then chuckled. She wondered if he thought she needed an adjustment on her medication.

"Sorry to bother you," she said, backing away from him.

Once outside, she scampered across the street. She needed a second opinion, and to get one, she headed for the Archives building. By the time she arrived there she felt strands of her hair adhere to her face from sweat and she knew she'd ruined the sole on her delicate cut-out low heels she'd worn that day. And her blouse tugged out of her skirt, probably billowing up and making her look early-pregnant.

Inside the Archives building she felt relieved when she recognized the receptionist from the week before. She approached her desk, slightly breathless from running. "Listen," she said to the plain girl with pulled back red hair. "I know I'm not going crazy, but do you remember me from last week? I know you must see lots of people come through here."

The girl narrowed her eyes, studying her. "Yeah," she said. "I guess so."

"Good. Now, do you remember there being tons of people running around here last week? People involved with the new Portals movie?"

She registered the same confused look as the man working on the lathe. "No, last week it was pretty much business as normal. Besides, they don't film Portals on a studio lot usually. They do a lot of location work or they go to that soundstage near Lewandowski's spread in the desert."

Dorina's stomach sank. The sweat matting her hair to her forehead suddenly felt chilled, clammy. "Ok," she said, barely above a whisper. "Thanks for your help."

The receptionist's gaze suddenly turned empathetic, almost worried, her eyes pale.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I guess. Do you have a phone I could use?"

She nodded, shifting in her seat, indicating the multi-line model sitting beside her atop the desk. "You can use this one. Press one of the buttons and dial nine."

Dorina felt very glad she had committed Jacy's number to memory. If her luck held out, she would be home that afternoon. She dialed the number, her racing heart quickening with each passing ring. After the fifth ring, she was about to replace the receiver, dejected, when she heard the familiar rustlings and clunks from the other end. The familiar throaty alto spoke to her from the other end of the line: "Hello?"

She felt instantly elated, gushing happiness. "Jacy Rayner! Thank god!"

There was a pause, and then she said "Dorina?"

"Yes!"

"What's the matter?"

"Ohmigod, I'm going insane. Listen, I know this is a gross imposition and that you're very busy, but I've just got to see you about something this afternoon. I swear I won't take up too much of your time and normally I would even think of doing something like this but I'm really upset now."

"Oh you poor thing. Everything is going to be all right. Breathe, darling."

"Okay." She paused to take a deep breath and exhale, slowly feeling better.

"I have a meeting at three," Jacy said, "But I'm free before then."

"Okay. I'll be right over."

"You be careful, now!"

"Okay."

Dorina took Jacy's words to heart and when she climbed back into Suzy Blue, eased away from the curb and into traffic like an overly cautious grandmother. The sound system in her car was a far cry from the state-of-the art masterpiece in Mitch's car. She retrieved an ancient box from beneath her seat that contained a sliver of her collection of cassette tapes. A few moments later she was listening to Alanis Morissette singing the question "How about getting off of these antibiotics?" and it continued to have the same odd, soothing effect on her. The barracks buildings gave way to old factories, which gave way to fancy hotels and golf courses, which gave way to the wooded splendor of Jacy's neighborhood. Dorina had negotiated the entire drive over as if she had been on autopilot.

She eased into Jacy's driveway marveling about how yet another sunny southern California afternoon belied the haunting specter in the air around her. Would Jacy sense it, or see it? She gingerly walked up the flat stones to the front door, hoping that Josette had gone shopping or was involved at another crisis at one of their rental buildings. To her surprise, even before she was able to ring the doorbell, she could hear the latch creak on the other side and the jamb give way with a rush as the door opened. Jacy smiled at her, radiant as always, wearing a floral black lounge jumpsuit accented with a gold sash. "Come on in, darling," she said, gently ushering her inside.

Dorina had thought and even hoped Jacy would invite her out into the garden again because it was such a tranquil place. Instead, she led her to the side of the house opposite of the kitchen, study, and living room she'd already seen.

They entered a smaller room with a bay window facing the front lawn and shrubbery. An antique sleigh daybed with piles of delicate lace pillows had been placed against the wall, facing the window. A forties style, plush velvet cushion dragon lady chair lay across from the daybed. A coffee table between them held large picture books and a photo album.

Lush, potted tropical plants occupied the corners. On one wall hung a breathtaking artist's rendition in oil of Jacy in her Empress Tigra costume, smiling seductively at the viewer.

Curiously, on the opposite wall a laminated poster of Albert Einstein hung, gazing down at them out of his cocker spaniel eyes. "This is one of my favorite rooms," Jacy explained. "I come here to think, or to meditate."

She gracefully lowered down onto the daybed, crossing her legs, sitting Indian style, indicating the plush chair for Dorina. When they had both settled down, Jacy turned to her and said "What's on your mind, dear? Tell me."

"I don't know where to start," she said

Jacy reached forward and touched her lightly, to encourage her. "It's okay."

"You told me on Saturday that if I wanted to find out what happened to H.R. Lewandowski during his coma that I should ask him, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've tried, it's become kind of like an obsession, but as you can probably imagine he's quite hard to reach. Not the kind of person you can reach just by picking up the phone and calling."

Jacy was patiently listening, nodding.

"Last week, when I was out at the archives building, there were all kinds of people at the studio lots nearby. Someone told me they were there getting ready for another Portals Beyond movie. Long story short, I thought I could possibly get to meet him by becoming an extra in the movie. None of the agents I called seemed to know anything about it. So I went to the studio lots again thinking I would find someone who could tell me if they were having an open call. Jacy, there was nobody there today!"

She tilted her head and narrowed her gaze quizzically. "That's odd," she said.

"You're telling me!"

Jacy shrugged. "There could be a mundane explanation," she said. "Projects pop up over there and come down in practically a minutes notice. Money runs out, or opinions change, things like that. Who told you they were going to be working on another Portals movie out there?"

"A man in a hangar type of building where they seemed to be building furniture and scenery flats."

"Maybe all they were doing was building props."

Dorina sighed. That did seem to make sense. "I just hope I still have a job tomorrow. I asked for the afternoon off to go on this crazy little jaunt."

"Sometimes you just have to go where your spirit leads you, honey," Jacy said.

"Let's have some tea."

A short while later the Spanish housekeeper brought in a silver platter with a china teapot and delicate demitasse cups. Dorina was beginning to feel much better, having completely forgotten about the possibly phantom crew. Jacy showed her a photo album containing pictures of her as a teenager, visiting Europe with her equally striking mother and her younger brother. There were also photos of her father in a football uniform taken during the late 1930's. She also explained the hanging poster of Einstein: "I've had that since I was a little girl," she said. "I've always been touched by his quote that 'Imagination is more important than knowledge.' Smart words."

Soon Jacy had to excuse herself for her late afternoon meeting. As she saw Dorina to the front door, she said "Everything's going to be all right. You've got a long and wonderful career ahead of you."

Jacy remained in the doorway while Dorina walked out to her car. Before getting in, she looked back and said "It's been wonderful meeting you."

"My pleasure as well, sweetheart. See you later."

Dorina double-taked about that last remark but just chalked it up as a throwaway line that people sometimes said to each other. She was suddenly very tired.
Chapter Twenty-four

Dorina went to bed early that night.

Samantha had curled up in a ball at her feet. Through the night she slept soundly but in the small hours of the morning, she dreamed.

She was in a small, very antiquated looking motel room. The beds had been dressed with floral brocade and the lamps and furniture were in geometric, fifties modern. Green carpet beneath her feet was textured in swirling whorls and a light fixture with prism glass dangling from it hung delicately from the ceiling beneath a still fan. She was aware of wearing a stiff, itchy sleeveless dress and a severe, cantilever bra that constricted her. When she looked down she saw dainty ballet flats with bows. The television along the wall held a rabbit ear antenna atop it and rotary dials on the front. When she looked in the mirror, she saw that her dark auburn hair had been swept up, delicate curling wisps of it trickling down alongside her ears. She wore pale lipstick and severe liner.

There was a knock at the door. She padded along the carpet slowly and reached out to twist the knob. When she opened the door she saw a younger, stunning Jacy in a cape and hat, her hair dangling down in soft curls. "Are you ready?" Jacy asked. "Get your coat.

We don't have much time."

Dorina stood for a moment, shocked. Her mysterious new friend could not have been more than twenty-eight or twenty-nine, still in the bloom of flawless youth. Still, she opened a closet door and pulled a dress coat out of it, slipping it over her shoulders. Locking the door behind her, they ventured out onto the walkway of the hotel. The weather outside was bright and sunny but refreshingly cool. They had to cross along the walkway to the staircase at the end, where they could descend to street level. Dorina glanced into the parking lot and saw the rounded and gaudy, big-finned cars of the fifties. An older gentleman in a lariat and a cowboy hat passed them. He tipped the hat as he walked by.

"Jacy where are we?" Dorina asked.

"Dallas," she said, quickening her pace. "Now come quickly. We don't have much

time." Once on street level, Jacy extracted a set of car keys from her purse and poised them in her hand, walking toward a cream colored Ford Thunderbird with opera windows.

She keyed her door open, and slid behind the wheel with one sustained, graceful movement. Once comfortably behind the wheel, she reached across and lifted the lock so that Dorina could get inside.

The moment Dorina settled inside, Jacy twisted the ignition, depressed the choke and pumped the gas pedal as the Thunderbird roared to life. The tires chirped on the pavement as she backed out of the lot while turning, stopped, and then eased the car out onto the street. While they drove past tall brick buildings and a library with marble columns Jacy noticed that street crowds thickened with each passing block, men in suits and women in tasteful coatdresses and cat sunglasses. "Where is everyone going?" Jacy asked, gazing at the crowd building along the sidewalks.

"Market Street," Jacy said. "Listen, we're going to have to park and walk the rest of the way. Hope you don't mind. I don't think we're going to be able to get any closer."

"Okay."

They found a small lot besides a building. When Dorina got out of the car, she noticed tall letters of a tobacco company ad painted on the outside of the building. As soon as the car had stopped, Jacy twisted the ignition, yanked the key out of it and used the steering wheel to help push herself out of the car. "Come on!" she said. "Up this alleyway. At the end." The women ran down the shadows of a cobblestoned alley. Dorina could see a crowd gathered and multi-colored confetti raining down.

Dorina followed Jacy as she turned sideways weaving past the people in the crowd. Ladies with their hair tied up in kerchiefs and men carrying their children atop their shoulders to get a better view. "What's going on, anyway?"

"The president's motorcade is coming from around the bend," she said. "Come on, over here!" She found a space beside a lamp post beside a group of teenagers wearing jackets, brownie cameras hanging from their necks. Dorina stood on tiptoe. She saw a parade of slow moving black vehicles approaching, all of them convertibles. Gentlemen in military uniforms occupied the first two and other dignitaries rode in the one after that, all of them smiling glamorously, beaming for the crowd, waving their gloved hands.

Dorina recognized John F. Kennedy in the next car, which had been basking in bright sunlight between two buildings. Suddenly Jacy held her gloved hands over her ears and turned away. Puzzled, Dorina kept looking at JFK, enthralled by the startling clarity of detail in her dream. Then two loud booms sounded, like a cannon, and people shrieked, scurrying away from the curb.

Dorina had been watching the President at the precise moment to see first his shoulder explode with a splash of blood. He turned, a look of terror in his eyes and a second shot caught him on the crown of his head, blowing it open in a mass of red as he tumbled forward over the seatback. She screamed, and Jacy caught her by the arm and led her back through the crowd and into the shadows of the alley, grabbing her by the shoulders, gazing deeply into her eyes.

The walls and the shrieking people around them dissolved, swarming into a blurred mass as Dorina kept saying "Why! Why! Why!"

"I know it's horrible, dear," Jacy said, embracing her, holding her tightly. "I know. I know." When they eased apart from each other Dorina realized that they were in a completely different scene. The weather was much warmer now, and still sunny. They both wore light sundresses. Jacy wore barrettes in her long, brunette hair to lift it up and away from her face. Her beauty had matured; Dorina looked at her quizzically as she now guessed her age at around forty. They stood on a brick walkway looking out over a manicured growth of shrubbery surrounding what looked to be a giant clock built into ground with the numbers formed by trimmed hedges. A giant silhouette of Mickey Mouse appeared at the center of the clock. Families and crowds of people passed by them, men in Hawaiian shirts and women in bell bottoms and frilly blouses.

Dorina turned around to look behind her and saw a large castle springing up out of a lagoon. "Where are we now?" she asked. "It looks like...Disneyland, but different."

"It's Walt Disney World," she said. "In Orlando, Florida."

Dorina spun around. "But that's impossible. Florida has been blown off the map! The only thing left was a marshy area and part of Miami and Key West. And Jacksonville. The whole middle part of the state was destroyed. What's going on?" She turned in another direction and saw Dumbo elephants suspended on wires flying around in a circle. Disoriented, she would wander a few steps one way, then turn and see a carousel in yet another direction. Costumed characters such as Goofy, Pluto, Snow White, Mickey and Minnie Mouse walked slowly, children clamoring after them as they waved back animatedly.

Jacy approached her solemnly, the hurt showing in her sensitive eyes. "I know this might all be coming to you as a great shock but there are many other worlds."

Dorina looked closely at the theme park patrons passing them by in all directions. They all looked like people she saw every day at the supermarket, or the mall, or at restaurants. The mood in the air seemed different in a way she could not quite define, however. In the old pictures of her mother and father, especially from their honeymoon, people had dressed in these gaudy colors and patterns. "This is absolutely crazy," she said.

"Like an island sprang up in the middle of the ocean."

"It's a peninsula," Jacy said, regarding the people passing by. "In another world closely related to ours, the Soviet Union was not able to drop the nuclear bomb on Cape Canaveral in 1965. The United States space program flourished and in July, 1969 we launched a spaceship called Apollo Eleven and it landed on the moon."

Dorina was starting to put two and two together. "And in this other world, John Kennedy was assassinated? Is that why you showed me that horrible scene?"

Jacy nodded. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know it was harrowing."

Dorina paused to think. "If Kennedy was assassinated, who became president?"

"Lyndon Johnson. He was sworn into office right after that and won re-election in 1964. In 1968 Richard Nixon won against Hubert Humphrey from Minnesota." She paused for a moment, concern etching across her face, her lower lip quivering. "Bobby Kennedy was assassinated that spring."

"Did Nixon have him killed?"

Jacy laughed. "That's an interesting theory. Actually no one knows. A Middle Eastern man was convicted. It happened in a hotel kitchen." She reached over and guided Dorina out of the way of a college-age boy with red white and blue suspenders running past them, holding a fist full of strings restraining balloons.

"This is just too strange," Dorina continued. She followed Jacy's lead as they walked leisurely along the concrete path past tropical shrubbery with bright pink flowers. Ahead of them lie a eutopic playground for children with small cars they could drive and a roller coaster constructed to look like a barnstorming plane Goofy flew. She'd learned about Nixon during history classes in high school and had always thought of him as a tragic figure. "So Nixon got to be president for eight years?" She assumed that he wouldn't have tried all that cloak and dagger stuff with the tapes if he was already president.

"No, just six," Jacy replied, smiling down at little children who bumped into her knees.

"Six? Why only six?"

Jacy smiled. "He had to resign in 1974. Watergate."

"You're kidding me!" Her own father had told her that he'd been glad when Nixon finally beat a Kennedy in 1972 and then became disgusted over the Watergate scandal broke. After Nixon's public disgrace, Ford took over for the final two years, but in 1976 Bobby ran for president again and won. She was born late in that year.

It occurred to her that while they were able to walk through this amusement park, dozens of people passed them and looked directly at Jacy, yet no one seemed to recognize her. She wondered if, in this parallel world Jacy Rayner remained Jacy Rayner and stayed out of the Hollywood limelight. The easiest way to find out was simply to ask her but she could not think of a tactful way to broach the subject. Instead, she asked something else that had played on her mind: "Jacy, why are you showing me all of this?"

Sadness clouded her expressive features. She sighed, gazing out in the distance, toward a monorail car gliding along a track. "I told Jack, I mean, President Kennedy to watch himself during 1963 because I sensed that so many people were out to get him. October and November of that year he faced a congressional investigation because of me. That kept him from going to Dallas, where he would have been assassinated, as you saw. In 1964, the CIA successfully made away with Castro. Tensions grew and grew and in April, 1965, just before the Gemini mission, well, you know what happened."

April 5. Cape Canaveral Day. The Soviets successfully launched a nuclear strike targeting the east Florida coast. Fallout spread as far away as Atlanta and New Orleans. The force of the blast crumbled the state's limestone base at the center and turned the area from just beneath Jacksonville to the northernmost reaches of Miami into an inhospitable swamp. While many had been spared through evacuations and bomb shelters, hundreds of thousands of people died. And the fish, the wildlife, the natural beauty, all destroyed.

"Jacy," Dorina said. "You're not responsible for April fifth."

She looked away. "The horror is in the knowing," she said, softly. They stopped in the shade of a palm tree. Suddenly Jacy's mood brightened and she reached out and touched her. "I want to show you something. Let's go! This way!" Jacy started walking briskly in the other direction, backtracking over their path, headed toward the castle rising from above the lagoon.

Dorina had difficulty keeping up with her. Scents of floral bouquet from the lush tropical shrubbery filled the air along with the sweetness of cotton Jacy and the aromas of chocolate and taffy from the Jacy factory. Before long they arrived at the cobblestones paving the way for the steps leading to the castle. Inside an archway artisans had painstakingly created a beautiful mural of the handsome prince fitting the glass slipper onto Cinderella's foot. They used individual squares of enameled tile. Dorina stopped for a moment to marvel at this but noticed that Jacy had already found a door and had opened it, disappearing behind it. Dorina followed.

The doorway opened to a staircase that she supposed led all the way up the tower of the castle in a spiral. "Jacy?" she called out, "are you up there?"

"Yes!" Jacy said, her voice reverberating against the stone walls. "Come quickly."

Dorina climbed the stairs after her, certain that they would lead to an observation platform on top. She expected that as she neared the upper reaches of the tower, that light flooding in through the windows and parapets up there would brighten the staircase. Yet, mysteriously, the light in the narrow stairway became increasingly dim until Dorina found herself in near-total darkness as she climbed. "Jacy, where are you? Now I'm really getting scared! This is pretty intense!"

"There's a door up here at the top," she called down to her. "Follow me inside. It's just a little bit further up."

Dorina paused, took a deep breath and then pressed onward. Jacy's voice had sounded reassuring. Up ahead, there was barely enough light for her to see a door, just as she'd been told. She reached up and found a swivel latch and swung it open. Bright light immediately burst through the opening and at first she had to squint, shielding her eyes from the intensity.

Beyond the doorway, she found what at first glance appeared to be a huge atrium.

Jacy awaited her on the other side of the door but her clothes had completely changed. She wore a magisterial robe with silver stars on the shoulders over a shimmering, navy blue iridescent bodysuit that conformed to her figure's lithe contours. Her hair had transformed into deep brunette again and had been swept up and away from her face, poofing out at her neckline, helmet like. She carried a short staff that appeared to be a scepter, containing at one end an emerald beacon that crystallized and radiated light. Dorina was fixated on Jacy's suit. When she looked closer at it, she noticed that the shimmering patterns swirled and congealed slowly, like the stars and galaxies metamorphosing through the evolution of the universe. The glistening material continued all the way down to her feet, which had been encased in delicate boots

Dorina was in awe at first, aware that they had somehow stepped off the parapet of Walt Disney World in another Florida dimension and into yet another world. "Jacy, I don't know what to say," she said. "But you look fantastic."

Jacy smiled faintly. "Come with me," she said. They walked along a corridor that ran in a circle around the atrium. Through glass, or what was probably a glass-like substance and probably a thousand times stronger, Dorina looked inside the atrium. A network of round tubes ran through the atrium which people walked briskly along, to get from one side to the other. There were men, women and children all scurrying about or floating through them and each possessed a glowing, inner beauty and they seemed to all wear variations of tunics or capes with the same type of glisteningly alive material as Jacy.

A man about Jacy's age approached them, wearing what appeared to be a tan and brown leather military outfit. Blond, curled hair spread back away from his regally high forehead and his brisk, confident air. When he approached them he smiled, looking at Jacy, nodding acknowledgment of her as he passed. Jacy regarded him by saying "Warberg." as she and Dorina brushed past.

Around the long, arcing hallway Dorina finally noticed that they were approaching a tall, black door. "There's someone just beyond the door I know you'll want to meet," she said. She reached for the latch and opened it, the great door slowly swinging outward. They slowly stepped inside, and Dorina was at first dismayed that they again found themselves in near-total darkness. When her eyes adjusted, however, she quickly realized that they had entered a huge, cavernous auditorium, but without seats. In the distance, hundreds of feet below them she could see a solitary figure tapping buttons on what appeared to be an instrument console. "Hey Ronald," she said, "How about throwing a little light on the subject. There's someone here to meet you."

"Okay," the man at the instrument console said. Dorina noticed that he spoke in a normal tone of voice yet she could hear him as well as if he'd been standing beside her.

"Over here," Jacy said, guiding Dorina toward a series of bright blue ovals that had been inlaid into the floor, shining in the dimness. "Stand inside the oval, and be completely still." She then lifted her palm upward, her fingers pointed toward the bright blue of the oval floor. Sparks emanated from her palm, causing Dorina to double-take. When she looked closer, she noticed that they were actually tiny characters, or symbols. The floor gently gave way beneath them and an invisible force field kept them inside a walled cocoon as they descended to the level where Ronald worked.

They reached the main floor of the auditorium and Dorina suddenly realized who the man at the console was: "My god," she said, "Ronald Lewandowski?" By the time they reached him, he had flipped on a switch or pushed a button or some way brought light to the cavernous auditorium with the high, arcing, royal blue walls. They approached him and she immediately recognized Ron from the photos of him on the websites: the boyish sandy hair, the brown, friendly-yet-intense eyes and the beard. He was tall, nearly six and a half feet, slender, but with a powerful build, the jumpsuit he wore accentuating an inverted "v."

"Ronald, I'd like you to meet Dorina Pettit," Jacy said.

He reached forward and shook her hand firmly but tenderly. "Hi," he said. "It's a pleasure. Jacy's told me a lot about you."

The remark struck Dorina as odd, but she dismissed it. "So what is all of this?" she asked, indicating the console and the huge auditorium.

Ronald smiled. "I guess you could think of it as a control room," he said.

"A control room?" Dorina asked. "What do you control from here?"

Ronald appeared as if he was ready to explain but had difficulty coming up with the appropriate words. Jacy said "Go ahead and show her."

He said "She's right. It is probably the best way to explain." He lowered down into the recessed area of the console, touching a large dial.

If Dorina ever remembered this extremely vivid dream and tried to explain the next part of it to someone, she would do it this way: when Ronald turned the dial on the console, the huge arcing walls of the auditorium parted in sections like a huge camera aperture.

When he further twisted the dial, spectacular daylight vistas appeared flooding the auditorium shell with light. It was as if he flicked the lever on a giant view master and a real, three dimensional world appeared below them. At first it was a mountainous vista, like the craggy peaks Dorina had once seen in Colorado. Then it was an alien civilization that could only be described as a collection of spectral pyramids teeming with people. New York City appeared, the twin towers glistening in the sunlight, dominating the skyline. After that a desert where Dorina could see strange bison-like creatures with great curling tusks at their nostrils and a strange half-man half horse apparition gliding past. Finally, a scene materialized that she was very familiar with: the street from her home town in Indiana.

"Oh, my god," Dorina said. "It looks like we can just step out and walk there."

"We can," Ronald said.

Jacy gestured to the spring afternoon of Dorina's hometown. She said "Why don't you take her for a walk?"

He said, "Sure." Looking at Dorina, he added "I thought we could have a little chat, get to know each other. That you might feel more comfortable in more familiar surroundings. Don't you want to come also, Jacy?"

"No, I'll leave you two to yourselves. I've got business at the atrium."

Ronald nodded and then took Dorina by the hand and helped her from the auditorium shell to her street in her hometown during a spring day. After they had stepped out and onto the sidewalk of her street, Dorina expected to be able to look back and see the giant auditorium shell and possibly even the atrium. They had left it behind them somehow, someway and were totally immersed in what now appeared to be the present day world of her girlhood home in Indiana. Spring was her favorite time of the year, with the blossoms giving the air the clean, floral, fresh smell. The lawns also regained their color, and the tulips and daffodils bloomed. Her family's house lies down at the end of the street and she and Ronald walked casually toward it.

When she looked at him he smiled warmly for her. It was a quiet day in the street and though elderly Mrs. Hecuber pulled dandelions on her small front lawn, all the other yards were empty, cars gone from the driveways. She decided that it must be a weekday.

"Ask me anything," Ronald said. "I won't mind."

"Okay," Dorina said, sorting through the myriad possibilities. "For one thing, how are you going to get back? To your console."

"Aw, don't worry about that," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Portals."

"I guess that's why you call it _Portals Beyond_?"

"Yes."

"So then I guess Jacy really did help you out of the coma?"

"She did."

"That's amazing," Dorina said, shaking her head. "Yet, when I asked her about it, she didn't seem to know. She told me I had to come to you."

"Well Jacy's very special, and she was given a very special gift. After she found out about how April 13th happened, she wanted to become a healer. She helped me and countless other children in ways similar to how she helped me. And it didn't stop there. Through Jacy I'm very lucky to be able to help people myself. By giving them hope."

"I've heard that," Dorina said. "The Portals Movies give people hope."

"That, they do," he said proudly.

Dorina turned to face him as they walked on. "I have to ask you something. On this past Sunday, my boyfriend took me out to the desert. He said he was going to find Merlin's Lair, your soundstage. He had a map for it and everything. We did find something; it looked like a bunker, or a shelter or the entrance to an underground garage. Was that the entrance to the soundstage?"

"No, it was not. It was a portal."

"A portal?" Dorina said, "Then you don't have a soundstage?"

"No. I'm afraid that the sprawling Merlin's Lair complex is just a media creation."

"Then how do you make those movies?"

"Oh, we sometimes rent out studio space and go on location. To the desert, to Scotland. But that's just for transitional shots. We usually just go to the different places using the portal and capture the images." He raised his hands to indicate his present surroundings. "Like here!"

Dorina glanced ahead and noticed that they were nearing the end of her street and the house where she had lived all through grade school and high school. She called it the "gingerbread house" because of the textured masonry finish, the huge roof that looked like something out of a fairy tale, and the dark brown trim. From the meticulously groomed evergreen shrubbery to the delicate arcing bricks that lined the front walk, it gave her a warm feeling inside to return home. She turned to Ronald and said "This is where my mother, father, and younger sister live. I'm going to see if anyone's home."

Ronald nodded.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked, stopping to face him.

He replied "It's a nice offer, but I really should get back." They looked at each other for a few moments that bordered on awkwardness. Finally, he took both of her hands and looked at her with sincerity. He said "I'd like you to become part of our family. To come work with us, and help us provide hope."

Dorina, suddenly feeling a great rush of affection for the man, said "I would like that."

Ronald reached into a chest pocket of his jumpsuit and extracted a business card. He gave it to her.

She looked down at it. Centered at the top of the card were the words "Merlin's Lair," printed in Old English script, with "H.R. Lewandowski, President" below it. There was a telephone number, a website address and a fax number, but the physical address had been omitted. "Tomorrow, sometime, after you wake up, call us, and we'll get you started on your new career." Dorina, in her lucidity was aware that she would forget the phone numbers on the card to be able to check out whether there was a link to the real world. But she still felt touched.

He extended a hand for her and she shook it, but she also embraced him lightly, saying "Thank you."

They parted. "See you soon," he said, waving to her as he backed away.

She turned and found herself skipping up the front walk, as she had in high school. Before reaching for the door handle she watched Ronald walk back down the street toward the portal. For a moment she considered discretely following him, to try and discover how he would re-enter that magnificent auditorium. Instead, she turned, plunged her thumb down onto the latch and the door opened. She poked her head inside and said "Mom?"

Before she could hear her mother answer, there was a sudden buzzing, like a chainsaw cutting wood. A bright light filled the house, washing out all the details of it and Dorina seemed to float away. Something touched her face lightly, like a feather, tickling it, and she was aware of a softer, humming sound beneath the buzzing. She opened her eyes.

It was morning in her bedroom back in Los Angeles. The alarm clocked blared atop her dresser and Samantha had crawled onto the pillow beside her, nuzzling her with her delicate little mouth and her whiskers.

"Kitty, that was one strange, intense dream," she said, stroking the soft fur atop her cat's head. She pushed the sheets and comforter, swiveled her hips and swung her knees toward the side of the bed, bringing her feet over the edge, setting them down on the floor.

Groggily, she stepped barefoot across the carpet and reached up to the dresser to switch off the alarm on her clock radio.

There was a small card atop the dresser, laid down beside the musical carousel she kept up there. It was a business card. Centered at the top were the words "Merlin's Lair," written in old English lettering. Below that: "H.R. Lewandowski, President," and a phone number, website address, and fax number.

Dorina said "Oh, my god."

The End

Thank you for reading my novel _Meanwhile in the World where Kennedy Survived._ This was a fun novel to write and I hope you, dear reader, had as much fun reading it. If you liked my book, please say so in a review on the website where you purchased it or on the Smashwords website. And stop by my Facebook page and say hello.
