“Sorry?”
“Do I need saving?”
He takes her in, the drama of her face.
“Something tells me you’ll be all right.”
A summer intern emerges, apologizes; he was unable to locate the documents, he tells the man. “You’d be better off returning next week, when the proper help might be available.”
The man looks almost delighted by this outcome, stealing a last glance at Susan as he follows the assistant down the hall. Maybe she’ll see him again. Maybe not. Either way, it does not matter, because here it comes now, the walk to her doom. Grasp at them, all the fleeting joys of life, every moment that you made a difference, that you didn’t spend regretting. If she is sure of one thing, it is that she wants to live. She wants to see and feel and burn and wonder and love. She wants to say yes to all the world. When the boys come to drag her out, she resists harder than ever, her heels scuffing the stage, enchantment and anger radiating through her, the whole cast looking at her as though she might actually be a witch.
“Any final words?”
The tears are close to the surface now, instinctual. Here come the shallow—shallower—inhales like a sharpened pencil, liquid lead in her lungs.You want a witch? Fine. Have me.As she gives over to the bestial howl, the child in the front row stirs, opens his eyes.
BLACKOUT. The crowd on their feet. Adrenaline propels her through the greenroom, out of her costume, past Bourke (Susan!), out of the Courthouse. She can feel him chasing her, stray words perforating the applause still resounding in her mind.
“We talked about this—”
“A responsibility to portray factually accurate—”
“If I can’t trust you—”
In the sweltering parking lot, she turns to face him. “So what?” she begins.
“I have to ask myself,” he says, his brow knitting in concern, “if you really want this job.”
Of course, being Bourke, he is trying to make it her decision.You wanted this, she reminds herself,stand your ground. But outside the showroom, the demands of the twentieth century are roaring awake. They’d have to pay her severance, wouldn’t they?How far would that go in New York?She could find an apartment, something would come through, right? Her bravery is faltering under the material facts of her life. Stupid Susan, swept up in her own need to matter. You can’t be important if you can’t afford to live.
“I take this job very seriously,” she begins, which is true.
“I’m not sure you do,” Bourke says, his voice thin and pedantic. “The job is reenactment. The job is accuracy. The job is trusting me.”
The job is fucking boring.She needs to leave. But how?
A hand on her shoulder. That man again, the one with the glasses.
“That was great,” he is saying. “You were terrific.”
Why is he still here?He must have watched the show. He must have waited for her. A steadying thought. No one ever waits for her.
“Thanks,” she manages.
“Are you the director?” the man asks, turning his attention. “I’m Alcott Bliss, I’m sure my name has come up.”
Bourke is blank, blinking. Susan can practically see the frantic search in some mental filing cabinet for the name (Bliss, Alcott). He plasters on a smile, extends a hand. “Of course. Thank you for coming.”
The man stands up straighter, adjusts his glasses.Should she know about him?He catches her with the quickest dart of the eye.No, the slow revelation.He is trying to help me.
“Well, as you probably suspected, I’m here from the board assessment committee. And we look at the value of all of the programming here at the museum. Well, I just have to say, I’m sure you are aware, but there was talk of winding down this production.”
Bourke’s eyes are like saucers. As much as she hates the intervention,oh, this is what it feels like to have the upper hand! She has grasped his angle, keeping her face steady.
“N-no,” Bourke stammers. “I wasn’t aware—”
“Oh dear. Sorry to cause alarm, because you really ought not to fear—I must say, after the performance of Miss—ah—”
“Byrne.”
