She was dead.
For there, on the screen of the old black-and-white TV, was that old black-and-white author photograph of her from ten years ago, when—she realized with a start—she had been so much younger.
“PJ Wallis, a longtime Connecticut resident, has died at her home in Wallis,” said the announcer; the same announcer Pandy recognized from when she was a child. “She was known to many as the creator of the popular character Monica. She was forty-six years old—”
“Forty-five!” Pandy shouted automatically.
And then her image was gone, replaced by a package of Depends.
“That did not just happen,” Pandy said aloud.
She stood up, uncertain about what to do. Surely, what she’d just seen had to be a mistake. Otherwise, Henry would have called.
Or would he? As she went into the mudroom to pick up the receiver, she remembered that the TV only got the local station. Apparently that nice fireman had filed his report, but perhaps the news hadn’t spread. Henry likely didn’t know she’d been declared dead.
She dialed Henry’s number. He answered with his usual drawling “Hellooooo?”
“Hello?” she demanded. “Have you noticed that I am dead?”
“Now why on earth should something that convenient happen to you?” Henry asked. “I saw a tweet from Publisher’s Daily that the author PJ Wallis has been reported dead by her sister, Hellenor…”
“And?” Pandy continued.
“That was it. Since we both know that Hellenor is in Amsterdam, I could only conclude this particular ‘Hellenor Wallis’ was actually PJ Wallis playing dead.”
“And why would I do that?” Pandy asked archly.
“To remind me of how wonderful you are, and how terrible it would be if you really had died.”
Pandy laughed. And then she remembered the boathouse. “Actually, Henry, there is a tragedy. The boathouse. It was struck by lightning, and now it’s burned to the ground. I know how much you loved that boathouse. Remember that scene in The Philadelphia Story?”
“That’s one of your favorite movies, not mine. In any case, the boathouse doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you, my dear, are alive.” Henry gave a low chuckle. “Although I can’t say your publishers feel the same.”
“What do you mean?” Pandy’s eyes narrowed.
Henry cleared his throat. “Based on their reactions, it’s rather a shame you’re not dead. Your demise seems to have caused a small stir. One actually called at seven this morning to discuss it. Of course, he expressed his condolences. But he also pointed out how good it would be for your sales.”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t see the need to get into the details about Hellenor’s likely identity. I simply said that I’d get back to him when I found out more about the accident. It won’t hurt him to think you’re dead for a few hours.”
“You’re such a sneak,” Pandy said admiringly. “Of course my death would be good for my sales.”
“Now, darling. Don’t get too excited. You’re not actually dead—yet.”
“It’s almost a shame I’m not,” she said, reminded of Jonny. She glanced in the mirror and sighed. She seemed to have aged two decades overnight. She was literally gray. Her skin was still smeared with soot, and her hair—her hair—
She turned quickly away from the glass. She had worse things to worry about than her hair. “I need money, Henry. And fast.”
“You have money.”
“No, I do not. I need money desperately.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, Henry.” She grimaced at the mirror and noticed that her teeth were also sooty. She sighed. She was going to have to tell Henry the truth: She hadn’t made Jonny sign a prenup, and Jonny had lost all the money she’d given him in a bad restaurant deal.
Henry would be furious. And it would turn out that he would have been right about Jonny all along.
“Pandy?” Henry coaxed.
“It’s just…” Pandy took another look in the mirror and noticed her charred bra strap was showing through where her T-shirt had torn. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get here, okay? And can you please bring up my clothes? I can’t fit into my old ones, and the clothes I’m wearing have been literally turned to ash.”
With a grim goodbye, she hung up and made her way up the back stairs to her bathroom. She plugged the sink and ran the hot water, grabbing a washcloth and soap and scrubbing her face and head until all the blackened clumps came away.
The sight of her once-beautiful hair, now charred and smeared on the damp washcloth, almost made her cry. She threw the washcloth into the trash, and spotting the bottle of the whiskey next to the tub where she’d left it the night before, picked it up and took a swig.
She dried her head and looked in the mirror.
A charred sort of frizzle stood up along the top of her head like a rooster’s comb.
She took another slug of whiskey. The second shot made her fight down the urge to vomit.
When that passed, she opened the cabinet and took out a can of shaving cream and a razor. She aimed the can at her head and pressed the button.
The shaving foam made a cap. A clownish kind of cap that reminded her of the Marx Brothers. If she added Hellenor’s safety glasses, she’d look just like Groucho. She took another swig of whiskey. She ran the water, picked up the razor, and began shaving.
As the razor drew lines in the foam, she realized that the first thing she would have to do when she got back to New York was to buy a wig.
She put down the razor, tipped her head, and splashed water over her scalp. The slick surface under her hands nearly made her sick again. She dried the top of her head.
And lifting her face while she mentally braced for the inevitable, she looked in the mirror.
She gasped.
She was expecting it to be bad. But this?
Who was she?
No one. Without her hair, she looked anonymous. She could be anyone, really. She could even be a man.
Grabbing the towel, she pulled it over her head. This was the final indignity. “Bad thing number four,” she howled aloud, throwing herself onto her bed.
She rolled into the dip of the old feather mattress. And then, as generations of little girls had no doubt done before her, she cried and cried and cried.
Sometime later, she sat up and dried her tears.
She’d had her emotional indulgence. Like every Wallis child, she’d been taught that feelings, no matter how bad, were unlikely to change reality. Meaning, don’t just sit there feeling sorry for yourself. “Take action,” her father would have said.
Besides, it was relatively simple: She was bald. She needed hair.
It was possible that in the jumble of old costumes in the Victorian theater there was a wig. Possibly several. But they would be like Old Jay’s bed: You wouldn’t want to sleep in them.
She would have to wear a hat instead. The best selection of hats could be found in one of Hellenor’s old rooms; specifically, in the room Hellenor had once dubbed “the lab.”
Panting slightly—a reminder that she was in terrible shape—Pandy made her way down the long second-floor corridor, then up another flight of stairs to the children’s wing, where she opened the door to the schoolroom.
At one time, if something was burning, exploding, or boiling over, chances were it was coming from this room. Pandy would burst in screaming to find Hellenor, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing safety glasses, holding a smoking test tube.