My gloved hand closed around the pipe and drew it ever so gently from my coat. Poised, calm, fully into the part I was about to play, I lifted the pipe over my head. His shadow passed in front of me, and the pipe crashed into his head. His top hat flew to the ground. He staggered and tried to turn, the blood spraying in all directions. I repeated the blow to his back, knocking out his wind, making it impossible for him to cry for help.
There was no time to observe my handiwork, but I was almost certain that he had received a mortal blow, and there was no time to give another. I backed through the gate into darkness and cried out, “Murder, murder by the square.” I only paused long enough to see that I had aroused the attention of several passersby who further sounded the alarm. I raced through the square and exited on the far side, then made my way back to where a crowd had already formed around the fallen man.
And yes, there was MacCready. I could see him well. I could not see the dying man, but I watched MacCready’s hand clutch the air as he followed the man’s progress toward darkness, and my hand followed his. His shoulder twitched, and I knew he was internalizing every detail, and so did I.
A constable came and pushed everyone aside. I was very nearly caught out because I had lingered until the last moment so as not to miss one tiny part of MacCready’s mesmerizing performance. He turned suddenly and I fairly threw myself into the entrance of an ale house to avoid his gaze.
I was sweating beneath my overcoat, and I was covered with blood. I dared not stay where I could be seen, though I craved an audience. I skulked away into the night, assaulted in turns by fear and exaltation.
That was the first of three studies in dying that I arranged for MacCready. And while he was watching death, I was watching him. Breathed as he breathed, lolled my head as he lolled his, sighed just as he sighed.
Over the weeks, his death scenes became more powerful and so did mine.
I had never been adept at learning parts. A line here and there I could manage, but more than a few together left me stammering and sweating with confusion. Ah, but my dying was exquisite. Even the little ballet girls surrounded me with their fluttery eyes and hands and layers and layers of tulle, tittering over the beauty of my recurring death.
And so what are words? Hardly anyone can remember a speech heard the night before. But long after the words are forgotten, the memory of the twisting, writhing, agony of death remains.
I have studied diligently, learned everything I could. Endured cold, hunger, and impatience to perfect my craft. I think I’ve got it right now, the precise amount of quiver at the lower extremities, the languid droop of the hand as it slips from the breast or sword. The little ballet girls agree that my dying is quite as good as MacCready’s.
And so I have invited MacCready for a dinner of oysters in my rooms. And he has accepted. I am so very honoured. I’ve bought a special Madeira wine for the occasion and have popped the cork this very minute. I pour it out and hand a glass to MacCready. He holds it to the light, smiles his appreciation, and takes a sip.
I offer him my best armchair and he sits down. We discuss the theater, and I pour more wine. I’m careful not to drink too much. A host must keep his wits about him.
There’s a knock at the door and I go to open it. It’s the boy from the oyster bar with a platter piled high with oysters. He places it on the center of the table I have pulled away from the wall.
Now here’s the tricky part. The piece of stage management upon which everything hangs. I finger the little packet of powder in my waistcoat pocket. It will take a mere second, if MacCready will only turn his back.
I ask if he would mind fetching the wine bottle from the side table behind me. I only need the briefest moment. But my hand turns stiff and MacCready is back with the bottle before I can extract the packet from my pocket.
My hands are sweating just as they do when I have a speech to deliver. I have lost my chance, there may not be another. And yet, here is MacCready asking where he might relieve himself. I point to the screen which conceals the commode.
He nods his thanks and carries his wine glass with him. I cannot believe my good fortune. My fingers are suddenly nimble as if released from a spell. A mere tap of the paper onto the largest oyster, and I place it directly in front of the place where I intend MacCready to sit. I refold the paper and push it back into my waistcoat just as MacCready returns.
I offer him a chair. He sits. I go to the other side of the table and pull out my own chair, and MacCready realizes he has left his wine glass on the window sill next to the convenience. Would I be so kind as to retrieve it for him.
Of course, I say. Anything for my dear MacCready.
When I return, he has already tucked into the oysters, the shells are piling up on the tablecloth. I sit down and reach for one of my own, my eyes on MacCready. I watch his side of the plate of oysters disappear as I eat. I don’t want to miss a moment of the great man’s death scene.
And then it begins. His hand goes to his throat, his eyes bulge. I feel my own eyes bulge in response. He begins to shake and I shake with him. His eyes are on me now, and mine on his. His body convulses, racked with spasms. I feel his pain. I clutch at my stomach. MacCready is a blur across the table, writhing. We move together, my rhythm, his rhythm. Locked together in a synthesis of the inevitable. It is glorious, this searing, horrible joining. We cry out and our voices commingle over the table.
He pushes to his feet. His chair crashes to the floor. I try to stand, but the pain is too intense. I grope for the table, but my fingers are frozen claws that will not move. He leans forward, peering into my face. He is swaying over me. But no, it is I who am swaying, not MacCready. I whose entrails are on fire.
I see my hand rise in the air, the fingers grasping. MacCready’s fingers grasp the air across the table, mimicking mine.
My hand clutches my throat. MacCready clutches his. My throat is an oyster shell, being ground and crushed and seared with flame. I can not think. I fall back in my chair, watch my legs jerk and twitch beneath me. Fire engulfs me. I hear the rattle of someone choking. I try to scream but my throat closes on the sound. My arms flail outward, then fall limp at my sides. I search for MacCready, my eyes darting about as if controlled by another. At last they latch onto his solid figure and I understand.
Across the table, MacCready is watching…
On the Bubble by ROBERT LOPRESTI
THE PHONE RANG and Mitch Renadine jumped a foot. Running across his living room-how had the phone gotten way over there?-he felt as if he were moving in slow motion.
It was his mother calling. “I can’t talk long, Ma. I’m on the bubble.”
“On the bubble? And what does that mean?”
Mitch sighed, not in the mood for a long explanation. “The network is setting up its fall schedule. Some shows have been cancelled. Some have been renewed. But they haven’t decided on Muldoon yet. We’re waiting to hear, one way or the other. Out here that’s called being on the bubble.”
She was outraged. “But your show is in the top twenty, Mickey! How could they think of canceling it?”
Good old Mom. She was the only person in the world who still called him Mickey. Also, the only person who thought Muldoon was a hit.
Yes, the show reached the top twenty-sometimes. But it followed a program that usually made the top ten. That meant millions of people hit the remote control as soon as they saw Mitch’s smiling face. The network assumed that Muldoon was doing as well as it was only because of the strength of its lead-in.
“I love you, Mom. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.” He hung up and checked for messages. No one else had called. Damn.