True Deceit

CHAPTER ONE

Before the Mourning

The neighbor-tree’s resident tawny owl was not yet to bed when Annika came out to the mail basket. She placed but one envelope within the carrier cloth, as she did in each day’s morn. The town’s letter-taker would not come till shadows had crossed to the house’s east side, but every day, seemingly earlier still, Annika greeted the moon not yet brazen by dawn, fearing the taker may be early should she forget to place the letter then.

Indoor air was but stiller than that outside, and never warmer. Annika’s long locks, bound up tight in the warmth of later-day, hung loose and hot over her bare neck. The sounds were much the same on either side of the walls, though raspy growls turned deafening inside. Seth slept yet, though the feat was slight, the hour being early and him not yet but an hour down. Such a cacophony of noise came from his exhausted form, and would only last until the cat came up at dawn. Even knowing his unrest, Annika could sleep worriless, for his waking hours held more peace than his rest. It was upon his surrender to torturous dreams and deepest slumber that she was roused, though not by the glorious snores.

Annika sat on a quilt-covered rocker, with naught to do till the chickens stirred. She’d have enough minutes to collect the night’s roost afore the cock caught wind of sunny breath and roused himself. Seth slept naught through much, and this boisterous braggart, standing not even to the knee, woke him with even a morning cough. Annika saw the earliest rays seep through the window sill, and on she went to find what little breakfast they would have.

She had naught but an apron to gather the lot, which held fine with but four hens to be laden, and only two with any to show. Her fingers were made as pockets to separate sprigs of rosemary and basil which she plucked en route to the kitchen. There was no cheese left in the ice box, but enough sausage to serve Seth, which sat well with Annika. With omelets for every morning’s meal, she tried to keep it varied for the boy’s sake, while she knew how to live on uniform tastes.

The ice box was in the cellar, and Annika didn’t bother relieving her load before going down to gather the meat. Though her apron sagged, her limbs held all with little struggle, as such was necessity. For as she knew he would be, Seth sat at the table when she entered the house, and his eyes fell heavily on the meat. The boy loved the tender sausage, and he knew little was left, so would have protested had she not already taken it up. As it were, nothing could keep her from using it after the air had held it this long.

Annika smiled at his worried brow, willing it to smooth. All her goods went onto the counter afore Seth could but stand to offer aide. “If you want to help,” she said, “take the corn to the chickens and the cat.” Annika knew the tasks would not keep him, but the gentle ginger kit would.

Seth smiled at last, patting her shoulder as he came to the cupboard. His hand grasped the smallest sack of feed among the dozens taking up near two shelves’ space. The cat would never eat one kernel, but would batter the pieces he was given. Seth knew not to hand out too many, but he would not deny the kitten its play. Annika watched him step outside, and her rigid spine let slack her tired frame.

She started up the stove and found the iron kettle-pan, dropping as much store-bought oil as she could spare for a two-egg omelet. She brought down a plate and spatula, both made of hand from wood. The plate was one of three that sat on the shelf, though only two had been used for a time.

Memories pulled Annika’s shoulders down with her eyelids. Her dear Robbie had been at sea for many a month, sending all the wages of travel by a parcel-man he’d known all his life. Annika’s letters reached him as his were sent back her way, one touching the other within a fortnight. She touched the finger bearing his ring of Ever-Promise, his way to bind their hearts under truest love. Annika smiled, though it was not without grief.

The eggs were close to burning now, and she crudely slid the meal onto the plate. This one held no meat and would be cold once Seth reemerged from his cat’s grasp. His omelet would have the sausage, full with four eggs, no garlic, and yet hot on the pan. He had tried to object to this routine, but Annika cooked their meals in the same way in any case. Seth was but 15, still growing with much grown. She was but one, no child of Robbie’s to feed, so she took little.

The boy came in and sat, accepting the plate and metal prongs, though with a look of disapproval and worry. Seth would not pick apart his food until Annika sat at one of two remaining chairs beside him. They lowered their heads to their plates, silent as had become tradition, and each ate another omelet as the dawn but broke over the roof peak.

Ice and Fire

Ice of heaven melting

On a fire-covered hell

The water left extinguishes

The flame.

We’re left with drops

Of boiling-hot water

Seeped into the earth

And absorbed by all

The water guzzled, sipped

By every being of breath

Makes them turn one way

Or the other

But each drinker

Contains ice and fire

Black and White

Death.

What a topic.

You think of darkness,

You think

Black.

What do those in black

Imagine?

Not colors

Except maybe

Absence

Of color.

Death is THE “unknown”.

Many fear such unknown’s.

As for those that embrace the unknown,

They don’t ask for death.

And those that are

Really fear certainty.

Certainties are constants.

That which we fear will never change.

But some that want that change

Hope.

They may fear the constant, but they

Hope.

The may fear unknown’s, but they still

Hope.

They don’t spend their lives

In the dark.

Fear is blackness.

Fear is pitch.

Fear keeps life from breathing.

Fear cannot blind us,

But the blind do accept fear.

It is the blind that do not live.

Those who worry about

Death

Cannot spend time pondering

Life.

Those that only grimace at

Black

Can never see any color but

White.

Emotions have colors.

Feelings give off light.

Living makes that screen brilliant.

You’re not dead yet.

Your canvas should not be white.

Even black shows you’re paying attention.

Aged

Pekid palms reveal a soul

Grown much past body's time.

A learned spirit knows not what,

Just that it knows.

Times connect the lives and lines

Too numerous now to read.

Withered be the skin, and yet

The soul is strongest here.

Fairy Tale

The greatest passion lies in pain,

In fear, in vacancy, in debt of love,

Until the heart can hear the voice

That pours the pain

Out of the holes

Onto the floor

At the foot of the door

To a future not a soul could predict,

But the heart and the voice always see.

The greatest change inspires pain,

Some fear, some debt, some vacancy,

With more to fill the gaps,

The holes, bullet-pierced,

Than ever tore open any soul.

Stitched by a voice

Given song by a heart

Ruled by a passion forever to be held.

Relinquish

Bubble, bubble, bubble,
In my skin, 'round my heart,
In my chest, in my back,
Through my feather-fluffed stomach.

Anticipate expected outcomes.
Anxiety ripping at high tide.
Accidental insinuations
Adding apmle confusion and temptation.

Styx and stones break naught the silence.
Ready Energy Offers full SPEED.
Navigating Special streets, 37, 38,
Bubbling over into spoiling the spoils.

Frozen Face

“Here they are.” James slaps the stack of uneven papers on my desk. “Just fish out the credentials and pick out the pretty faces.”

     I let out a long breath. As James leaves the office I think about the discombobulated pile before me. I had written a script three years ago and barely got through the publishing process. On January 12^th, two weeks prior to this very day, Mr. James Benet knocked on my apartment door. He physically came to my place of residence so that I could sign a sheet of paper. Most producers just send a fax to the nearest P.O. Box.

     I roll my eyes at the open door. James had wanted my full participation in the production, and he certainly receives it. He has been saying that the author is the only one with the right vision for a play. James won’t even hire a director until I hand-pick the cast; He is only hiring one at all because I refused to direct it myself.

     There is a grayscale photo peeking out of the manila folder in front of me. The file is labeled: “Miss Gloria Anderson” and the folder won’t stay shut without the green rubber band stretched around it. I pull the two-ton stack to arms’ reach after grappling across the table for it.

     Inside the tag board binding sit about fifty pairs of headshots and resumes. It is exciting, finding the faces of my characters, but I still brace myself for disappointment. I know that I cannot find absolutely perfect actors, but at least I’m presiding over auditions. “It’s your story,” James had said. “No one can change what came from your head.”

     I decide to dump out the jokers first. I don’t want to get hung up on a face and end up with a crummy actor. Within ten minutes I pull out twenty-four resumes, all of which have no prior acting experience. Not one of these contains a single reference, not even from high school. I cannot always keep myself from looking at pictures. At least none have looked priceless.

     Until now, I think. As much as I try not to look at any headshots first, one picture captures my gaze. The man in it wears a turtleneck sweater and gentle eyebrows. Stubble extends from behind the crown of his head to cover his chin and the edge of his lips. His shining eyes give me an urge to kiss his nose, like a brother who has been gone for too many Christmases. Dimitri.

     I have seen this man before. Every time I wrote a scene containing the lead, there was this face. The same face is laid in literal black and white before me now. I had dreams of what he would sound like on stage, and if his voice could show the audience what each song feels. At this point credentials could not matter less to me. I have found my Dimitri Moyer.

     I stare at the headshot for what must be many minutes. Most actors have their photo taken so that it reflects their personality; photographers use different angles and show different lengths of their subjects’ bodies to be creative and catch the eye. This picture only shows the face, head-on. If it were my own I would not have paid the photographer, but for this actor, it works. It is more than perfect. The lips show a small smile which is made honest by the eyes. It may not be an interesting headshot, but the face is wondrous.

     I almost run to find James. I’m halfway out of my chair with the picture in focused hand when the flapping paper attached to it is noticed. James will never call if the resume is incomplete. I sit back down and pray agnostically that he has at least one prior role on the sheet.

      Oh God. The font is tiny. With small margins, all the references barely fit on the single page. Aside from the list of ten directors there are over six years of recorded acting and tech classes as well as over twenty roles. Yet, his name holds no history in my memory.

     Jeremy Sanders spent his entire career in community theatres across Iowa with only one performance in New York. His character experience includes Doctor Manette from “A Tale of Two Cities,” Egeus from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” and Algernon from “The Importance of Being Earnest.” While all but one production listed are classics and fully spoken, the single Broadway show proves his flexibility. Mr. Sanders held a small role in Avenue Q, a highly provocative musical done totally with hand puppets, during the summer of 2004; the peculiarity was how short of a time he stayed with it. The show is still running now, in the year 2008. At least there is plenty to satisfy James.

     I race out of the door of James’s office, then the lamp at the end of the hall, looking in all directions. I don’t normally get to any state that approaches visible excitement, but now I fell ready to spring out of my skin and fly. I can’t even fell frustration for spending two minutes ducking in and out of rooms, dropping curt apologies to any occupants, without finding James. Finally, with a slower gait and much heavier breath, I turn into the doorway marked “Mr. Benet” and nearly knock over the devil himself.

     “Jesus, Gloria.” James barely manages to save a falling bun from his hamburger plate. I have never found him with coffee or muffins, but often with energy drinks and full meals. Does he ever eat outside of this place?

     I only offer him a winded, “James, finally.” I breathe several times while he bends to retrieve the bun and sets his food on the table. He brushes a crumb from his shirt and I impulsively wipe a fleck from his cheek. He smiles, having grown accustomed to the motherly tendencies of his childless client.

     “So,” James starts in, “are you finished already? I had expected the process to take at least an hour.”

     I readjust the headshot in my hand. The paper under the staple had torn somewhat from my fruitless chase around the fourth floor. “Not yet,” I replied. “But there is a winner. This,” I say, holding the now-disconnected photo before his eyes, “is our Dimitri.”

     James raises his right eyebrow at me, and then studies the picture. It takes him more than a second to remove it from my fingers; my brain doesn’t want to lose that face. He gives me one last look before sitting with the photo in his hand, the other hand reaching out.

     I’m so preoccupied with the sight of the greasy burger being near the headshot that James ends up simply grabbing the resume out of my hand. I stand staring at him, hoping than his eyebrows will not furrow. I have yet to see a look of rejection from James that was directed towards me, but every other who has received it could not sway him with negotiation. I am not sure I would have a better chance.

     “Well,” James began before looking up, “he certainly has experience in theatre. The lack of real musical experience, however, could prove to be a threat in the long run. Gloria, what made you so sure?”

     “It’s him, James.” I pull out a rolling chair to be at his eye level. “It’s the character I see in every scene I write. This,” I snatch the photo from his food-stained fingers, “is my Dimitri Moyer.”

     James taps the table as he studies the resume. What is the problem? I wonder impatiently. Where does he get off questioning my character? I am not an aggressive person, and yet these thoughts barely blip on my careful offense radar. I wanted him to call, to set up the audition. As compromising as I could be, I would not settle after seeing that headshot.

     “Then,” he said, face still to the page, “I’ll have to call him. His residency is in Queens, so I’m not going all the way out there.” He looks up at me with the smile in his eyes. I’m beaming. “Good to see you’re sticking to your vision.”

     I pull James halfway out of his chair and send my own rolling backwards with the hug I give him. James isn’t one to laugh, but I take his gasp for air as enough of a chuckle to allow the hug to hold. “You will be happy,” I assure him. Pulling back, I steal a fry from his plate. “I’ll get the rest of the cast picked out and,” adapting a joyous French accent, “la vision will be complete.”

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

     After a week and a half James has arranged auditions with the cast that I selected, having found a few actors that could work for each role. The only one without competition is Jeremy Sanders, but he is also the only actor without an audition. James and I have both called the number listed on his resume several times, as well as every director on the list. All had given the same information that we already have. No one seems to have heard from him for over a month.

     I watch James hang up his cell phone as he exits the building. “That’s it,” he calls to me. “Either he answers the door or you will have to find a new Dimitri.” We pull open the side doors to his BMW after hearing the signaling click. I sigh with dread.

     I am silent for the entire trip. It takes us ten minutes to clear the parking lot and reach the first red light, and then another half hour passes by before we are on the bridge to Queens. James looks over to me every once in a while, more often asking, “You gonna be alright?” I always nod and smile a little hopeless smile at him. I have to believe he will answer. I have to trust that Mr. Sanders sent us his resume on the last week of January because he wanted a role. I need to believe that.

     James has to tell me when we arrive. There are multiple doors entering the brick building before us and we pass several before parking on the north side. A beep from the car brings my head up to the door. The way the complex is arranged each numbered doorway only leads to one apartment; fire escape stairs in the ally are the only access to the second floor balcony. The tin mailbox attached to the dark bricks has “J. Sanders” printed in stick-on letters. James raps on the door, his usual four-beat knock. His last tap, though, is left out. I turn not to face him, but the door.

     A sun-faded 8x11 sheet of paper is stapled to the door of the pretend brownstone. Below the words, “For Rent” is a description of the apartment’s interior. The sentence that stops my eyes is, “Furniture included.” It is followed by, “Auction to be held March 1^st for remaining property.”

     James takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. He leads me back to the BMW and clicks the doors open. The engine engages and my seatbelt is in place before I feel the tears leave the corners of my eyes.