Read Online JM03 - Red Cat by Peter Spiegelman - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Spiegelman
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were, they were not entirely laughable. There was real emotion in the dialogues between the cruel fathers and the daughters, and their exchanges were wrenching and sad— sometimes frightening. And, I realized on my second readings, they were frighteningly reminiscent of the telephone messages that Wren had left for David.
I was tired and my eyes slid off the pages and drifted to the window, and to the sky that was brightening over the city. My mind stumbled over scraps of Holly Cade’s life— her luckless Gimlet Players, her sister’s harsh voice and suspicious eyes, Babyface looming in her apartment doorway, the nosy, frightened man in 3-F. I put the scripts down and thought about going for a run. I put on some coffee instead.
* * *
It was ten o’clock when Clare arose, and the loft was filled with hard winter glare. She padded across the living room wearing a scowl and little else. I was at the table, drinking coffee and reading the Times, and she squinted at me with shadowed eyes.
“There more of that?” she whispered, and cocked her head at my mug.
“You want some?” She nodded and I went to the kitchen and poured her a black one.
“God bless,” she said, and she took the mug and her overnight bag into the bathroom. Thirty minutes later she returned, smelling of soap and wearing jeans and a short Norton Motorcycles T-shirt. Her hair was in a loose, shiny braid and her feet were bare. Her coffee mug was empty.
“Refill?” I asked. Clare nodded. I poured her another and she took a couple of sections of the paper and headed for the sofa. I picked up the scripts again.
I understood them less the third time through, and began to find them irritating. Having extracted what I could from the dialogue, I paid more attention to the character names. In The Nest, besides Wren and Fredrick, there was the mother, Lark, and the older sister, Robin. In Liars Club, the father was again named Fredrick— Fredrick Zero— and the daughters were Cassandra and Medea. The mother was Helen. Birds and Greeks. Was there anything to that? Buried on my shelves were some yellowed paperbacks of Aristophanes and Euripides. I hadn’t looked at them since college and wondered if they might be the keys to Holly’s work, or if, like so much else in her plays, the classical allusions had been encrypted for Holly’s eyes only. I sighed and tossed the scripts on the table.
Clare was still sprawled on the sofa, her bare feet propped on cushions. She’d read the Times and the Journal both, and now she was working her way through a thick biography of Andy Warhol that she’d produced from somewhere. She heard my sigh and looked at the scripts and at me.
“You going into show business now?” she asked. She stretched her legs and ran a small, pale foot across the top of the sofa.
“Isn’t everybody— for fifteen minutes, at least?”
“I figured you for the one holdout.”
She shut her big book and sat up and went to the window. A pair of gulls wheeled and swooped above a rooftop across the street, fighting over a scrap of something. Clare wrapped her arms across her chest and watched them.
“You buy a car yet?” she asked after a while.
“I’m still renting.”
“You want to rent one tomorrow— maybe drive someplace for the day?”
This was new. I took hold of my coffee mug. “Someplace like where?” I said slowly.
“Anywhere— I don’t care— someplace out of town. Someplace we won’t run into anybody, and we can walk around.”
I thought about it while Clare watched the gulls. “I’ve got some things to take care of, but if I can get through them today, then sure.”
Clare nodded, her back still to me. After a while, she pulled on her boots, picked up her coat, dropped a pair of dark glasses on her nose, kissed the corner of my mouth, and left.
* * *
Her perfume still hung in the air when I picked up the telephone. It was nearly one o’clock and I hadn’t heard back from Gene
I was tired and my eyes slid off the pages and drifted to the window, and to the sky that was brightening over the city. My mind stumbled over scraps of Holly Cade’s life— her luckless Gimlet Players, her sister’s harsh voice and suspicious eyes, Babyface looming in her apartment doorway, the nosy, frightened man in 3-F. I put the scripts down and thought about going for a run. I put on some coffee instead.
* * *
It was ten o’clock when Clare arose, and the loft was filled with hard winter glare. She padded across the living room wearing a scowl and little else. I was at the table, drinking coffee and reading the Times, and she squinted at me with shadowed eyes.
“There more of that?” she whispered, and cocked her head at my mug.
“You want some?” She nodded and I went to the kitchen and poured her a black one.
“God bless,” she said, and she took the mug and her overnight bag into the bathroom. Thirty minutes later she returned, smelling of soap and wearing jeans and a short Norton Motorcycles T-shirt. Her hair was in a loose, shiny braid and her feet were bare. Her coffee mug was empty.
“Refill?” I asked. Clare nodded. I poured her another and she took a couple of sections of the paper and headed for the sofa. I picked up the scripts again.
I understood them less the third time through, and began to find them irritating. Having extracted what I could from the dialogue, I paid more attention to the character names. In The Nest, besides Wren and Fredrick, there was the mother, Lark, and the older sister, Robin. In Liars Club, the father was again named Fredrick— Fredrick Zero— and the daughters were Cassandra and Medea. The mother was Helen. Birds and Greeks. Was there anything to that? Buried on my shelves were some yellowed paperbacks of Aristophanes and Euripides. I hadn’t looked at them since college and wondered if they might be the keys to Holly’s work, or if, like so much else in her plays, the classical allusions had been encrypted for Holly’s eyes only. I sighed and tossed the scripts on the table.
Clare was still sprawled on the sofa, her bare feet propped on cushions. She’d read the Times and the Journal both, and now she was working her way through a thick biography of Andy Warhol that she’d produced from somewhere. She heard my sigh and looked at the scripts and at me.
“You going into show business now?” she asked. She stretched her legs and ran a small, pale foot across the top of the sofa.
“Isn’t everybody— for fifteen minutes, at least?”
“I figured you for the one holdout.”
She shut her big book and sat up and went to the window. A pair of gulls wheeled and swooped above a rooftop across the street, fighting over a scrap of something. Clare wrapped her arms across her chest and watched them.
“You buy a car yet?” she asked after a while.
“I’m still renting.”
“You want to rent one tomorrow— maybe drive someplace for the day?”
This was new. I took hold of my coffee mug. “Someplace like where?” I said slowly.
“Anywhere— I don’t care— someplace out of town. Someplace we won’t run into anybody, and we can walk around.”
I thought about it while Clare watched the gulls. “I’ve got some things to take care of, but if I can get through them today, then sure.”
Clare nodded, her back still to me. After a while, she pulled on her boots, picked up her coat, dropped a pair of dark glasses on her nose, kissed the corner of my mouth, and left.
* * *
Her perfume still hung in the air when I picked up the telephone. It was nearly one o’clock and I hadn’t heard back from Gene
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