issue. We can run the pieces on the editorial page.”
Vida glared at me from behind her big glasses. “Do you want us to squabble in public? And what must the Reverend Poole think? Surely he can’t appear in the play and condone such vulgarity!”
It was useless to argue with Vida. “We won’t squabble,” I said, “here or in the
Advocate
. We have different opinions, that’s all. Excuse me,” I went on, moving down the aisle. “Speaking of the paper, I want to see how Scott’s doing with the pictures.”
Scott was doing fine, both with his camera and with his hands. He was caressing the shoulders of Tamara Rostova, his ladylove of the past three years. With her dark beauty and tall, angular figure, Tamara looked more like a ballet dancer than a college professor. Nor did she resemble a
Tammy
, as Scott called her. I used
Tamara
when we conversed.
“I think I’ve got some good stuff so far,” Scott informed me.
“I’m sure you do,” I replied. “Maybe you’ve taken some good pictures, too.”
Scott was still young enough to look embarrassed. But he didn’t let go of Tamara, who was a few years older than her suitor and much more worldly.
“Scott needs a pay raise,” Tamara declared pleasantly enough. “We’re thinking about marriage down the road.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I admitted, appreciating Tamara’s candor. “About raises, I mean. Our ad revenue is up since we’ve been doing some co-op promotions with KSKY. Am I right in assuming you’d stay in Alpine?”
Scott looked to Tamara for the answer. “That depends,” she said, raising a slender hand to her forehead and assuming a dramatic pose that suggested she was peering into the future. “I’ve been thinking about moving on to a larger school. I like the diversity of a city.”
Recalling Scott’s comment about becoming a freelance photographer, I tried not to look disappointed. I liked more diversity, too, but I seemed to be stuck in Alpine. The disappointment was accompanied by a pang of envy. There was a wider world out there, and I was missing it.
The gong sounded for the start of the third and final act. I resumed my seat, noting that Vida still looked somewhat grim.
The act began as the others did, with Spence’s narration. Destiny’s script compelled him to summarize what had gone before and muse on the obvious themes. It seemed redundant, as if the play couldn’t stand on its own.
But it certainly could talk. Preach, argue, lecture, sermonize, moralize—all in the name of Why Can’t We Be Nice to One Another? Clea had come to realize that a small town wasn’t so different from a big city.
“We’re all human,” she proclaimed as Otis Poole smiled benignly from a swing that had been lowered a few feet from the stage. “Where
is
home? Could it be in the heart?”
I stifled a yawn. I could swear I heard Milo snoring. It certainly sounded like him, and I should know. For one brief moment, I had an urge to reach behind me and take his hand.
I didn’t catch exactly what happened next except that Rip Ridley and Rey Fernandez were suddenly confronting each other. Rip held a steak knife and was shouting something about “wetbacks” and “foreign bastards.” Clea tried to intervene but was held back by Jim Medved, who didn’t want her—or Dodo—to get hurt. Hans Berenger came slowly out from the kitchen area, doing his best to look scared yet brave. The lion apparently had gotten a dose of courage.
Nat Cardenas, playing the sheriff, raced in from stage left. He ordered the combatants to stop fighting. They ignored him. As Rip lunged with the knife to attack a struggling Rey, Nat pulled his gun. Rip started to bring the knife down, but Hans charged into the melee, apparently in an attempt to shield Rey, who was wielding a beer bottle.
Fumbling slightly, Nat pulled a gun out of his holster. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” The trio continued wrestling around the stage, knocking
Vida glared at me from behind her big glasses. “Do you want us to squabble in public? And what must the Reverend Poole think? Surely he can’t appear in the play and condone such vulgarity!”
It was useless to argue with Vida. “We won’t squabble,” I said, “here or in the
Advocate
. We have different opinions, that’s all. Excuse me,” I went on, moving down the aisle. “Speaking of the paper, I want to see how Scott’s doing with the pictures.”
Scott was doing fine, both with his camera and with his hands. He was caressing the shoulders of Tamara Rostova, his ladylove of the past three years. With her dark beauty and tall, angular figure, Tamara looked more like a ballet dancer than a college professor. Nor did she resemble a
Tammy
, as Scott called her. I used
Tamara
when we conversed.
“I think I’ve got some good stuff so far,” Scott informed me.
“I’m sure you do,” I replied. “Maybe you’ve taken some good pictures, too.”
Scott was still young enough to look embarrassed. But he didn’t let go of Tamara, who was a few years older than her suitor and much more worldly.
“Scott needs a pay raise,” Tamara declared pleasantly enough. “We’re thinking about marriage down the road.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I admitted, appreciating Tamara’s candor. “About raises, I mean. Our ad revenue is up since we’ve been doing some co-op promotions with KSKY. Am I right in assuming you’d stay in Alpine?”
Scott looked to Tamara for the answer. “That depends,” she said, raising a slender hand to her forehead and assuming a dramatic pose that suggested she was peering into the future. “I’ve been thinking about moving on to a larger school. I like the diversity of a city.”
Recalling Scott’s comment about becoming a freelance photographer, I tried not to look disappointed. I liked more diversity, too, but I seemed to be stuck in Alpine. The disappointment was accompanied by a pang of envy. There was a wider world out there, and I was missing it.
The gong sounded for the start of the third and final act. I resumed my seat, noting that Vida still looked somewhat grim.
The act began as the others did, with Spence’s narration. Destiny’s script compelled him to summarize what had gone before and muse on the obvious themes. It seemed redundant, as if the play couldn’t stand on its own.
But it certainly could talk. Preach, argue, lecture, sermonize, moralize—all in the name of Why Can’t We Be Nice to One Another? Clea had come to realize that a small town wasn’t so different from a big city.
“We’re all human,” she proclaimed as Otis Poole smiled benignly from a swing that had been lowered a few feet from the stage. “Where
is
home? Could it be in the heart?”
I stifled a yawn. I could swear I heard Milo snoring. It certainly sounded like him, and I should know. For one brief moment, I had an urge to reach behind me and take his hand.
I didn’t catch exactly what happened next except that Rip Ridley and Rey Fernandez were suddenly confronting each other. Rip held a steak knife and was shouting something about “wetbacks” and “foreign bastards.” Clea tried to intervene but was held back by Jim Medved, who didn’t want her—or Dodo—to get hurt. Hans Berenger came slowly out from the kitchen area, doing his best to look scared yet brave. The lion apparently had gotten a dose of courage.
Nat Cardenas, playing the sheriff, raced in from stage left. He ordered the combatants to stop fighting. They ignored him. As Rip lunged with the knife to attack a struggling Rey, Nat pulled his gun. Rip started to bring the knife down, but Hans charged into the melee, apparently in an attempt to shield Rey, who was wielding a beer bottle.
Fumbling slightly, Nat pulled a gun out of his holster. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” The trio continued wrestling around the stage, knocking
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