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Daphne was tired. She was in Northern Oklahoma, filming a remake of The Grapes of Wrath. It was four a.m. She could hear the director, Nico, in the distance, on his cellphone, carping at someone in L.A. about how she was a “goddamn diva”. He did a lot of that. He threw stuff at the grips and runners sometimes.
She hadn’t even wanted to do this movie. But she was still under contract. So here she was, sitting in makeup at four a.m., waiting for them to streak some dirt on her face and fuck her hair up just so.
So why should it surprise anyone that she had a resting bitch face? Why did the paparazzi think it was some victory to catch her looking tired and pissed at four in the morning in Northern Oklahoma, which really might as well be Kansas. But they did. It was one more thing for Nico to get upset about.
Her phone rang. It was 9-Ball. She popped her earbud in and answered.
“What’s up?”
“Saw you had a face on yesterday.” Her voice was cool, lazy. Probably stoned. Oddly, Daphne found it calmed her a little.
“Oh yeah, the world saw that. My agent has been sending me texts about it all day.”
“How come you gotta smile all the time?”
“I don’t know, 9.”
She heard the sound of 9 sucking her teeth. “They acting like they caught you banging somebody on set.”
“Why are you even awake now?”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Yeah you do.”
“Nah. I nap. Like a cat.”
“Cats take naps for hours. That’s called sleep, 9.”
“Nah. What’s sleep? Little slices of death, that’s what.”
Daphne paused. “Did… you just quote Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Ssh. Only for you, movie star. Don’t tell nobody. Can’t have that getting out, you know?”
Daphne paused, chuckled a little. “Okay. We can keep that between you and me.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I miss New York. Surprisingly, Northern Oklahoma doesn’t have good Chinese food.”
“You don’t say.” Quiet fell for a moment. “You like your gig, movie star?”
“You know… I don’t think anybody ever asked me that.”
“Well, do you?”
“I think I … I told my mom once that I didn’t, but she didn’t listen. Nobody listens. My agent doesn’t listen, most of the time my directors don’t listen.”
“That’s fucked up. You need to fix that.”
***
Next day a text came from 9:
“Maybe it’s not a lesson so much as it’s a magic trick. You can make a little girl into anything if you say the right words. Take her apart until all that’s left is her red, red heart thumping against the world. Stitch her up again real good. Now, maybe you get a woman. If you’re lucky. If that’s what you were after. Just as easy to end up with a blackbird or a circus bear or a coyote. Or a parrot, just saying what’s said to you, doing what’s done to you, copying until it comes so natural that even when you’re all alone you keep on cawing hello pretty bird at the dark.”
She wrote back:
What the fuck. You read Valente
Yeah , 9 wrote back, wanna fight about it
Daphne smiled. Nah. You certainly are a well-rounded stoner
You’re welcome, 9 texted back after a moment.
Thanks 9, Daphne answered, chastened. Everyone wanted to be heard, really, didn’t they.
***
“Hey movie star.”
“Did you tell Constance I was down?”
“Baby, the world knew you was down.”
“Well, I got a package on set today, dry iced, full of dumplings and bao. A little card inside in what looks like Con’s handwriting that says ‘congratulations, you’re adopted.’ Thought you guys might have had something to do with that.”
“I dunno.”
“Nico’s cell phone was jammed all day. Wouldn’t know anything about that either, would you?”
“The ether is a weird place, movie star.”
“You can say that again.”
9 was breathing quietly. Finally, she said, slower, “The ether... is a weird place.”
“I think that’s where I am, 9. In the ether. This is still my life but…”
“Yeah, I know. Not flesh nor fowl nor good red herring, right?”
Daphne wasn’t surprised this time. “Yeah. Wrinkle in Time, huh?”
“It’s a good fuckin book. Great fuckin movie, too.”
“Hell yeah it is. I just … I just want to be back in New York with you guys.”
“Yeah, well. You know Debbie’s got something planned.”
“Doesn’t she always?” Daphne was intrigued, though.
“True, true.”
“Do I get to do something besides be Daphne Kluger?”
9 chuckled. “Yeah, Madame Curie. Debbie did a little reading up on your skills, I guess. You still gotta be Daphne Kluger but I guess she’s gonna need you to cook something up, too.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. Thought you’d like that.”
“I do. I like it like I like Toblerone.”
“Toblerone.”
“Yeah.”
“Gay.”
***
An odd thing happened. Daphne had gotten used to 9’s voice in her ear, her unflappable stoner calm popping up at odd times of the night and early morning to steady her. She’d often spend a few minutes during breaks thinking of good quotes to send back to 9. She almost never stumped her. That, more than anything, had gotten her through one of the less pleasant film shoots she’d ever been on.
She waited in Will Rogers Airport for her flight out to L.A. to begin the traveling dog and pony show known as film junkets. She listened to the flat Midwestern accents mingling with the various accents of other travelers in the Prestige Class Lounge and Taproom, conversations about business deals and arguments about sports weaving in and out with the television news, which was talking about politics. When it started talking about the stock market, she tuned out and focused on the couple down the bar from her who were speaking something that sounded like German. Debbie spoke German, she knew. She wondered what they were saying.
Her phone buzzed. A text. It was 9. You’re in the Prestige Class Lounge, right
Yeah
Check out the TV, imma do something for you
She looked up at the television, which was showing MSNBC. The channel then changed suddenly to E! Entertainment and Daphne suppressed a smile. It was Fashion Week in New York’s Bryant Park, and they were back behind the awnings. Rose was standing, chatting with the E! Host, next to Kate Moss, who looked very regal in a red velvet dress not so different from the one Rose had made for her to wear in London. Rose’s face was a little wild, alight, laughing at the host’s questions. Daphne noticed after a moment that it was airhead blonde guy, that walking embodiment of white male mediocrity, Chad Chillicothe. She snorted.
“Well, I have to tell you,” he was saying, “that you have had an absolutely phenomenal comeback and this new line is really turning a lot of heads this Fashion Week, and I think people are wondering what has changed for you?”
Rose shrugged gaily, and because her accent was quite thick, Daphne knew she was excited. “Sometimes, Mr. Chillicothe,” she responded, “an artist just needs the right muse.”
The bartender realized with a baffled frown that the television had been switched, picked up a remote and fiddled with it, and changed the channel back to MSNBC.
Daphne smiled at the little tug she felt in her chest. She texted back. Thanks, 9. “ It is not so much our friends' help that helps us, as the confidence of their help.”
A moment later she added, How’d you know I missed you guys
Cause I was fuckin listening
****
Daphne called 9 as she was heading into the umpteenth interview for Grapes of Wrath, weary already after only three days of junkets. Even Lou’s triple chocolate cookies with the rum in them and her daily cat videos only kept her mood up so much. It was always the same dumb questions about period hair and clothing. She always chewed gum during pressers, gave them the dumb Daphne because that was what they were expecting. Her mother had always advised her, “they want you to be pretty, not smart. If you’re an empty vessel, they can fill you with whatever they want.” That was at the heart of her life as a public commodity. Beneath that, though, her mother had also taught her to exploit that myopia, because the way people treated you when they thought you were dumb could reveal whether they were considering your best interests or not. Her ruthlessness, she reflected, had not come from nowhere.
“I wanna die,” she said when 9 answered.
“You can’t do that, you’re still under contract.”
“Shit.”
“Go fuck some shit up,” 9 suggested.
“You think?”
“Yeah. I got you.”
As she was walking toward the hotel elevator, her phone buzzed and she saw a text from 9:
When we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard or welcomed. But when we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak.
Audre Lorde, she texted back, nice.
You feel me, right
Daphne smiled. Oh yeah
***
Chad Chillicothe should have known he was in trouble when he walked into their interview and Daphne was not chewing her gum. No props today, she’d decided.
She sat down and gave him a radiant smile.
“So,” he began, “it’s always great to see you, and you are looking absolutely terrific. I love the outfit.”
Still radiant, she answered, “Chad, it means so much to me to know that you like my outfit.” She grinned through the slightly uncomfortable pause then added. “I have to tell you, I like your suit very much also.”
He chuckled a little and she could see the little gears turning behind his eyes as he tried to pull himself back on script. “Uh, thanks?”
She leaned forward, giving him an inquisitive look. “Have you lost weight?”
“Er… no I uh, don’t think so.” Another nervous chuckle. “So… Grapes of Wrath, let’s talk about that.”
“It’s why we’re here.”
“So, was it hard for you, being out in the middle of Oklahoma for those months? I mean, it probably doesn’t have a lot of the stuff you’re used to...:”
“Nope. Oklahoma was great. Next question.”
He coughed a little. “So, of course everyone knows you for your star turns in the Galactigirl movies, and of course, you’ve really rocked those spandex outfits, so what was it like getting to wear these 1930s clothes and hairstyles? Was it fun doing the whole vintage thing?”
“Well, Chad, the characters are impoverished dust bowl farmers, so fashion isn’t really the focus of the story. Maybe you’d like to ask me about my character?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it was my next question actually… uh, Rose of Sharon, your character… what did you have to do to prepare for that role?”
Continuing her brilliant smile, she said, “Well, Chad, as I’m sure you know, it’s a classic work of literature, so I started by re-reading the book, several times. Are you familiar with it?”
“The broad strokes, yes,” he answered cheerfully.
“So, in other words, not really,” she said. “As you may not know, I pursued this role for quite some time, because Rose of Sharon is a role that requires real emotional transformation on the part of whoever’s going to be playing her. She starts off relying on others for sustenance and putting her faith in the idea that everything’s going to be fine, suffers disillusionment and tragedy and ends it with her eyes wide open, seeing the world for what it is. In the end, providing sustenance to others. So what did I do for preparation? Nothing much, Chad, I just plumbed the depths of my soul. You know. It’s not as sexy as taking marksmanship classes like I did for the Cameron Caine movies, but it’ll have to do.”
She continued smiling aggressively.
Chad gamely pressed on, but she could see the panic growing in him. “So, uh, of course your character has that very uh. Controversial scene that caused a stir in the original version...”
“The breastfeeding scene,” she supplied helpfully.
“Yes. How was that filmed? Did you use a body double, or…?”
“Seriously, Chad? You want to know if that’s really my boob in John Bassman’s mouth? That’s your fucking question?”
“Someone was gonna ask,” he said, in a tone that tried to be jocular but was more than a little defensive.
“Oh, sure, someone was,” she sighed. Her smile remained aggressive as she went on. “So, might as well be you, right? I mean, why would you want to ask me about how I identify with the character or what the role meant to me and why I pursued it for so long?”
“Actually…”
“Actually, Chad, I wanted it so bad because I’m still mad about “Curie,” okay? Honestly.”
“Well, you did kill it in that movie.”
“Yeah, thank you, I did. And nobody saw it because Frank Fontaine, the director, spewed racist bullshit in public, if you recall. So, yeah. I was still mad about that.”
Chad, feeling like he was on slightly more solid ground, chimed in with, “Well, yeah of course, and you don’t want to play Galactigirl forever, right?”
She gave him a smile that looked like she would tear his heart out with her teeth. “What’s wrong with Galactigirl?”
“Well, it’s just not… you know, I mean those were great movies, but if you’re trying to get a reputation for more serious work…”
“Galactigirl is a scientist, Chad. Girls need to see themselves represented everywhere, and especially in STEM. Not every movie has to be an Oscar movie to be important.” This, Daphne realized, came as something of a revelation to herself as she said it.
“Oh sure, absolutely,” Chad agreed, hanging onto this interview with his fingernails. “But you did kind of want that Oscar, no?”
“Well, yeah. I literally became a chemist to make that movie.”
“So, what’s next for you after this? You turned down the Legend of Korra movie, right?”
“Yeah. Totally inappropriate for me. Or any white girl, really.”
“And you turned down the Henry Allen movie.”
“Also not appropriate. There are plenty of fine trans actors who could take that role.”
“You wouldn’t even consider it? I mean, he is a woman in the first half of the story.”
“Don’t be a transphobe, Chad. Next question.”
“So, what’s next?” he repeated. “What’s the next project that you really want to do?”
She looked at him for a long uncomfortable moment. “I don’t know, Chad. I think I’d like to tell my own stories. And other women’s stories. The stories that don’t get heard not because we aren’t telling them but because people aren’t listening.”
“So, writing, and directing?” he guessed.
“Yeah, and a whole lot of other things too. People need to understand that the white male perspective is not the default. They need to understand that this world isn’t only for the rich and powerful.”
“But you’re rich and powerful.”
“Yeah. I am. And I’m using it for good. I started a foundation granting STEM scholarships to girls after the Galactigirl movies. I donated a million dollars to the Trevor Project because after I signed on to do the Cameron Caine movies, I found out she was bisexual in the books and that was totally erased from the movies. I’m part of an incredibly diverse, amazing network of women that are teaching me a ton. I’ve been involved in the efforts to fund legal aid for refugees and donating to Black Lives Matter, and I’m frankly tired of being told that nobody wants to hear about that stuff.”
Chad Chillicothe sat, stunned and scrambling for words for a moment. Then, “Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.” She smiled expectantly at him.
“I think, uh, a lot of people would be surprised to know that.”
“Well, Chad… you know. Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.”
Chad cleared his throat. “And uh, you seem ready to show us all how to do that.”
She radiated sweetness at him, the way she knew how to do. “Thanks, Chad. Nice haircut, by the way. Much better than what you were rocking for fashion week.”
He poked at it with his fingers, more of a pantomime than actual touching, and asked genially, “Oh, thanks, do you like it?”
“Yes. It’s very Ryan Seacrest.”
“Oh, uh… thanks.”
She got up, grabbed her purse, popped a piece of gum into her mouth. She winked at him. “No hard feelings, Chad.”
Her phone buzzed and she took it out. It was ringing, and it was 9-Ball. “Yeah?”
“Yeah yourself. I see you, quoting Alice Walker.”
“That one was for you, you know.”
“Shut up, girl, I know it.”
****
Tammy texted her the next day. Two words only: Mic drop.
Debbie texted her a little while after that. Nice job. You’re viral. I’ve had to go to the doc and get my Daphne Kluger inoculation.
Sorry , Daphne texted back. Blame 9.
No blame. You deserve a little treat for that performance. I’ll figure out what.
Odd, Daphne thought. This felt an awful lot like what she’d been told family was supposed to be like.
9 called her later that night. “So now you gotta do all these talk shows, huh? You viral now.”
“Yeah. I heard I’m a buzzfeed listicle.”
“You mean you fuckin googled your damn self.”
“Same diff.”
“Ten Reasons Why Daphne Kluger Is Your Totally Unproblematic Fave.” 9 chuckled, then sighed.
Daphne listened to the pause that followed and stared at the ceiling of her hotel room. “You okay, 9?”
9 made a little dismissive sound. “Yeah, you know.”
“Well, I don’t actually.”
“It’s not a big thing. My sister wants to go to the TED Talks in Mumbai this year and I figured it was cool because we got money for that now, but there are no tickets, nowhere.”
“Your sister a hacker too?”
“Nah, she’s into botany.”
“So she grows your weed.”
“Why you gotta be like that? She studies plant morphology and evolution.”
Daphne paused awkwardly. Had she done it again?
Then 9 laughed. “And yeah, she grows my weed.”
****
The breezes off Lake Michigan blew through Daphne’s hair through the open limousine window batting strands into her face. She spat out a particularly persistent strand of hair. She was going from her hotel to the studios of Good Morning Chicago. She’d grown up in Winnetka, a suburb of the city, and while it had changed a great deal since her childhood, its bones were the same. It was still a city that knew it was beautiful and wanted to be told often.
Her PR people were absolutely firm about her needing to capitalize on her viral moment, and her agent Frieda assured her that she just absoLUTEly loved this new Social Justice Warrior Daphne and “let’s go with it, sweetie.”
She still missed New York but there was something nice about being heard, finally. They turned down a side street to pull up in front of the side stage doors, and she slid out, latte in hand, shades on, collar popped. She was ready and actually enjoying her moment.
She bumped into a painfully good-looking older man, who smiled at her and apologized, and then the security guards hustled her inside.
She took off her shades as she moved down the fluorescent-lit corridor. She’d done enough of these to know the routine. Green room, drinks, pre-show chatter, green room, taping. What was different this time was who she was choosing to be in front of the camera; someone smart, someone who cared about things, someone who wasn’t even sure she wanted to be an actress if she was honest with herself about it.
Amita texted her after the taping. Hope it was fun. Don’t get too caught up being famous, 80s night isn’t the same without you.
In the car, going back to the hotel, she slid an idle hand into the pocket of her coat. There was something in there. That was odd. She didn’t remember putting anything in there when she’d left that morning. She pulled it out. It was a Toblerone.
She texted 9. I know you can do amazing things with tech, but I didn’t know you could make a Toblerone appear in someone’s coat pocket.
9 wrote, I had nothing to do with that
A moment later, Debbie called. “Heard you did great, kid,” she said cheerfully.
Daphne smiled. “Thanks, mom. Say, you don’t know anything about this Toblerone in my pocket, do you?”
“Call me mom again and I’ll have Lou beat you up.”
In the background she heard Lou complain, “Why do I always have to do the dirty work?”
“‘Cause you look hot when you’re beating people up,” Debbie said, sincerely. Daphne always marveled a little at the easy affection between them. She wasn’t exactly jealous but it fascinated her. It seemed real. She wasn’t used to things seeming real. She tapped the window of the limousine. It slid open. “Hey, can we go to Winnetka?”
****
The car waited for her by the road as she wandered up the long rows of stones. She was conscious of the quiet, more than anything else. People talked about the stillness of the grave, but here it was. Muted conversations. And a lot of nothing. Nothing in the air. Nothing being said. It had been a little while since she visited her mother’s grave. She’d forgotten about all the nothing in the air, all the dead quiet. Even the distant traffic seemed to muffle its insistent rush as it passed, out of deference to what lay inside the fence.
Karen Kluger’s headstone was just bordering on ostentation, but stopped short. It was big, heavy, granite, trimmed in red marble, and bore her name and the dates of birth and death. She stood before it for a long time before addressing it.
“So, you know,” she began, hesitating as though her mother was actually there and could hear her, “I said a lot of um, political stuff on television last week, and it’s getting a lot of attention. Not all of it is bad, either. I know you didn’t want me to do things that way, you hated the idea of me getting political and screwing up my career, but it felt great. I’m famous, because of you, and if I ever do get some of the opportunities that I want to pursue, I’ll owe them to you. But… but you should know that I’m changing. I’m not like I was. I … I took a role in The Grapes of Wrath, and I was … damnit, I think I was good. But I want more than that. I’m tired of being an empty vessel. I want to let myself overflow because that’s how real art gets made. It’s the voice in you, I think, that needs to be heard, that burns its way out of you because it needs the air. I didn’t have the words to explain that to you when I was a kid. Shit, I didn’t have the words five years ago. I’m only just figuring out a lot of things now, at an age when I should already have known this stuff. So… you know… thank you for everything you did do for me… but… I wish you would have told me how nice friends are, and how good food tastes. I wish I had been good enough for you the way I was. I…” She trailed off.
Her heart thudded in her ears. She shook her head.
“I’m talking to a fucking rock,” she sighed.
*******
Back in her hotel room, she lay sprawled across the bed, having decimated a fair bit of the contents of the mini-bar. She glanced down and remembered that she had a tattoo on her upper arm. She called Rose.
Rose sounded surprised to hear from her. “Why’re you calling at this hour, love?”
This hour? How long had she been drinking? “I have to tell you,” Daphne said very dramatically, “that I UNDERSTAND WHY YOU LIKE WHISKEY.”
“I see,” Rose chuckled.
“This shit REALLY WORKS.”
“That it does.”
“Do you … do you want to see my tattoo?”
“Sure.”
“Hold on.” After fumbling for several awkward seconds, Daphne pushed up her shirtsleeve and angled the phone around until she got a blurry but adequate shot of her Celtic rose. She pressed send.
There was a long silence.
“Rose?” Daphne mumbled, mildly dizzy. “Rosey Rose? Did you go away?”
Rose cleared her throat. “It’s, ah … it’s lovely. Why… why’d you get that?”
“I LIKED IT,” Daphne declared, defiant at nobody in particular. “We were all stoned and the guy showed us his book and I liked THIS ONE.”
“I see. Well, it’s lovely. I’m sure you wear it quite well.” An awkward pause followed in which Daphne sighed a long sigh, and Rose made a little perplexed sound. “So, was there a reason you’ve decided to grace me with your drunken presence, macushla?”
“I missed…” Daphne struggled for a moment. “I missed Fashion Week in New York, but I saw you on… on TV… How… how are you?” Words were failing her.
“I’m fine.”
Rose did not sound fine. She sounded sad. Making her own words was a problem for Daphne when she was this drunk. Daphne reached into her fuzzy memory for something that sounded good. “There is risk and truth to yourselves and the world before you.”
Rose gave a little gasp. “Seamus Heaney?”
“Is that what it is?”
“It is!”
Daphne gingerly turned herself over and laid her face on the cool side of the pillow. “Rose?”
“Hm?”
“Rosey Rosey Rose?”
“Hm?”
“You made Kate Moss a nice dress but mine was nicer.”
“It was.”
“How come you made mine nicer?”
“You’re a better muse.”
“Oh. Thanks. ...Do you … do you miss…” Do you miss me? she wanted to ask. “Do you miss Ireland?”
“Now and again, yes.”
“Will you… I’m kind of drunk, Rose.”
“I know, love. We’ve talked about that.”
“Will you read me something? I feel like I’m lost in space. I would very much like the sound of your voice just reading something to keep my drunk ass here on earth.”
Rose groaned a little, as if turning into an uncomfortable position. “Well, it so happens, I’m afraid I haven’t got any Seamus Heaney, but I’ve got some… Yeats…. Here on the shelf…”
Daphne closed her eyes and pressed the phone to her ear and listened as Rose’s soft voice read the pretty words that had been written to be read in an accent just like hers.
“All things uncomely and broken,
all things worn-out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway,
the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things
is a wrong too great to be told,
I hunger to build them anew
and sit on a green knoll apart…”
She knew this one. Daphne was lolling on the bed, ecstatic over this lovely poem that she hadn’t heard in so very long but remembered every word of as it tumbled from Rose’s lips. She couldn’t help herself. She finished it:
“With the earth and the sky and the water,
remade, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.”
Another long quiet.
“Rose? Rosey Rose?”
“Hm?”
“I like that poem. I think it’s why I got the tattoo.”
“Is it, now?”
“Can you read some more?”
Daphne fell asleep to the sound of Rose’s voice, lulling her into dreams with the words of William Butler Yeats. She was too drunk to remember her dreams, but she was sure that they were very soft.
****
Daphne had a gift for sleeping through the worst of her hangovers. She woke up feeling a little cottonheaded, rubbed the crusty junk out of her eyes, and assessed the situation. She’d done a number on the mini-bar. She ought to be in worse shape, considering.
She made a few phone calls, still lying in bed with the late morning sun pouring through the blinds she’d been too blitzed to close properly last night. Her flight wasn’t for a few more hours. She had time to lounge.
9 called her.
She yawned, and answered. “Hey 9.”
“I just got a phone call from a dude named Berk, said somebody got us passes to the TED Talks in Mumbai. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
9 snorted. “So, you drunk dialled Rose in Paris last night, huh?”
Daphne frowned. “I did?”
“Um, yeah girl.”
Daphne thought. She did remember hearing Rose’s voice, reading to her. She loved Rose’s voice. “Oh, fuck. I did.”
9-Ball gave a long, slow whistle. “So that was not a drunk dial, it was a hella shitfaced dial.”
“Yeah, I guess.” It came back in pieces now. Rose’s voice. The Seamus Heaney quote. Fumbling to take a picture of the tattoo.
“That’s gay.”
Daphne groaned. “Come on, 9.”
“Girl what the fuck tattoo do you have on your arm?”
“A rose.”
“Yeah. What kind of rose?”
“A Celtic rose.”
“Another word for Celtic is…?”
“Irish?”
“Say it all together now, movie star, what kind of rose you got on your arm?”
“An Irish Rose OH MY GOD NINE WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME I LIKED ROSE??”
9 snorted. “Like you woulda listened.”
“I listen to you .”
“Girl, you got a serious case of the gay.”
“What? No, come on. I mean, Rose is … you know… she’s special… but like … you know… it doesn’t mean …”
9 Ball sighed. “You gonna make do this, huh,” she grumbled under her breath.
“Do what? 9, what the… look, I just… Rose is…”
“Rose,” 9 said softly, “has a real sweet voice.”
“Yeah,” Daphne agreed, with no small measure of uncertainty and suspicion.
“Got that pretty accent you like, right?”
“Well, yeah… She read me Yeats last night and–”
“Yeats? Shut the fuck up, I oughta ship your ass to the island of Lesbos right now with that.” 9 cleared her throat. “What’d she read?”
“Uh, you know the one… With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold…”
“For my dreams of your image that blossoms, a rose in the deeps of my heart,” 9 finished. She sighed. “You dream about her last night?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Bet you did. Bet you had real nice dreams about her whispering that poem in your ear with her pretty accent. Bet you had dreams about her soft lips, brushing against your ear while she did it too.”
“I… I don’t remember…”
“Maybe she was kissing down the back of your neck, right?”
“Um…”
“It’s alright. I can tell. You had dreams, right? Those kind of dreams. Dreams where those strong, gentle, pretty hands got to touching you all kinds of places, right?”
“I don’t remember…”
“Doesn’t matter though, does it. You thinking about it now. Thinking about where you want her hands, and how you want her to use them, and maybe even thinking about what you want to do to her…”
Daphne closed her eyes. It was strangely difficult not to entertain those images now that 9 had mentioned them. “Maybe,” she sighed, coyly.
9’s voice got very quiet, then. “Her words raining over you, stroking you…”
“Yeah…” How she liked Rose’s voice so very much…
“You wanna do with her what spring does with the cherry trees, don’t you.”
In the dark behind her eyelids, Daphne couldn’t help seeing it, wondering about Rose’s body blooming underneath her touch. She whimpered a little.
“She brings you honeysuckles…”
Daphne knew the poem 9 was echoing. She knew the next line. Even your breasts smell of it, she thought, and she felt a shiver go through her. “Yes,” she whispered, a little helplessly. A moment passed in which she was lost in the dark of her head and the warm feelings brewing in her body and nobody spoke.
“Yep,” 9 said, a little too loud and sudden. “Yep. Your ass is gay as fuck.”
“Goddammit, 9!”
Daphne tossed the phone across the room.
***
Daphne wore shades to obscure the mild wear still visible around her eyes after her night of drinking. She sat in the limousine, restless and brooding on her way to the airport to catch her flight back to New York. Was 9 right? Had she really been so detached from herself all this time that she didn’t even know how she felt about something as basic and human as sex?
She flipped on the radio in the back. Tom Petty. “I’m free…. Free fallin’...”
Nope. She twiddled the knob some. Talk radio muttered through the speakers, going on about Chinese trade agreements. Her phone buzzed. A text from 9:
"Self-knowledge is no guarantee of happiness, but it is on the side of happiness and can supply the courage to fight for it."
9 was sending her Simone de Beauvior.
After some knob twiddling, Daphne settled on a station playing that “Fight Song” she liked.
“And all those things I didn’t say / Wrecking balls inside my brain / I will scream them loud tonight / Can you hear my voice this time?”
She had never really noticed those lyrics before. She wrote a text back to 9. But even if you’re right, what am I supposed to do about it?
Hey, 9 texted back, anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.
Don’t hit me with Kierkegaard like i don’t know what it is, Daphne responded.
A long delay followed. She rode the rest of the way to the airport, ignoring the NPR playing in the back. Terry Gross was interviewing Nico Kouratos about the Grapes of Wrath. Why wasn’t Terry Gross interviewing her ? She flipped the station in irritation again and settled on BBC radio and the World Cup scores. She didn’t care about the World Cup, she just wanted the background drone.
She sat in the bar of the Prestige Class Lounge, her head skittering with thoughts. She could dimly hear pop and R&B playing out in the mezzanine that led down to her boarding gate. She ordered an eggs benedict that she barely touched and found herself a napkin and a pen. She doodled a rose. She wrote the words “from humble soil” next to it. She stared it at, wondering what it was going to mean once she figured it out.
Her brain was overflowing with half thoughts and her blood was percolating in the most peculiar way. She knew Rose wouldn’t be waiting for her in New York when she got back, because 9 had told her she was in Paris. She didn’t know what exactly was waiting for her. She wasn’t sure that this was a bad thing. Freedom, she thought. Freedom waited for her. What if I am gay? What if I am in love with Rose? What waited for her, she realized, was the chance to find out.
She glanced up at the giant digital clock above the television. It was getting on time for her to board. Another text came in from 9: Boarding from Gate 19 Prestige Class, right
Yeah but I’m boarding like right now
OK OK just go. Imma do something for you
Daphne made a little face at her phone and picked up her purse. Her luggage had been sent on ahead (another benefit of Prestige Class) so she was able to glide down to boarding unencumbered. She strode out the door, feeling an odd sense of purpose for someone who had no fucking idea what came next. As she popped her shades back on and began her descent of the stairs down to Prestige boarding, the music piping into the large, sterile space stopped abruptly. People who were milling around stopped and glanced around. Something else began playing. Something she recognized.
“Na na na, come on
Na na na, come on…”
She smiled to herself. 9 had given her one hell of an entrance. It put a little muscle in her step as she moved down the stairs and through the crowd. They seemed to be frozen like flies in amber, watching her strut down the stairs and up to the boarding gate. So what if they look, she thought. So what if they hear.
“Love is great, love is fine
Out the box, out of line
The affliction of the feeling leaves me wanting more…”
Everything was behind her. Everything was ahead. She was standing on the edge of the rest of her life with a story on a bar napkin, stuffed in her jeans pocket.