The True and Amazing Adventures of Wanda Detroit
By Nekanuq <Nekanuq@aol.com>
Rated PG-13
Submitted January 11, 1998

Editor's Note: I was hacking around on the internet one day and managed to
break into the database at the Daily Planet. Found a bunch of old news,
obituaries, wedding announcements, legal notices, boring, boring, boring.
Just as I was about to cut the connection, this caught my eye, an
unpublished novel by a rather prominent reporter. I started reading it
online, and it's a hoot! Man, you'd think a world famous reporter could
think up something more believable than this, but I don't really know much
about the author, besides hearing the name, so maybe she knows what she's
doing. Is hackneyed in? I had to download it before I got caught with my
phone line in the wrong computer, so now I've got this thing hogging up
space on my HD. I thought about just deleting it, but hey, what's the point
of hacking if no one knows you've done it? So I figure I'll let every one
see what kind of a writer the great Lois Lane really is. It doesn't look
like it's been worked on in two or three of years, at least, by the date of
the file and it ends kind of funny, to me anyway, so I'm not sure if it's
finished or not, but I'm not real up on what good writing is, so you all
take your chances. All I know is, if Wanda was real, she'd talk your ear off.
I ran a spell check on it, which was not easy, let me tell you, but besides
that, this is pretty much the way I got it from the Daily Planet.


The True and Amazing Adventures of Wanda Detroit

by

*The Real* Lois Lane


Wanda Detroit is my name. I sing for drinks down at the docks. But it
wasn't always like this.

My story begins in that capitol of big bucks, fast living, and Broadway
Babies... New York City. I was doin' eight shows a week, showin' more flesh
than a girl oughta, when he walked in. The man to whom I would give my
heart, and who would give me nothing in return, Clark. At first, I thought
nothing of him.  I taunted him with my smoldering smile. I knew Clark
wanted me, but I didn't care.

I had just become a headliner. Worked my way up from strippin' to hoofin'
to chorus girl to my name in lights. It was intoxicating, scanning Broadway
from 42nd Street and seeing "WANDA DETROIT" in a million tiny light bulbs.
"It's no kick in the teeth," my manager liked to say, and he was always a
straight shooter  with me. Yeah, I had a manager, once. I had a limo. I had
an entourage. I *had* it all. You think I ain't played Vegas? You think I
ain't played New York? I dated a duke, doggone it. When I first carved my
footholds into the towering walls that surrounded show business, pulled
myself outta the morass of nameless nobodies lookin' to get where I was
goin', got to the top of that wall to see what was on the inside, he was
there, lookin' for his own break to the big time, and I was it.

Clark, he was there too, lookin' at me from outta the dark, sittin' at the
bars of the saloons I was singin', and I could feel him, watching, leaving
almost physical impressions on me with his eyes before I even knew, or
cared, he existed.  I'd always used the smoke in those joints as a barrier
between me and the black-hearted shadows that were men sitting out there,
hollerin' whoops and cat calls like I was one of their lost huntin' dogs
listening for the signal that would bring me to them. Clark's eyes burned
right through the smoke, straight down to my soul.

One night, my show done, I went to the bar for a drink, and felt his eyes
on me from the other end. I looked across at him. He got the courage to
find a stool next to me. I lit a cigarette, smoke ready to barricade, and
looked him over. He was darkly handsome, broad shoulders a pedestal for an
angular face and jet black, but somehow soft, hair. His eyes, with their
ability to sear me across the nightclub, took me unawares with their
gentleness, protected by black-rimmed glasses. I crooked one corner of my
mouth upwards in a knowing smile and blew smoke at the ceiling. Just
another good lookin' Joe, I figured. Harmless.

"If you're gonna sit there starin', Sugar, you might as well buy me
another," I said, clinking the cubes in my empty drink.

His mouth dropped open slightly, a hesitancy in his voice, "I..."

Behind me, the sound of glass breaking and a chair being knocked over got
everyone's attention. I turned to see what was goin' on. A drunken sod of a
man was standing over another with a broken beer bottle. Before the
bartender could get his baseball bat and come around the bar, a third guy,
a friend of the one on the floor, swung a chair into the back of the first
oaf's head. That did it. Chaos broke throughout the bar, objects flying
everywhere. A young sailor hit the rail of the bar next to me, and sank to
the floor, blood gushing from his nose. I tried to move around behind the
bar for protection, and came face to chest with a cliff of a man in my way.

"Hey girlie, ya tryin' to leave before the fun starts? C'mere, I'll protect
ya." He grabbed at my arm, but I swung it out of reach, then back at him,
slapping him in the neck with my lit cigarette. He let out a yell, grabbed
my hand away from his neck and glared at me in his bleary drunken rage. He
pulled me to him by my arm, and I used the momentum to drive my knee into
his groin. He kinda got ticked off at that. My dress was too snug around my
legs to give me any more freedom of movement, and he twisted me around and
held my arm behind my back.

I kicked my heel into his leg, dragging hard down his shin, and stomped on
his instep, when my arm was suddenly let loose, and a thud shook the floor
under me. I spun to see the drunk lying at my feet unconscious. A broad
shouldered, beautiful hunk of man flesh stood over him, looking at me and
smiling.

"I suggest you get to a back room where it's safe." He motioned behind the
bar, and I followed his direction. As I passed by him, he nodded a little
gesture sorta like, "Pardon my forwardness, Miss," and said, "Excuse me. I
have to help that lady over there." He looked past me and moved swiftly
through the brawl.

>From Gus's office, I could hear the sounds of the fighting subside, and
then the cops coming to haul everyone away in the wagons. I examined a rip
in my dress. This one was gonna be a loss. The door opened.

"Damn it, Gus," I said, not looking up. "This is the third dress this
month. And my favorite. Much as I love singin', I've about had it with the
fringe benefits I get in this joint."

The voice that answered was not Gus' and I looked up sharply. "You
shouldn't have to put up with this kind of behavior. I know where your
talents might be better appreciated."

My orbs met the most dazzlin' smile, flashing brown eyes, and
muscle-rippled body it would ever be my pleasure, or destiny, to meet. My
rescuer from the human wall. He stood in the doorway, filling the space
almost completely with the width of his shoulders. I had started tapping
out a cig when he walked in. I set it to my lips, barely able to steady my
hand. How peculiar.

Gus walked around him into the room. "Wanda, I'd like you to meet Mr.
Tucker here. He's a producer off-Broadway." He put his hand on my shoulder
as he spoke. "How ya doin'? Ya didn't get hurt out there, did ya?" He owned
the night club, and gave me shots at standing out from the rest of the
girls that danced for his clientele. "You look hungry enough to make a go
of it," he'd said, "but once you're out there, you gotta do it on your own.
Just puttin' you up there don't make you a star. You make you a star."

Tucker took my hand and I was surprised by a shock of static. The tingle
lingered. We looked in each other's faces, and I let out a small "ha." The
intensity of his gaze was electric in itself. "Call me Kent," he finally
said. "I've been watching you on stage. You need a bigger audience."

~~~~~~~~~~

That was the beginning of it all. Kent was just finding his own way into
the business, but he had a power all his own when it came to gettin' where
he wanted to go, or what he needed. I knew what I wanted, too, and where I
was goin'; we were good together that way.

It was a crazy roller coaster ride we took. We headed uptown, not quite on
Broadway--yeah, and iced tea is not quite whiskey. But the interest was not
on how thirsty men could get ogling disrobing dames anymore, it was about
art.  That ain't so pretentious as it sounds. I was gettin' my chance to be
noticed for more than gams that could do splits vertically, hips I
threatened to knock men off their stools with, or a flexibility that made
them drool. I would be heard.

We worked like hell, gettin' the show put together, Kent gathering the
people for the production while I selected songs and worked out
choreography. Some nights, he'd appear at my walk-up, and we'd look over
what we'd each discovered and decided. It was a small production, but we
had a theater, and Kent seemed to have supernatural resources for getting
the show to fly. He didn't have many connections in the theater world at
first, but people were drawn to him like graffiti to clean concrete. Kent
had a purity about him that didn't tarnish under the enormity of what he
had taken on. I was struck, over and over, with awe at the way he handled
everyone who tried to latch on to what they saw as a sure thing waiting to
happen, trying to take advantage of any opportunity this toadying business
allowed them, and all the while he smiled, teeth gleaming, patiently
handling individual cases and sifting through the day to day garbage that
blew his way to find a rare nugget of gold.

The show was gonna be a showcase of my talents, the hoofin' and singin' I'd
got my education in, from the school of Gus and a few others like him who
always figured they knew what was best for a gal like me, never mind their
particular knowledge of the business. I had a new teacher now, the director
of the show, whose more experienced ways began influencin' me. But I didn't
always like what he thought was best.

"Toots, where'd ya get the idear ta sing that like yer a two dollar tart on
the corner? Yer goin' at it backwards." He was a round, bald, little man,
and his voice would come booming out at me from different dark corners in
the seats of the theater. A condition I was intimately familiar with.

I called out to him, unseen, "I figured ya knew what they cost, Sugar. You
want it should sound more like a fifty dollar hooker?"

"I want ya ta sound like yer outta my league, Honey. Yer all wistful about
it. Ya've been stomped on, dragged around, tossed in the alley when it's
over. But ya still got yer pride."

**Yeah, I hear ya, Frank, too well,** I thought. "Fifty bucks it is." I
nodded to the band, "Let's go again, boys." The music started up. Just
before my cue, I saw a figure in the light of the side door before it
closed behind *him.*  I could tell he was talking to Frank, but the song
took over. I sang:

Love for sale,
Advertising
Your love for sale,
Love that's fresh, and still unspoiled,
Love that's only slightly soiled,
Love for sale...

"Hey, Cookie, okay, that's pretty good. Look here, I got someone ya gotta
meet. This here's...Barre, what's yer first name, again?" Frank paused, and
looked at the man next to him.

"Clark," he said. "Clark Barre."

It was *him.* I remembered him from the last time I played Gus'. The night
of that bar brawl that marked the beginning of my new life. He'd
disappeared when the fight started, and I hadn't thought of him since.
**Clark Bar, huh? Well, he spends time in bars, I know that.**

"Yeah? What've we got, Frank, the new prop boy?" I pulled a cigarette outta
my sweater pocket, lit it, and leaned against the piano on the stage.

"One of the agencies sent him over, Sweetcakes. I wanna try him out as yer
dance partner."

"Whoa, whoa, waitaminute! We never discussed a partner. It was gonna be me
in front of a chorus line. What's this huckleberry bein' singled out for?"
I watched him as I dragged on the butt, and saw his eyes narrow at my
comment. Like a guitar string, I'd plucked a nerve.

He jumped onto the stage with less effort than it takes most men to forget
to put the seat down on the can. I harpooned Frank with my look. Who was
this Joe with such moxie? "C'mon, Frank, I'm sure he's got the Macarena
down cold, but can he move his feet?"

*He* spoke up. "I assure you, Ms. Detroit, I know a few other moves," he
hesitated, then said, "on the stage."

Men. Both the most transparent, and densest things in this crummy,
flea-bitten world. They wanna be in charge, and they want sex. Question is
whether they're willing to give one up for the other. I always thought of
men as paper napkins. Ya pig out, clean up the mess, toss 'em. Ya wave a
pair of longer, thinner stems in front of one, and sooner or later, you'll
find him caught like a deer in her headlights. That happens to ya a couple
times, and ya get to realizin', they just ain't worth it. Any
self-respectin' gal would start beatin' 'em to the punch, right? Now, this
one, this...Clark, where did he think this line was gonna get him? Like I
haven't put enough men behind me to recognize when one's tryin' to get
ahead. I stifled a snort.

"Frank, I don't know what ya've got in that cockamamie brain of yours, but
I didn't get this far to have some guy share the spotlight who's gonna be
nothin' more than window dressin', far's I'm concerned." I stood on the
edge of the stage, waving my cigarette and looking down at him.

"I'm gonna see if something I've been thinkin' over would work, so yer just
gonna have ta humor me, Sugar Plum. Let's start with the steps we were
working on yesterday. Barre, I want ya ta step in at the first chorus."
Frank continued his directions, a stubborn, bulldog look to him, deep
creases of skin furrowed between his eyebrows, hanging heavily over his
eyes. If only he had a row of crooked lower teeth, some trapping his upper
lip behind them, to complete the impression.

I stabbed the cig out in an ashtray on the piano, watching as the latest
addition to the company listened to Frank's instructions. He stood relaxed,
confident, intent, in a sweatshirt, leggings, leg warmers. Powerful legs.
Dancers thighs. He could probably crack walnuts with them.

It didn't matter. I didn't want a partner. I didn't need a partner. I could
command the stage and the audience myself. Men could be decorations on my
arm, nothin' more. It's a man's world, but I'd already staked out my claim
to a corner of it, and I'd had more than one claim jumper try and take it
away. I'd lost ground before, but it wouldn't happen again. This guy would
know his place in my territory. I'd make sure of it.

"Hey, Doll, c'mon, get with it here. We got work ta do. Ya been payin'
attention at all?" The bulldog glowered at me.

"Yeah, yeah, Frank. Believe me, I know what's goin' on." I walked to the
center of the stage. Barre was a few feet away, waiting for his cue. **Good
boy. Keep your place. Don't push it.** The music came up, and I moved with
it. At the chorus, he was there. He'd glided smoothly into the beat, then
drew me into his arms. He spun me around, lifting me without a grunt. As we
moved close together, he said, "That song, before, the Porter, interesting
choice. But I might not sing it so down in the mouth. I mean, down, sure.
But not so totally out."

How someone with both feet in his mouth could call hoofin' his profession,
I ain't sure. I laid out the rules. "Keep this in mind, Barre. You dance
for me. Supportin' role. We are not Steve and Edie, Burns and Allen, or
Siegfried and Roy. This is my show. I get top billin'." I saw somethin' in
his eye, a spark that said he had an answer to that. He opened his mouth.
"Don't even think it, Sugar," I said, giving him a smoldering look. His
mouth shut.

But then he caught me by surprise. I was unexpectedly spinning away, only
to be stopped and pulled back toward him, then taken into a dip as deep as
the Marianas Trench. I wondered briefly if I would get the bends, if I came
back up too quickly.

"What about Fred and Ginger?" he asked, leaning over me, my back arched,
with only his arm for support. I couldn't get away. "You know what they
said about them...She gave him sex, and he gave her class." He pulled me
back up, twirled me away again, and this time....he let go.

Blood rushed to my head. I fought away the feeling that my face was turning
pink like a pair of underwear in the wrong load of wash. I looked back at
him. He stood there, smirking smugly, while I fought for control.

**Don't flatter yourself, Barre...** I thought. I started to say it, but
was abruptly reminded that we were not alone.

"Woo hoo! Haven't seen chemistry like that since I blew up the lab in high
school. Barre, yer on. We'll see if we can't work ya into a few more
numbers." Frank's arms were wavin' ever which way as he started throwin'
out ideas, planning choreography, rescripting spots. The cogs were spinning
too fast. My place in the company was about to shift. Not somethin' I was
thrilled to see.

"Just a damn minute, Frank. Where you gettin' this idea that a coupla
winged steps on a stage'll make for a whole show?" I shouted, tryin' to get
his attention.

"Honey, ya shoulda seen the two've ya together. Dance in a mirror with him,
you'll see. This is gonna work." He walked away, instructing crew members
as he went.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, Cheri, I need help with this zipper!" I called out from the doorway
of my dressin' room. I was lookin' out through the sea of dancers that made
up the chorus line, but every one of 'em was runnin' around, in their own
frenzies, and I couldn't see her.

"May I help you?"

I turned to find Kent smiling at me, placidly standing in the eye of the
hurricane. I instantly felt calmer than I had in days, yet my heart raced
at seeing him here. As the production had progressed, I'd put in longer and
longer hours at the theater, and tired nights at my walk-up, soakin' my
achin' dogs. I hadn't seen him in weeks.

"Ohhhh, Kent! Um....yes, could ya please?" I turned, showing him my back,
reaching behind me with one hand to point out the zipper, and over my
shoulder with the other. "It's stuck, and I can't..." I felt his warm
hands, one on the small of my back, steadying me, while the other jiggled
the tab. The zipper came loose and went down a couple inches. I drew in a
sharp breath.

"I apologize for that. It was quite stuck." He pulled the zipper smoothly
to the top of my dress.

I had pulled my hair outta the way, and now as I let go, it fell back down
over my neck and shoulders.

"Thank you," I said, finally breathing, and turned to look at him. I was
met, once again, with the sparklin' smile and flashin' eyes that always
threatened to pull me outta my body and swallow me up. Sometimes, I
thought, if I stared too long, I'd forget my own name, and the thought
flitted through my mind that some day I might wanna give that a try.

We looked at each other a moment, then both started to speak. He smiled
again at me and I let out a low, throaty giggle. Oh, God, what's happenin'?
I ain't the gigglin' type. I can't remember the last time gigglin' was an
option. I ain't some silly school girl. Nobody's silly in the School of
Hard Knocks. No one who survives, anyway. And I've always been a survivor.

"Are you ready? This is the night." Kent spoke, his soothing voice pulling
me outta the fire of overwhelming thoughts that threatened to consume me.

"I was born ready, but ya can still wish me luck, Sugar." I took the
opportunity to pat him on the chest, my hand lingering momentarily on the
firm, massive pecs which the shiny polished fabric of his suit failed to
disguise.

"Luck has nothing to do with it, Wanda. You make it happen. But for
superstition's sake, break a leg." He rested his hands on my shoulders,
gave me a reassuring squeeze, and kissed me on the cheek. I felt his lips
graze my cheekbone, his warm breath flush my skin. I gulped in a startled
breath of air. Time stopped.

And started again. The stage manager walked through the milling dancers.
"Five minutes to curtain, everyone, five minutes."

"You're about to turn this city upside down. I'll be watching from the
wings," Kent said.

I nodded silently as he turned and walked away, his glittering smile still
hangin' on the air. I suddenly realized I'd been holdin' my breath since
his kiss, and let it out. And then I hiccuped.

"Oh, God, *hic* not now, *hic hic*," I said out loud, just as Barre walked
up to me.

"C'mon, you ready? The music's starting." He peered curiously at me.

"Get me some *hic* water, quick! *hic*" His mouth dropped open,
incredulous. "*hic* Now!" I shoved him. In a moment he was back with one of
those triangular little paper cups that hold about as much water as a shot
glass...but unfortunately not holdin' liquor. It'd have to do. I held my
breath and drank the water.

I let my breath out. "I think...that did it...C'mon, what're you staring
at? We gotta move! *hic* Damn! I can't sing like *hic* this. What are we
gon*hic*na do?" I looked at him, half expectin' to see that smirk of
superiority most men spend their whole lives perfectin'. Barre pursed his
lips, grabbed my hand, and pulled me around backstage.

"The first number's just dance. You can get through that. If you've still
got them after that, we've got a few minutes to figure something out." He'd
maneuvered me into the wings, stage left, ready to go on.

The music swelled. I looked out onto the stage to see a spotlight beam on
an empty mark--a mark where I was supposed to be. Barre pushed me. My feet
took over and I glided into the light. I paused a second as I heard polite
applause from the audience, and the spotlights lit the stage. Another
hiccup tapped my body like an amorous football player with a tackling
dummy, and I moved with the music, hoping to cover it. Barre was by my
side, on cue, and I heard more applause as he moved into the light,
wrapping me in his arms.

"How are you?" he whispered in my ear, and I answered with a volley of
hiccups. He lifted me, set me down and spun me around.

"They're *hic hic hic* gettin' worse."

Barre's jaw clenched, and I noticed his eyes held a strong...somethin',
determination? smugness?...in them. Maybe because he wasn't wearin' his
glasses, I noticed they were a deeper brown than I'd thought before. More
likely, I suspected, he'd got color contacts. Maybe it was the glare of
light hittin' the lenses, or that when they'd take them off, their faces
would look blank unless they were squintin' to look at ya, but I couldn't
ever really see people's eyes when they wore glasses. Behind specs, Barre's
eyes didn't stand out more than anybody else's.

The number was endin'. I'd gotten that far. But the hiccups were worse, and
I had to sing next.

The music began to fade, and Barre dropped me into the final dip of the
dance. His face neared mine, and where he stopped close to me in rehearsal,
this time he did not. His lips closed over mine like butter melting on a
hot dinner roll. His hand broke away from my arm, fingers brushing gently
over my skin, creating goose flesh and a tickling chill, which competed
with the fever raging through the rest of my body, on their way to cradling
my head. His tongue met my molars in an introduction that had my pulled
wisdom teeth achin' to come back. I gasped for breath as he created a
vacuum in my mouth, sucking all the air I had to give. I thought angrily of
pushin' him off, then thought of the hundreds of people watchin'. **The
show must go on** did a jig through my brain. And anyway, it was a good
kiss. A very good kiss. I put my arm around his neck and kissed back.

The music was gone, the stage dark. Suddenly a collective sigh was released
>from the audience, and excited applause followed. Somehow we'd made it
through the opening number, and were working our way backstage as the
chorus line began to file on.

I turned quickly on Barre, catchin', I thought, a very pleased grin on his
face. "Just who the hell do ya think you are, pullin' a stunt like that?
What gives ya the right to..."

"How are your hiccups, Wanda?" He stood comfortably, eyebrows raised.

"I...they're gone!...You did that to..." **Oh, God.** "You're quite the
thorough professional, ain't ya? I thought you were a dancer, not a method
actor." I turned on my heel and walked to my dressing room. I heard a
faint, "You're welcome," behind me.

~~~~~~~~~~

Light bulbs flashed in my eyes like popcorn with no lid. A microphone
appeared under my nose -- a black carrot danglin' before me as questions
tempted me to bite at it.

"We seem to be a hit," Barre whispered in my ear. **We?** I thought.
**Sugar, yer just hoppin' a ride on my steamroller.**

"Miss Detroit! Mr. Barre! Lovely show! Do you have a moment?" I squinted at
the outline of a reporter near the flashin' camera. "A question or two?" I
recognized her, a local theater reporter from the newspaper. Her picture
stood attention over her weekly column of rumors, gossip, and just enough
accurate speculation to make ya wonder which of the rest was true. Someone
ya wanna be on the right side of. I paused, smiled at her photographer, and
spoke in my most theatrical voice.

"My pleasure, Ms. Applegate-Smythe."

"Please, call me Dorothy. That was quite the opening number. Who knew you
could choreograph fire?"

I was decidin' whether or not that was rhetorical, when Barre started to
speak. "Actually, our direct--" This was gonna be my interview, not *his*.
I spoke up.

"Frank Swan, our director, and I worked out most of the choreography. Clark
here came late to the production, and we just fit him in where we could."

"Darling, those moves!" I watched, amused, as she stroked Barre's arm. "You
mean to tell me, you didn't start out with this...amazing specimen at your
side..." I smirked inside.  **Specimen...ha!** She continued, "...that you
planned the end of that opening number without a partner in mind for it?"

I felt Barre shift next to me. I said, "Well, Dorothy, I'd been thinking
about how that should end up. It just needed something more, ya know? We
hadn't really run through it much before the show, but we want it all to be
dynamic and spontaneous, so sometimes you just have to go for it. How do
you think we did?" I gave her a sly smile, and resisted the urge to wink.

"Darling, how *didn't* you do?" Ms. Applegate-Smythe was nearly arm in arm
with Barre by that point. I had to get us both the hell outta there before
he said somethin' that made me look the fool. I turned toward him just
enough to reach my hand behind his arm and push on his tuxedo jacket,
aiming him toward the door, and away from that shark of the Great White
Way.

"You'll have to excuse us, we really must be getting inside. Glad you liked
the show!" I didn't stop pushin' until we were inside the restaurant, where
a tray with drinks on it glided by at a waiter's shoulder. I took the
nearest one off.

"What was all that?" Barre blocked me from beginning to enjoy the openin'
night party Kent had arranged. "You're taking credit for having the
hiccups?"

I tasted my drink. Scotch. "Sugar, ya got an interestin' improvisation
technique. But this is business, and if you're gonna ride on my train, it's
gonna be all the way back in the caboose." I moved around him and into the
adoring arms of the--my--party.

"Toots, I don't know what possessed ya ter end that openin' number like ya
did, and I ain't crazy 'bout ya ad-lippin', but ya done all right." Frank
bulled his way through the crowd, putting an arm around me, and pulling
Barre in close on his other side. We were a three-headed beast plowing a
wake through the room. "And ya gotta admit, I wasn't blowin' smoke up yer
skirt about that chemistry thing!"

"Yeah, maybe it'll work out, Frank." I was cautious of Barre on the other
side of him. Humor them. Seemed the best approach. As we paraded through
the room, company members patting our backs as we went, I watched Barre
outta the corner of my eye behind Frank's head. I caught him looking back
at me. I slid my eyes slightly toward Frank, and said, "Is Kent here yet?
And how long before the reviews come out? "

"Haven't seen either yet, Darlin'. Reviews should probably be," Frank
looked at his watch, "oh, 'bout another half hour."

A tray of drinks passed by me and I took one down. Gin. My evening gown was
form fittin', but I'd come prepared. I pulled a cigarette outta my bra
strap, and looked for a light.

"Ah, Dumplin', sorry, this joint's no smokin'," said Frank. "Best we could
do tonight."

"With all the people on our crew? The real party's gotta be out in the
alley, then. Which way?" Frank nodded his head toward a dimly lit alcove. I
headed for it.

Out in the cooling night air, I found half the cast and crew, smoke
swirlin' above their heads, joking animatedly, and walked into the midst of
them. "Did we pull off a show, or what?" I said, coolly, but excited
nonetheless. Cast members agreed all around. I held my cig to my lips as
one of the boys flicked a lighter.

"*You* pulled off an amazing exhibition, Ms. Detroit."

I turned to an interestin'ly cultured voice, words enunciated so
distinctly, I could almost hear the silent e's. He walked outta the shadows
into the small circle of light,  smoking a cigar--Cuban, I guessed, just
because this was a man who didn't look the type to smoke somethin' cheap
and easy to get. I knew who he was, anyone on Broadway that knew anythin'
about the biz had heard of him. To meet him was another matter. He was
nearer myth than man. That he didn't appear with a shimmering aura or a
centaur's body brought me back to earth only slightly.

The most powerful man on Broadway, maybe even the whole New York/East Coast
show business community. His public appearances were rare to nonexistent.
Every company rumors that he's been in their audience, looking for the next
Lana Turner, Kathleen Turner, hell, even Ike and Tina Turner. Could this
really be him standing in an alley, smoking with an off-off-off-Broadway
chorus line? He held out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Detroit, I
am...,"

"Rex Rullor, Broadway producer extraordinaire." I gasped the words. He
shook my hand with a warm, firm clasp, covering the exposed back of my hand
with his left. The contact was of human flesh, and I came back to reality,
giving him a firm handshake before pulling my hand away, slowly. The cast
members had gone all silent behind me. My mind raced like a quarter horse
on a dry track. To be associated with this man could send my career into
the stratosphere. All those years of toiling obscurely behind me, like so
many roach-infested dives I'd lived in, I thought. But I wasn't about to
gush like some empty-headed, gum-chewing starlet that thinks the casting
couch is somethin' she oughta carry to auditions with her. I straightened
my shoulders, and looked the man straight in the eye.

They were sharp eyes; I doubted they missed any details in a room, much
less an alley, and they glinted with the knowledge of power. They were also
guarded, I guessed for the same reason, but I thought maybe they softened
ever so slightly, watchin' me.

"Yes, good, well then, we needn't stand on formalities," he said. "I think
perhaps I have a proposition that may interest you."

The door to the restaurant opened then, and Barre peeked out around it.
"Hey, guys, reviews are up. Anybody seen Wanda?" All heads turned silently
towards me, and Barre's followed them. He came around the door then, and
hovered behind me.

"Mr. Rullor, this is a member of the company..." I didn't want to introduce
him, but didn't quite see how to get around it. It occurred to me that
Barre either had really bad, or really good, timing, dependin' on who's
angle ya looked from.

"Clark Barre. Yes, nice journeyman performance. Perhaps with some long,
hard effort, you could rise above the rabble." Rullor eyed Barre with
something like mirth. Neither one extended his hand. Barre huffed in my
hair.

"Wanda, Frank's waiting for you. You want to hear the reviews, or not?"

"Mr. Rullor, will you join us?" I paused on my way into the restaurant,
when I realized he wasn't following.

"Ms. Detroit, I already know what they say. I must be going, but I'll be in
touch with you. Good evening." He walked outta the alley and into a waiting
limo.

"What was that guy doing standing around in an alley behind a restaurant?"
Barre said in my ear, as he opened the door and waited for me to pass by
inside.

 "Well, Sugar, he wanted to meet me," I answered matter-of-factly, as if,
why else?

"Uh...huh," was Barre's only response, but I heard enough meaning in his
voice to create statistical analyses.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Awright, people, here we go! This is 'The Sphere's' review..." Frank stood
on the band stage to be eye level with cast and crew. He looked my way.
"Nice of ya ta join us, Puddin'." He found his place in the newspaper
again, and started readin'. "Hieronymous Grey's the critic here. The
headline on this one says, 'Sweet Smell of SucSex'. Uh, I think that's
good..." The company twittered.

Rumor on Broadway for the last month has been of an
almost wholly unbelievable old-fashioned cabaret being
put together far from the district, but with the potential to
storm down the Great White Way, overcoming everything
in it's path. Ladies and Gents, tonight I saw what all the
hubbub was about, and I must inform you, Theatre has
nothing to worry about.

The company held its collective breath. This wasn't startin' off great. I
took a glass of wine off a tray as it slid by. They're all based on
alcohol, that's the main point.

Barre had been standing at my shoulder for the reading. He said quietly,
"Don't you think you ought to slow down? Why do you drink so much, anyway?"

"'Cause it's stronger than chocolate," I snapped back, taking a large gulp
to emphasize the point.

"Fine, I hope you don't throw up all over the stage during tomorrow's
matinee."

Frank continued readin' the review.

This isn't Greek tragedy or Shakespearean comedy.
This show does not break any new ground. But then
again, what today does? No, what we have here is a
good old-fashioned musical revue, no plot, no mystery,
no earth-shattering drama.

And yet, there is an earthiness about it, especially in
the talents of the two leads, the hitherto unknown Clark
Barre and Wanda Detroit. Make no mistake, these two
will be known throughout the theater world soon and for
a very long time, and probably with their names linked
inextricably together...

The cast twittered again, and I felt dozens of eyes aimed in my direction,
and, oh yeah, Barre's direction, too, seein' as he was standin' just behind
me. I loved to bask in that glow, when it used to shine on me. It was my
reason for being. But, that night, somethin', I don't know, it coulda been
the drink, or that I'd had so much attention already that night, or them
listin' Barre's name first, but it all started gettin' under my skin.

...Why? Why indeed. The sexiness of these two on
stage is palpable, the husky, painfully sensual voice
of Ms. Detroit searing through three hundred hearts,
and the raw heat exuded by Mr. Barre nearly setting
sprinklers off, all mixed in an alchemist's brew by the
director, Frank Swan, a formerly pedestri....

"I think we can skip that part," Frank said, skimming through the article.
"Hey, I like this..."

Mr. Swan has found a maturity in subject and execution
that rival any of the present so-called "masters" of the
stage. He seems to have found his niche, and we are
going to be given a front row seat to see his own
evolution and development of a company and a show
before our eyes. With the gifts endowed to them, Mr.
Swan and his stars may have endless material to cover,
but it is only a matter of time before they come rolling
down Broadway with it.

Simply because, with a single kiss at the end of the
opening number, their fate was sealed, and so was
Broadway's. We in the theater district have nothing
to fear, we have only to watch the waves crash on the
shore, and if we're smart, ride on the tide. No, this show
is not breaking new ground. But you will break a sweat.

Whoops and hollers and clapping sounded throughout the restaurant, but I
could feel the blood thunderin' in my ears. I pushed past Barre towards the
alley door and out into the cool night air, so I could think and breathe. I
lit a cig, drawin' smoke in as deeply as my lungs would allow.

It was what I'd always wanted, the fame, the glory--worked damn hard at
gettin' it--and now it was all bein' split in half, and given to him. Where
was he when I was payin' my dues? I spit out a piece of tobacco loosened
>from the cigarette.

Well, he hadn't ruined the show, I'd have to give him some credit there.
But how was this show gonna evolve, like the reviewer wrote. Bigger part
for Barre? Less for me? I didn't even know if he could sing. I hadn't
bothered to learn much about him at all. It didn't seem important before.
Suddenly though, some old saying about keeping your enemies close like your
friends popped in my head. I decided it was time I got to know Clark Barre.
I turned around, and almost crumpled my cigarette into Kent's chest. I
stepped back.

"Oh, Kent, I- I'm so sorry," I moved to brush ash off his breast pocket.
**This habit suddenly ain't so glamorous,** I thought, dropped the cig to
the pavement, and ground it under my shoe.

He took my hand gently in his own. "Please, don't worry about it." Still
holding my hand against his suit jacket, he looked directly at me. He
always had such a strong, bold look to him, yet the gentleness I found in
his eyes was softer than cashmere, and without the sneezing.
"Congratulations. This show will be a success because of you."

"No, Kent, I...it wouldn't've ever been anything without you. What I put on
the stage was because of you--your support, I mean." **Just don't mention
what I put into that kiss, whatever you do.**

He read part of my thought. The wrong part. "You could get into trouble
improvising things like that kiss, you know. You were lucky tonight, but I
worry about something like that getting out of control."

**Outta control? OUT of CONTROL? It ain't life or death, at least in the
traditional sense. Or did he see somethin' else that worried him? Was he
jealous?** I couldn't tell him the truth behind the kiss, but how could I
lie to this man? "There was a reason for it, Kent. It's not what you
think." I pushed softly against his chest and he released my hand. I turned
and took a step away. "Now everything's gettin' so twisted because of it.
This show's got a life of its own." I hugged my arms around myself.

Kent didn't move, but said, "Don't worry, Wanda. This looks like it's going
to work out just fine. Look at the reaction we're getting. You nearly gave
us heart attacks at the time, but look at the advantage we have because of
the risk you took."

**Risk. Yeah, right. If he only knew.** "Well, maybe you can be there to
catch me the next time I slip," I said softly.

"If it's within my power, always, Wanda." He set a hand on my shoulder
then, a reassuring gesture, but somehow tentative, and it flitted through
my mind that for all he was able to do for the show, it didn't seem like
enough to him, that there were too many external forces at work, no matter
what he planned for. And I was one of them.

Regret churned through my insides like bad milk. "I'm sorry, that was
selfish. I know you have plenty of other things on your mind without
worrying about me screwin' up the show."

He chuckled quietly then, and I turned to look at him. The half-smile on
his face was warm, the sparkle in his eye, inviting. "Don't you ever worry
about there being too many other things on my mind, Wanda. I'll always be
here when you need me."

Several chorus members spilled out into the alley then, talking and
laughing. Seeing Kent, they clustered around; he was at once a beacon
around which the moths swirled. He congratulated them all, and made them
feel at ease with him, rather than in awe. After a few moments, he excused
himself, and came over to ask me if I needed a ride home, considering the
time. "I have a vested interest in seeing you safely tucked in your bed at
a decent hour."

"I'd like that," I answered. "Um, a ride." **And to have you tuck me in,**
I thought, **but you never stay.**

~~~~~~~~~~

Frank's mind had been workin' overtime. Over the next couple weeks, he made
alterations to the show, changin' the choreography of the opening number to
smooth the transition into the kiss. Eight times a week Barre and I had to
look as spontaneous as that first night. Frank wanted it hot enough "to
turn tuxes into smokin' jackets."

We must've been doin' somethin' right. Box office was good for a show in
the sticks. If there was a night without a full house, Frank fretted that
we'd gone predictable and the next day we'd be fiddlin' with arrangements
and timing and order again. Barre had been fitted into more numbers and was
bein' billed as my costar, but I stood firm that my name would stay on top
and be bigger.

The week following my opening night, I got a hand-delivered message from
Rex Rullor asking me to dinner. It said he wanted to discuss my "future in
the theater." This was it, I figured. Nothing could stop me gettin' to the
top. Hell, I was practically already there. I accepted the invitation,
eagerly.

I'd been workin' hard for days on end, gettin' through the shows, making it
home in time to collapse in bed before we started the whole thing over the
next day. One night, Barre came up to me as I was puttin' my street clothes
on over my leotard.

"Hey, uh, Wanda? I was wondering if, well, how'd you like to grab something
to eat?"

"Dinner? You wanna take me out? Kid, I doubt we draw from the same date pool."

"Oh sure, only someone like Rex Rullor is good enough for you. What about
Kent? Is he too good for you? You moon around after him, but I don't see
him calling you to go out."

"Mr. Rullor said he has a proposition for me." Barre rolled his eyes. "You
just look here, buster. This is business. I didn't get where I am by
sleepin' with every Tom, Dick or Rex that promised me a Tony award. Kent
understands that. Why can't you?"

"Well, Ms. La-Tee-Da, I'll be interested to see how high you hold your
artistic integrity when push comes to shove. And it'll happen sooner than
you think. I asked if you wanted to grab a bite to eat, not prostitute
yourself." With that, he was out the backstage door before I could reply. I
hate that.

And he was wrong, I knew he was wrong about Rex Rullor. A man with his
connections? What would he want with someone like me unless he saw my
talent? He wouldn't bother otherwise. Barre was just jealous. That was it.

~~~~~~~~~~

I was picked up in a stretch limo the size of Idaho and transported as if
by sedan chair. Before I could catch my breath, I was escorted into the
most exclusive Park Avenue building where Rex's penthouse surveyed all that
lay before him. A private elevator shot me skyward, above the street
smells, past the grime of a never clean city, through the polluted air, and
deposited me in another world, where you could forget everything below
existed.

I stepped out into an atrium, almost a jungle, really, which I somehow knew
would come complete with some sort of tropical birdlife. A flutter in a
tree from a darkened corner set off a game show "ding!" in my head. If I
could just answer the rest of the questions right like that, I'd bet
everything on Final Jeopardy. The atrium was dimly lit, being mostly from
skylights I saw stars through. I moved further in, wondering if there were
headhunters or cannibals in the jungle, or would I make it safely through
to find Rex at a Bedouin camp in the desert on the other side of this oasis.

"Good evening, Ms. Detroit. Please, come this way." I saw a silhouetted
figure at the end of the atrium, beckoning me with an outstretched hand. I
was led through high-ceilinged rooms, elegantly decorated with all manner
of show business memorabilia, most of it rare or believed lost. Rex didn't
limit himself to Broadway. Much of his collection came from the worlds of
television and movies, and some even seemed to come from the old radio era.
I had been left in a room with a full-sized stuffed camel; a rounded,
molded lump of rubber; a small, clear, empty, enclosed, glass cube, and
more that I could not take in before I heard someone behind me.

"I trust you realize the history of these objects, Ms. Detroit, that their
import is not lost on you?"

I turned to see Rex in a dinner jacket, swirling a lit cigar about his
head, the smoke rising in uneven air currents as it dissipated. "Good
evening, Mr. Rullor." I reached my hand out to be taken in his in a
gentlemanly handshake, and once again his fingers lingered.

"How are you this evening?" His eyes were fixed on mine.

"Very well, thank you." I broke the hypnotic gaze to look around the room
again. "I can't say I spent my childhood in a movie theater much, but I
think I could make an educated guess or two." I nodded at the camel. "I'd
say that's something to remind you of 'Lawrence of Arabia'," **and not from
"Hawmps",** I bit back on my tongue.

"Oh, it doesn't just remind me of 'Lawrence,' Ms. Detroit, that was *the*
camel O'Toole rode in the film. Nearly impossible to trace it down, but my
people found her outside Algiers in a carnival giving rides to children for
a few dinars each. She was easy enough to buy then, and have her shipped
over. Alive would have been nice, but it really doesn't work well in a
penthouse, so I had her stuffed." He leaned over to me, conspiratorially,
"They aren't like cats, you know."

I didn't know whether to believe him or not, and smiled at him
non-commitally. The Mona Lisa's got nothin' on my simmerin' smile. "This
here must be from 'Citizen Kane'," I said, pointing to a sled. "Did Orson
Welles give it to you personally?"

"As a matter of fact, no. That was found next to the Ark of the Covenant in
a government warehouse-looking sound stage from 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'.
Actually, they were probably the same props used for a similar scene from
'Citizen Kane', hence the connection between movies."

**Uh huh.** "This, I am only guessing now, is, maybe, the hump for Charles
Laughton in 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame'?" I quirked an eyebrow upwards.

"Not quite. Lawrence Olivier as "Richard the Third'. But nice try."

"I'm curious about this cube." I said, moving on. "I can't imagine what
this is from."

"That, Ms. Detroit, is vacuum-sealed, and it holds the plot to a
particularly bad, but expensive, film about strippers. I keep it to remind
me that lust and excess do not necessarily a profit make. One must always
keep that in mind in this business, don't you agree?"

"Yes, I suppose it is good to try and stay grounded from those things. You
have an interesting way of handling that, I must say, Mr. Rullor."

"Please, call me Rex. And if I may...Wanda?"

"Yes, of course...Rex." I felt so formal, I barely stopped myself curtseying.

"Dinner awaits us, through here, if you would like to begin," Rex said,
motioning me through to yet another fabulously decorated room, with an
elegant small dining table set and waiting for us.

"This is delicious, Rex," I said, looking through the candle light to see
him watchin' me. "Never been much of a cook, myself," I added,
self-conscious under his scrutiny. "But I love to enjoy an artist at work,
and this was definitely a masterpiece." **Stop babblin', you fool. Just
'cause ya eat at a greasy spoon half-way between the theater and home
doesn't mean ya have to go advertisin' it.**

"I can say, without reservation, Wanda, that I have seen the artistry of a
master, as well, in your performances." Rex's intense gaze had never
wavered, never even blinked, since I started talking. It was mesmerizing. I
felt no desire to break the contact, but my mind wondered how far he could
see into me, what he would take away when the connection was broken. I
subtly changed my own gaze, from wide-eyed naiveté to one of my more
sensual, smoldering looks, curious to see what effect it would have.

Rex's look changed then, too, becoming more guarded, as he had that first
night in the alley. I suddenly worried I had pushed too far, without really
knowing why.

I cleared my throat, tryin' to think of somethin' to say. I kept what I
could of my smoldering look, and said, "You mentioned somethin' the other
night about a proposition." If the mood broke now, I feared never knowing
what he had in mind. Someone with as much power in this business as Rex had
was as like a god as a man. He was well known for his kind acts on behalf
of people or shows he thought were worthy not only his attention, but of
the public's too. His endorsement could put a production on the map
practically overnight. I shivered at the possibilities this night might
bring me.

He sat straighter against the back of his chair, and dropped the intensity
he'd previously been burning a hole through me with. "Ah, yes, so I did."
He smiled at me then, startlingly changing his whole demeanor. The dark,
almost brooding, man was gone, and had left this...this...Rex-Lite in its
place. I almost couldn't reconcile the depths to this man who had done so
much good for the theater community, but seemed so lonely, perhaps even
misunderstood, because of his reputation, the label "legend" placed upon
him, or the myths and rumors that swirled around him. He'd been set apart
>from the world he helped shape, no longer allowed to take part in it as he
might have liked, side by side with the residents of his community.
Admiration and empathy swelled inside me for a man who gave so much of
himself, with no expectation of getting anything in return.

He was holding my chair, patiently waiting for me to move, and he gestured
me to rise and adjourn to a sofa in an alcove with a stunning view of the
city's skyline. Lights from buildings glittered in a way no one would ever
see from the street. I looked out in awe of the world in front of me that
night, and imagined what it would be like to have this city laid open to me
as it was for Rex. I went out onto a balcony, listening to noises which
were so different when heard several hundred feet below. A warm breeze
gently combed through my hair, and I closed my eyes and took in a deep
breath. Maybe it was the wine, or the altitude. I felt a light-headed
thrill rush through me, as if I could take off and float on all the
pin-points of light twinkling around the city.

"It's quite a sight, isn't it?" I suddenly realized Rex had been watching
me the whole time, allowing me to absorb at least a part of his universe.
He stood leaning against the rail of the balcony, close enough to speak
softly, reverently, of what I viewed, without crowding me.

I breathed deeply again. "Yes, it is." I smiled at him. "But this isn't why
you brought me here."

"In part, perhaps, I did," he said, turning to look at his own view. "You
could be on top of the world, Wanda. You could own it. Become the next Mary
Pickford. America's sweetheart. I'd like to help you achieve that."

There it was. Suddenly my future was laid out before me, as I'd always
wanted, as I'd scrabbled up from the seedy underbelly of show business,
aiming for what was now bein' handed to me on a platter.

And just as suddenly, I realized I'd got this far on my own. Did I really
need what Rex was offerin'? To be on his good side was one thing, to be in
his debt was somethin' else entirely. What the hell'd I been thinkin'? And
what was I supposed to do now?

"Rex," I reached out to touch his arm, my mind racing, "I...I'm flattered.
You're offer is everything I've ever dreamed of. Your
generosity...I'm...overwhelmed." I paused, thinking of how to go on.

Rex took the moment to elaborate on his vision. "You won't have to play the
backwaters any more, Wanda. *You* will be the toast of Broadway, center
stage. I can get you the best theater, the best director...I can have Julie
Andrews singing backup to you." His eyes fairly glinted with the
possibilities he saw, and he punctuated the air with the unlit cigar in his
hand.

"Oh, Rex, please...this is all so fantastic. And so new to me. I can't just
jump the ship I'm on so soon. There are people there counting on me, and
well, I'd hate them--or you--to think I was so fickle." I smiled warmly at
him, hoping he'd understand. I added, quietly, "I appreciate what you must
think of me to make me such a proposal. But this is something I have to do
for myself. Can you see that?"

Rex Rullor lived up to his reputation. "Wanda, I'm excited by the prospect
of what you can do for the theater. It's bigger than I think you even
know...this talent of yours." He picked up my hand in both of his, and
patted it. "Of course I will respect your wishes. But I want you to know
I'm here for you whenever you are ready to take the leap beyond the
pedestrian ideas that rule Broadway these days. Promise me you'll think
about it."

"Of course, Rex. This is all so heady for me right now...You understand I
just need to get my bearings?"

"Yes, yes, I do, Wanda. You'll do fine. And we can talk about this again
when you're ready."

"Thank you. I can't imagine what I've done to deserve your attentions. Or
do you just go after all the new girls on the block?" I slipped him a sly
smile, and squeezed his hand, which continued to hold mine firmly.

His face got softer, like it had earlier, the fervor he'd had when
describing his visions of the future disappearing for the moment. His
passion for the theater came through so strong, and I knew I felt the same
way myself, if from a slightly different vantage point. His was a kindred
spirit.

~~~~~~~~~~

I was only too happy to rub Barre's nose in it the following day at
rehearsal. "Note this, Sugar," I said, walking up behind him, "my 'artistic
integrity' is still intact. I hope y'ain't too disappointed."

"I'm glad, Wanda. Really." He was doing warm-ups, and didn't seem too
concerned one way or another. I felt my ears heat up. **First he accuses me
of sellin' myself for my career, then he doesn't care. What gives?**

"I do have rules, Barre. I ain't morally destitute."

He stopped to look up at me, questioning.

I huffed. Why was I explainin' myself to him? "Look, I've never spent any
time on a casting couch, and I never will, okay? And I had that rule way
before you came along to be my conscience."

"Good to know," he said, continuing his warm-ups. "I just don't want to see
you get hurt."

"Yeah, but you don't like gettin' shot down, either, do ya, playboy?" I
turned on my heel and left him there, with his ethics and his pride.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was strange, how he somehow knew I'd be home when he came by, and what
kind of mood I'd be in. I wondered again at fate putting Kent and me in the
same hemisphere, in the same city, at the same time, givin' us this link we
had, that I felt, that he felt. Just seein' him there, standing at my door,
my anger whirled outta me, down a drain, and I was left tired, in a relaxed
sort of way, like a bowl of Jell-O that'd been sittin' at room temperature
too long, and was liquid around the edge. I loved that feelin', and when he
said, "Hello," I felt myself sloshin' around in that bowl even more.

"Kent!" I said it soft, almost breathless, but anyone could hear the
exclamation. "Hi-how are you?" Great. Small talk. There musta been a
cushion of Jell-O around my brain, too.

"I'm fine, Wanda, thanks. How are you?" God, it just wasn't the same at
all. I ask a simple, stupid, innocuous question, and sound like some vapid
local tv reporter askin' the survivors of a murder victim how they feel
when the murderer gets the chair. Kent could ask the same thing, and the
look in his eye, the directness he had, searchin' my own face, not allowin'
me to lie, to cover up my thoughts around him, set me reeling deep down in
a desire to pull every idea and emotion in my soul and hand it to him on a
platter. Anything he asked would be his. I wished he would ask.

"I'm...much better...now," I answered, still breathless. I was almost
shameless, but I couldn't help myself, and to tell ya the truth, I didn't
care.

He nodded, a knowin' nod, one that said, "Yes, you're alright, you've
always been alright, you just tend to forget, sometimes."

And I was alright, only...more so...around him. I couldn't decide, did I
forget myself in his presence, or remember bits of me, long tucked under
thick blankets, where I'd thought they'd be safe, safe from risk, safe from
others, maybe even safe from me. I learned long ago I couldn't always trust
my own instincts, not where men were concerned. It'd been better to protect
me from myself. But whenever Kent was around...I don't know...I lost
myself, or I found myself. I can't explain it any better than that. What he
did for me, he might do for anyone else. But, it was...personal. I could
see that, clear as an empty goldfish bowl. He singled me out, made me feel
special, in ways I hadn't, for too long.

"Thank you," I whispered under my breath.

He was startled. "For what?"

I hadn't really meant for him to hear me, let him hear where my thoughts
had led me, but, well, I guess I lost all fear, with him around.
"I...well...ya just have a way of makin' a girl feel good about herself, ya
know that?"

He ducked his chin down, his arms crossed over his chest, and somehow, he
seemed embarrassed. "Wanda, you have everything to feel good about. You
told me once what Gus said, remember?" He was lookin' direct at me again,
the temporary shyness all but gone. "'You make you a star.' Well, you make
you happy, too. You make you feel good. You're in charge of your destiny,
Wanda. I'm...just here to help."

Parts of me puddled all over again. Did he really not know the lasting
effect he had on me? On everyone he came in contact with? His modesty, his
unassuming gentleness, I was overwhelmed with the lack of modesty I felt in
myself, for him, right then. I stepped closer to him, and for once, it
wasn't accidental clumsiness, or due to a show emergency. "Kent..." I put
my hands out slowly, like I didn't want to frighten a cornered animal,
until I could finally hold him by the shoulders. He relaxed, let his arms
down, and I slid my hands down to clasp his. **Kent, you give me hope,
you've given it to so many, can you really not know the meanin' you give to
everyone's lives?** Maybe...maybe he needed hope of his own. Maybe I was
just the one to give it to him. Maybe..."Kent..."

I pulled his hand up, with mine, to his face, stroked his cheek. He was
starin' into me, like he always did, but his eyes closed ever so slowly,
with my motion. He let go my hand, reached blindly for my own cheek, and
found it, unerringly. It was then, or never, I figured. I tipped up on my
toes, touched his lips with mine. He didn't dissolve in a mist, didn't run
like a scared bunny. But there was the tiniest bit of hesitation there, I
could feel it. Then it was gone, and he was there, in the kiss, with me. I
felt myself gathered in his arms, pulled close in against that beautiful,
massive chest, and the warmth emanatin' from it, like lava, trapped under a
volcano, waitin' to escape in a slow liquid explosion of heat and fire.

And then it was escapin', pourin' through, from his mouth, into mine, his
tongue was a molten river flowin' between us, creatin' something new, a
bridge of land, spillin' into my ocean and sendin' up plumes of steam that
fogged my senses, until I coulda swore my ears were ringin'.

There it was again. It wasn't just me. Not a ring, more of an insistent
beep. Kent pulled away, breaking the connection between us in a jolt of
reality. He stepped back, looked at me, then jerked his head toward the
noise, pulled his beeper from his waistband, and studied it's message.

"I'm sorry...this..." he waved the thing at me, "requires my attention." He
had stepped outta my reach, back to himself, and in another moment he would
take flight out my door.

"Kent...I want..."

He held his hands up, towards me, an apology in his eyes. "I...have to go.
I'm sorry." And he was gone, but I didn't feel alone.

~~~~~~~~~~

The show continued to get good reviews and steady ticket sales. Kent was
trying to arrange for a theater in the district, but it would be a few
months before a decent one opened up. So, to gain momentum to go
steamrollin' down Forty-Second Street when the time came, we took the show
on the road. We'd play a few select Northeast and Midwest cities, then
march on Broadway.

The first two legs of the tour went fine, well, as good as they could,
considerin' disasters seemed to need averting daily. In Syracuse, the
semi-truck with the set and wardrobes got lost and arrived at the theater
just a few hours before curtain, and the entire company pitched in to get
set up in time. Outside Buffalo, we were delayed for hours by a jack-knifed
truck blocking the single lane that bottle-necked vehicles in a detour
around road construction. It got better after that, from the production end
of things, and reception of the show was as good as we could have hoped.

It was two a.m. when we boarded the bus leaving Columbus. The travelin' was
startin' to fray everyone. We'd been stuck too close together a little too
long. Crowded together in a backstage dressing area, getting jostled tryin'
to put makeup on and nearly losin' an eye, well, that was one thing, but I
was beginning to feel like Spam. We just kept gettin' pushed together, and
pushed together, until we were molded into a blob of meat by-product. I
staked out a couple of seats for myself part-way back in the bus, curled
across both to send the message I wasn't entertaining guests, and fell into
an uncomfortable sleep.

Grey light was seeping into the bus when I woke. Sometime near dawn. I
could just make out in a few seats around me the huddled lumps of some of
the company. The bus was stopped. I sat up straighter, looked around. Up at
the front I could make out shadowed forms talking hushed, to not disturb
anyone. I went forward.

The driver, Barre, and Frank were lookin' over a road map, Barre drawing a
line on it with his finger. "It's off the beaten path, yes, but it's closer
than anything on the freeway, and I'm sure someone there'll be able to fix
the problem. I can hike there and get help. Take maybe two hours to get
someone back here."

"I guess it's about the best choice we got right now, Clark, but we gotta
get back on the road ta Richmond or we'll miss a show," said Frank.

"You know, Mr. Swan, we've got a bit of time before the show in Richmond. A
couple days break might do everyone some good." I'd never known someone to
be as polite as Barre was to Frank, and mean it.

"What's goin' on?" I crossed my arms and rubbed them together against the
chill of the morning air. "Where are we?"

"Hey, Cupcake, what're ya doin' up? The bus broke down about an hour ago,
and since we're in Clark's territory, he's figurin' out what we should do.
Looks like we're gonna have a layover in...Pettyton? That right, Clark?"

"Uh, actually, we say Puh-TEE-ton. Folks can get kinda defensive around
here with tourists making fun of the names of things." Barre shrugged his
shoulders apologetically.

I took the map from Frank, looking in the general area Barre'd been
fingerin' a moment ago. There were no freeways in sight, and most of the
roads were drawn in grey. Main thoroughfares in West Virginia that were
probably closed in winter. I couldn't see the town they named. I asked
again. "Where are we?"

Barre reached around me and pointed. "I'm going to hike over these hills
and bring back a tow truck and maybe a school bus and get us into town." I
looked at the dot on the map. Petiton. I could just make it out in a
deteriorating crease.

Something gnawed at the back of my brain, remindin' me I'd heard him
talking about his hometown in the hills of a backwater state. "You're from
there."

He turned his head down at me, cocked to the side, and one corner of his
mouth quirked upwards. "Oh, so you've heard of it?" he said, amusement
dancing through the words, the superiority of someone back in his element,
surrounded by fish gaping for breath on a bank. He turned to Frank. "I'll
get someone back here as soon as possible," he said, then was down the
steps of the bus and climbing the first hillock. In a minute he was over
the crest and gone.

"How'd we end up here, Frank?" I asked, still lookin' where Barre had been.

A moment's pause, and I turned to see the driver give Frank a shrug. "He
thought he'd take a short cut." Frank said, simply.

I stepped out of the bus and looked around. The still of the early morning
was broken only by the noise and motion now coming from inside the bus. The
air cooled my lungs as I breathed in the freshness of the country. I lit a
cigarette. A light mist clung low in the canopies of trees. I couldn't
decide if it was risin' or fallin'. The smoke from my cig lay around me,
too, givin' me no help on the mist issue. I walked to the rear of the
Trailways charter, and noticed a flap open, revealin' the engine. A faint
smell of diesel, rubber and oil reached me, and I inhaled fully. A city
smell.

It was midmorning when we heard the first sound of an engine comin' down
the road, breaking through the increasing noise of the wilderness we were
in, a breeze lending movement to the trees, birds chattering to themselves
or who knew what else, and insects buzzin' around, confused by perfumes not
emanatin' from flowers. The company had been muted by the world around it,
everyone murmurin', even whisperin', rather than disturb the clean country
air. I had been wonderin', if I cranked a boom box to full volume, would
wildlife leap out of the trees and bushes near us in a storm of confusion,
to escape. I also hadn't figured out why anyone would build a road in a
place that obviously only got used by city rubes that figured everything
led somewhere.

There were several vehicles, I realized as they got closer, and they were
not going anywhere near the speed limit. A low throttled whine was coming
>from just around the last bend in the road before we would be in sight to
the driver, but the seconds seemed to stretch to minutes until at last we
saw the truck makin' the noise. It was a tow truck, like we expected, but
ancient and rusted, and I couldn't see how it would be able to tow the bus
anywhere. A procession of other vehicles followed the first, most of newer
vintages. A couple of pickups, station wagons, a Volkswagen bus, and a van
all stopped behind the tow truck, drivers piling outta them all.

The tow truck driver came up to our bus driver, recognized by his uniform.
"Heya, y'alls the ones need help?"

I rolled my eyes. Stuck in the land that time forgot with a buncha
hayseeds. Great. I flicked a cigarette butt to the pavement and ground it
under my shoe.

Frank walked over to see what was goin' on. Hunched shoulders and overdone
gestures, typical urban stance. The tow truck driver stood in his oil
stained overalls, scratching his hair under his cap, and chewing on...what
was that...I squinted to get a better look. **Oh please, don't tell me he's
got a grass shoot in his mouth. Oh, God, we're never gonna get outta here
alive. If I start hearin' banjos fight each other...**

I about jumped outta my skin. Cheri had put a hand on my shoulder. "Hey,
where's Clark? I don't see him with these people."

She was right. I hadn't looked real close to all the drivers, but now that
she mentioned it, Barre wasn't with them.

Frank came up to us, standing near the bus as we were, the thing we felt
most comfortable to. "Okay, people, get yer bags--we're gettin' shuttled
into town."

"Where's Barre, Frank?" I asked, tryin' to sound unconcerned. "And what
about the bus?"

"They don't have anything to tow the bus with right now. They're gonna try
an' get it runnin' out here and then bring it in. And Clark's back in town.
Had some sort of accident gettin' there, er somethin'." I looked at Frank
questioningly. "I dunno how bad, yet, Peach Blossom. Let's get into town so
we can find out."

We all threw our bags in the pickups and piled into the rest of the cars. I
figured if we were lucky, we'd make it to Petiton in time for lunch, or was
that called supper in these here parts?

~~~~~~~~~~

I was tryin' to work the knot gotten from someone's elbow in my back half
an hour later, when we were all on Main Street stretchin' our legs. It was
a pleasantly wide avenue, tree-lined, with neatly kept store fronts. It was
busy, too. People crossed to and fro in the street, cars inching their way
along. Throw in a couple of buildings higher than three stories, smudge it
up with a little grime, and...nah, it still wouldn't look like Manhattan.
But it wasn't as bad as I thought. There wasn't a tumbleweed in sight.

Frank had gathered most of the cast and was steering them toward a motel to
check in.

"So, what do you think, Wanda?"

I pivoted, and there was Clark, leaning against the wall of the Dairy
Freeze. The whole picture was so...down-to-earth. I felt a warmth wash
through me, and I smiled. "You know, Holler-Boy, it ain't what I expected.
You gonna show me around, or have I seen everything?"

"Your timing is pretty good, really. This weekend is the Allegheny Fiddle
Fest. Lot's of activities. There's a picnic going on over at the park right
now, if you'd like to join me. You can meet the town there."

"'Meet the town?' You mean Johnny-Bob and Billy-Joe-Bob and Sue-Bob and
Rob-Bob? All right, but only 'cause my insides are gonna start devourin'
themselves if I don't get somethin' to eat."

He stood up then, and a wince scrunched up his face.

"Hey, it wasn't that bad an insult...Oh," I said, rememberin' what Frank
told us, "they said you had an accident or something gettin' here..."

He waved a hand, dismissin' it. "I twisted my ankle when I was hiking here,
is all. That slowed me down and I didn't come out quite where I thought I
would, with the fog, so I had to hike further. It took me a little longer
to get here than I was figuring."

"Your ankle's twisted? How are you gonna be able to dance? We've got a show
in a couple days..."

"It'll be fine by then, don't worry. And I can always tape it up good."

"Ya had to go off and be the hero, didn't ya? And now look atcha." The
hairs on the back of my neck were startin' to prickle. **This is what
happens,** I told myself, **just when ya start countin' on someone, they
have to go and do some fool thing you'll be sorry for. Ya get so tired of
trustin' anyone, after a while.**

"Hey, Wanda, come on, it's no big deal, honest. Look, I *can* walk on it."
He limped around me in a circle. "I'll bet I have it walked off in no
time."

"Typical football jock attitude. All right Barre, you better have that
worked out by the next show, 'cuz I can't be trainin' everyone to kiss like
you..." His head jerked up. **Brilliant, Sugar. What *are* you thinkin'?**
"I mean, there's no time to get a replacement, and it's hard enough to make
it seem fresh every show as it is..." I looked at him, then, and his smile
dropped a bit with that, but his eyes stayed lit up, or at least his
glasses made it look so. I rolled my eyes as far back in my head as I
could, and groaned. **What had I just done? I could think more clearly, if
I just had some food.** I pulled on his arm. "Come on, where's this
hootenanny of yours?"

He pointed to one end of town, and we limped in that direction. I strolled
along next to Clark, his sprain makin' progress slow. It dawned on me then
that there really wasn't a hurry. We weren't in danger of being mugged
'cause we stayed on the streets too long. I even realized I could look
people in the eye as we walked past, and not worry it would threaten them.
And folks actually smiled back. Spooky.

It was further than a rock throw, but only barely. We came around a corner,
and the town opened into a great expanse of greenery: rolling lawn, large,
old trees, and down a slope was a large pond with paddle boats putterin'
around it. Kids swung from the tree branches, others tumbled and played in
the grass. People everywhere laughed and enjoyed the warm sun and waftin'
scent of something roasting over a barbecue. We passed blankets and picnic
baskets spread over sections of lawn, and made our way to a big roastin'
pit.

"This is just way too pastoral, Clark," I said, pausin' to look around.
"I've never seen so many content people in one place. Either this is a
seethin' cauldron of hidden passion, or they're all robots. That sign
welcomin' everyone to town--did that say 'Petiton', or 'Peyton Place'?"

He laughed. "Maybe you'd like to go the other way and call it 'Stepford'.
C'mon, Wanda, not everywhere is a rat-infested, crime-ridden, gang-ruled,
pit of despair. So maybe you can't get Chinese food here at three in the
morning. Well, okay, so you can't get Chinese food here at all unless you
cook it yourself, but these people think the trade-offs are worth it."

"You left out 'Mayberry'. What about you, Clark? You didn't seem to think
it was worth it."

He made a face as he shifted on his foot. I couldn't figure if it was my
question or his ankle that made him uncomfortable. "I had a calling to do
something you just can't do in a place like this," he said finally.

I nodded. "Yeah, I kinda figured. It'd be hard being gay in this small of a
town."

Clark's eyes flew open. "Gay? You think I'm gay?" His cheeks ballooned as
he let out a low whistle.

"Hey look, it's no big deal. I mean, ya know, most dancers are. And you
really are, um, a good kisser, and with your looks, I just figured..."

"I seem to recall asking you out to dinner, a while back."

I shrugged. "I figured you were coverin'. I can't remember ever seein' you
with a date."

"Wanda, trust me on this. I am not gay. Yeah, I like to dance. I have a
real feel for music, and I can play just about any instrument you give me.
You can't make a living with those talents in a small town, and anyway, I
wanted more than playing in bars on weekends." He looked at me calmly, no
hint of defensiveness anywhere about him.

"You're different, Clark Barre, I'll give ya that."

"Clark, honey! What are you doing here?" A woman in her late forties or so
walked up and took Barre's face in her hands and kissed him on the cheek.
He hugged her and kissed her back.

"Mom! I tried to call you earlier, but you were already out and about. Our
bus broke down, so here we are." He grinned broadly at her, holdin' her at
arm's length to look at her, then turned to me. "Mom, this is Wanda
Detroit."

"Oh, honey, it's so nice to meet you. I'm Margaret." She clutched my hands
in hers. "Clark's told me all about you and the show." Her eyes danced
happily, and I could see where Clark got his expression. Her warmth was
infectious and I grinned back at her. Still holdin' my hands, she looked
back at him. "She's just as pretty as you say, honey."

I tilted my head at him, saw him tinged with red all the way into his
scalp, and suppressed a smile.

"You could have called the cell number, honey. Your dad and I both carry
ours everywhere."

"Ah, but then I couldn't surprise you like this, could I?"

"Oh, honey, you know we're just tickled pink to have you whenever you can
get out of the big city. Let's go find your father."

Margaret had a spot staked out upwind from the barbecue pit, where a pig
was roastin' on a spit. Spread around her blanket were dishes of potato
salad, pasta salad, fruit salad, three bean salad, cold fried chicken,
bread, rolls, condiments, cookies, brownies, two pies and a cooler of beer
and soda. I looked first at Clark, then at Margaret, wonderin' how much two
people could eat. She smiled, readin' my thoughts. "You never know who's
going to drop in at a picnic," she said. "Here, take these plates over and
get some barbecue. Hank's there now."

Clark stepped up behind a man a little taller than himself, hair greyin',
with a bit of a paunch around the middle. "Hey, what's a guy gotta do to
get fed around here?"

The older man turned from tending the roasting pig. "Clark! How are ya,
boy?" Clark was suddenly taken up in a bear hug. He laughed and patted the
older man on the back.

"Doing fine, Dad. Can you get away from the pit and come eat with us?"

"You betcha, son." He loaded up a couple plates of barbecue, pork ribs, and
ears of corn. He paused, noticin' me. "Oh, hey, you must be Wanda," he
beamed at me. "I recognize you from the picture Clark sent. But it doesn't
do you justice."

Clark sent his parents a picture of me? I looked at him again, expectin'
another blush. This time he shrugged, and said, "I sent them the program."

I suddenly felt flushed. "Oh, God, that picture's awful," I said. They had
them all printed before I got to see what they'd used. I'd let anyone in
earshot know what I thought, but there wasn't enough money in the budget to
print new ones so I'd just have to wait until they were all used.
Fortunately, the way the show was doin', we'd have new programs in no time.

We all settled down on the blankets, eatin' ourselves sick. It was
wonderful. Clark explained about the bus to his parents, and how he
sprained his ankle.

"When I finally made it here, I got Junior Hastings to gather up folks that
had enough car space to get the company into town, and found Doc Imers to
look at my ankle."

"Doc Imers, honey? You went to the veterinarian?" Margaret asked.

"Couldn't find Dr. Winthorp, Mom. I didn't think it was too serious anyway.
I just wanted to get a wrap and an ice pack, and Doc Imers seemed like a
good bet." Then Clark added, "Of course, he wanted to put a plastic cone
around my head so I wouldn't lick my injury." He grinned wickedly. My mouth
started to fall open, unbelievin', until his parents began laughing. I
laughed, too. I was amazed at how comfortable I felt around these people
already.

"Junior Hastings? Was that the guy who came out in that beat up old tow
truck? I thought for sure I'd gotten lost in 'Deliverance'," I said,
helping myself to another spoonful of potato salad. "I mean, this would be
the perfect place for some serial nutball to live, with who knows how many
body parts buried in the woods."

Clark laughed. "Junior? We grew up together. He's doing correspondence
courses, working towards a degree in Business Finance. Doesn't have much
more to go, I think. Then a bigger city will have to try and handle him."
Clark leaned nearer to me, "I'll let you know if there's a sudden squirrel
population explosion."

"Clark, honey, you stop that," said Margaret.

"Well, now I know who to ask for some dirt on Clark, here. Everyone in the
company thinks he's so squeaky clean."

"Well, there was that time when Clark took one of the ponies..." Margaret
began.

"Mom!" Clark stopped her. "Don't make it too easy for her."

"All right, honey, but you better not forget Mother's Day again," she said,
pattin' his leg.

~~~~~~~~~~

We walked, well, Clark was still hobblin', back up the street to the hotel
where Frank was takin' care of our lodging. Several girls from the chorus
stood around outside, and I noticed Cheri.

"Clark, Wanda! Where've you been? Frank's been looking for you. We've got
trouble with the hotel rooms. There's not enough for all of us. This
joint's been booked up with the fiddling contest going on."

"How bad is it?" I asked. I was really lookin' forward to some privacy,
after the confines of travelin' on a bus for the last few weeks.

"Frank talked them into putting roll-away beds in all the rooms we could
get, so it's going to be six to a room. And they're all worried about
overoccupancy and fire hazards, so if we complain too loud about it, we're
out on the street. Even then, we're still short two beds."

The Barres' car had pulled up a few minutes before, when they'd packed up
all the picnic supplies, and Margaret had got out and overheard. "Well,
honey, we can take care of that. You'll stay with us, and I won't hear
another word about it."

"That's awful kind of you Margaret..." The generosity they showed was so
much more than I'd ever expect from anyone, anywhere else.

"...and we'll call around and see if any of our neighbors have any room for
any of you," Margaret was sayin'. "Might be hard. A lot of folks are
housing musicians for the festival. But we'll see what we can do."

They did quite well. The company was spread over an area the size of Rhode
Island, but everyone had a comfortable place to sleep, and the hotel calmed
down about the safety codes.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Barres' farm was a few miles outta town, down a shady country lane that
opened into a wide, shallow valley. The house was half hidden by trees, and
further down the track was a barn. **So this is where he spent his
childhood.** It seemed a very foreign existence to me.

Inside the house was cozy, but not overstuffed. I don't know what I
expected... the clutter of newspapers and magazines 'cause they didn't get
TV? A livin' room full of 1950's style furniture in that pinkish beige
color that everything that comes from that era seems to be? A pot-bellied
stove as their main source of heat? I saw none of that. It was bright and
cheerful. A computer was set up in one corner of the livin' room, all the
electronics I could imagine in an entertainment center against the opposite
wall. I decided it was best to stop assumin' anything.

I needed to work off some of what I'd eaten at the picnic, so Clark showed
me around the farm. I saw a satellite dish behind the house, and something
else behind that in a tree. I walked that way. A tree house! I smirked at
Clark.

"Let's see, ya prob'ly played pirates up there, and cowboys and Indians,
and..."

"I sang 'Pirates of Penzance', is that close enough? Hmmm, defended the
Alamo a few times, had secret clubs--'No Girlz Alowd', that sort of thing.
Too middle American for you?"

"Norman Rockwell had nothin' on you."

"Tell me, Wanda, what was it like for you? You're awfully young to be so..."

"Bitter? Jaded? Cynical?"

He looked like he didn't know if he should've asked, wasn't sure how I'd
react to gettin' personal.

All I can say now is I was lulled into a sense of security I'd be sorry for
later. My belly was full, it was a beautiful, warm spring evening, the
clean, fresh, country air had gone to my head. "All right, but remember
Sugar, you asked for it."

He nodded, and motioned to walk down the track past the barn.

"My ol' lady, she had her hands full raisin' me and my two sisters when the
old man walked out on us. He was no good. Always had these grand ideas that
were gonna make us rich quick. All they ever did was make us poorer and
poorer. We were livin' in a one room dump with a dirt floor by the railroad
tracks when he left. Went off to meet some con artist or somethin' one
night, and never came back. Lemme know when I'm borin' ya."

Clark stopped and turned to look at me, empathy written all over his face.
He cleared his throat. "No, please, go on. That is, if you want."

We had come to a pond, and were walking an overgrown trail around it.

"We moved around all the time after that. I think my ol' lady was afraid
he'd track us down or somethin', 'cause she started changin' our name every
time we moved."

"Wanda Detroit's not your real name." He whispered it, the idea dawnin' on
him that something had been under his nose the whole time and he'd never
seen it.

"It is now. I made it legal. It's the one thing I can call my own."

"How'd you come up with a name like 'Wanda Detroit'? I mean, do you lie in
bed at night thinking up names, or what?"

"I told you my ol' lady kept changin' our name. Whatever town we'd just
moved from, that became our last name. I was Wanda Omaha, Wanda Dallas,
Wanda Tucson, Wanda Denver...I gotta say, I really, really hated livin' in
Walla Walla and Wichita."

He let out a short gasp, almost a chuckle. It occurred to me that my life
sounded as foreign to him as his was to me.

I shrugged. "Detroit was one city I liked okay when we were movin' around,
so I picked it and made it mine." I looked around. The light had gotten
dusky while I was talking, and trees loomed large and shadowy around us. We
were on the far side of the pond now, and I saw something hanging over the
water. A tire on a rope.

"Well, I'll be...this is one of those *gen-u-ine* swimmin' holes like ya
see in the movies, ain't it?" I walked toward the tree the tire was hangin'
from. Another rope tied to the tire was draped over the stub of a broken
branch. I took it and pulled the tire to me.

"Wanda, I don't think you want to do that. This water gets pretty cold in
the evening, even as warm as it's been today."

"Don't worry, Clark. I just wanna swing. We never gotta do anything like
this, growin' up. I'm not planning on swimmin' in these clothes anyway." I
hooked a leg in the tire. "Just gimme a push, will ya?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "Do you ever not get your way?" he asked, and
shoved me out over the water.

The air rustled through my hair, the warm night relaxin' me like... I
couldn't remember when. I swung back towards shore, and Clark gave another
gentle push. "Mmmm, this is nice," I said, quietly, but in the still of the
evening, he heard me.

"Mmm hmmm," he said.

Another push. I closed my eyes. A poppin' sound disturbed the quiet above
me. Then again. "Pop!" The rope gave way at the end of the arc, and I was
suddenly flying free through the air. I shrieked, and hit the water. Cold.
He said cold. That water must've been channeled directly from a polar ice
cap. Freezing. I came up to the surface.

I broke the surface, screamin'. I looked around in the dimming light. Dark
forms were hard to distinguish. "Clark?" I couldn't see any movement.
"Clark?" Which way was the bank?

Something brushed against my side, and I shrieked again. Then he was with
me in the water, his arms supportin' me. "You're okay," he said in my ear.
"Just hang on."

I didn't need to be told twice. I clutched my arms around his neck, feelin'
his bare skin against me as he pulled us back to the bank. In the shallower
water, he stood and waded, lifting me easily in his arms. He set me down in
a patch of grass away from the water. My teeth started chatterin'. We were
both out of breath.

"Th..tha..nk you." Where had the warm spring air gone?

"Here, my shirt's dry. We can warm you up better if you change into it." He
was rubbing my arms.

"Y..yeah, o..k..kay." I stood up and went behind a bush. I pulled my blouse
off and hung it over the top of the bush with a "shlup" sound. My bra felt
scratchy from the water, and I took it off as well. I slipped into Clark's
denim shirt. I tried to find a button and couldn't. I didn't think my
fingers were that numb. I ran my hand down the placket. There were no
buttons. He must have popped them all off trying to get it off. The shirt
was plenty oversized on me, and I overlapped the front. "Clark, you wearin'
a belt?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Can I have it?"

"Uh, okay, sure. You okay back there?"

He tossed the belt over the bush. I wrapped it around my waist. "I'm fine.
Well, good. I'm good," I said. His shirt fell to my knees, and I figured
that was good enough, so I took off my slacks. I was feeling warmer by the
minute. I came out from behind the bush, wringin' water out of my clothes.
My shoes slurped as I walked.

I looked up at Clark. He'd shaken the water out of his hair and it stuck
ever which way. I put my hand up to my own head. My hair was pretty well
plastered down against my scalp. I ran my fingers through a couple times,
hoping to style it passably.

Clark was watchin' me. "How do you feel? Are you getting warmed up?" He
stood in front of me, bare chested, one hand restin' on a hip. I looked him
over from head to toe, his wet jeans clingin' tightly to his thighs. On the
way back up, I found I couldn't move my orbs above that broad expanse of
pectorals. He was cold, still, that much was evident, but somehow I didn't
feel too guilty about havin' his shirt.

"Um, uh huh," I answered absently. His arms moved self-consciously to fold
across his chest. I finally looked up. I noticed my fingers were stopped
half way through my hair. I shook them out. "Yeah, I feel much better.
Thank you, Clark."

He reached out and rubbed my arms, my shoulders, the friction startin' to
warm me. More than just my arms, I was suddenly aware. I could feel a flush
start way down in my center, and a flutter around it that seared me.

"We, uh, should get back to the house. Really dry off," he said.

"Yeah."

We walked back to the house, neither of us speaking, my squishin' shoes and
his wet jeans makin' the only noise.

We walked into the livin' room. Margaret was at the computer. She spoke
without looking up. "I was beginning to wonder about you two," she said,
clicking the mouse a couple times.

The computer spoke. "Your mail has been sent."

"Just checking my email." She got up, saw our state of dress, or undress.
"Oh my..." There was a twinkle in her eye that said she thought there was
more to us than we let on.

"Wanda decided to take a swim, Mom."

Her mouth dropped open for just an instant. "Honey, you know how cold that
pond is this time of year!" Her arm went around my shoulders as she hustled
me down the hall. "We need to get you warmed up."

"I'm fine, Margaret, really. I just need some fresh clothes."

"You'd be best taking a long, hot bath. Now just go on, and I'll get your
bag out of Clark's room. And I'll put the tea on." She showed me to the
bathroom and went off on her missions.

She was right, I felt much better after a shower. I came out of the
bathroom and walked toward voices down the hall.

"It's real hard to tell her 'no,' Mom. Once she's got her mind made up..."

"Son, I wish you'd be more careful. She could've been hurt."

"The rope just snapped, Dad. I didn't realize how rotted it must have been.
And I got her out as quick as I could. I think she'll be okay."

I spoke up. "I *am* fine. I appreciate all your concern, but I'm fine."

Clark stood up. "You look...good." He smiled, then looked at his parents.
"You know, this has been a really long day. I'm just going to grab a
blanket, and the couch is mine." He always seemed to do that. Something
nice, helpful, complimentary, then he'd disappear. He kissed his mother,
and told his father and me good night as he walked by in the doorway.

"He's got a point. I could fall asleep right here, I think." I stifled a
yawn, unsuccessfully.

"Oh, honey, let me show you to Clark's room." Margaret led me to the back
of the house.

~~~~~~~~~~

 We joined the rest of the company wanderin' by all the booths set up for
the festival. More food. After the previous day, I didn't think I'd eat for
a week. We strolled over to the high school. Campers and tent trailers and
pickups with shells were scattered over the parking lot, many with fiddlers
joined together in jam sessions, waiting their turns in the competition.
Clusters of onlookers milled from band to band gettin' tastes of the
different fiddlers. In the gym of the high school was the serious fiddlin'.
The competition was in full swing, judges listenin' hard, and an audience
more polite and respectful than outside. We stuck our heads in the door of
the gym, but I felt like spendin' more time in the sun, and went back to
listen to the jammers.

I was already snappin' my fingers in rhythm to one group before I was even
close enough to see the band through the crowd. I found Cheri up in the
front, swaying to the music, her eyes closed. I tapped my foot in time, but
the music was stronger than toe tappin' allowed.

I whispered to Cheri, "Come on, follow my lead."

She smiled. "You're on."

We stepped out front, jiggin' wherever the music took us, in a sort of
unchoreographed symmetry. It wasn't long before several more on my chorus
line joined us, and we all took turns leading while the others picked up
the moves in concert.

There was a freedom about it I hadn't enjoyed in a while. The precision of
our emotional expressions in the show were so much tighter than now. I
started clappin' to the beat along with the audience. I looked out over the
faces of people there for the pure enjoyment of the music and the artists.
We were collecting quite a crowd.

The fiddler finally wound the music to an end. "You folks look like y'all
could go on for a while, but I gotta take a break!"

We laughed along with the crowd and gave the band a hand. Our audience
whooped and whistled and applauded for everyone.

I called out to the fiddler, "You catch your breath, Sugar, and we'll come
see ya later."

We walked off to the edge of the crowd.

"Sugarplum, yer givin' me such idears, I dunno if I can keep 'em all in my
head." Frank was huggin' my shoulders to him, shaking me happily. "I gotta
go get some of these down on somethin' 'fore I ferget." Then he was off,
like he always was when he was about to revamp the whole show. I sighed.

"You really know how to let your hair down, don't you?" Clark said. He was
standin' a little ways out, where the crowd was thinner.

"If I got some to let down, yeah. Feels good."

"Like last night."

My head jerked at him. "All right, I admit, sometimes I take the plunge
without lookin'. Like with Kent. Somethin' told me to take the chance that
his ideals were special in this business, that I- we- anybody could reach
the next step because he made us believe we could. So now you wanna tell me
what happened last night, what I told you, was me decidin' to trust you for
five minutes, and you takin' advantage?"

"What? No, Wanda, I..."

"'Cause I don't need you to verify my worth. I got where I am on instinct,
and I plan on keepin' on with it. My past is just that--past. I look up,
not down."

"Is that your instinct telling you to chew on me right now, or habit? You
were relaxed last night--well, right up till you hit the water--and I
thought you enjoyed that. Just like dancing now. What's wrong with that?"

I didn't know what was wrong with that. I didn't know why I was so angry
all of a sudden. You can take the gal outta the city, but you can't take
the city outta the gal? Because Frank was gonna take our little hoofin'
exhibition and make it work instead of play? 'Cause I was havin' way too
nice a time in some backwater? 'Cause this guy actually got to me? 'Cause I
told him things about myself I'd never told anyone before?

"Just...just keep last night to yourself, 'kay? I told you more than you
need to know, and more than you'll ever learn again, and I wish you'd just
forget it."

"Wanda, I have no intention of telling the world any of what you told me. I
wish you could believe that."

"Uh huh. I guess we'll see, huh?"

~~~~~~~~~~

The bus was repaired and waitin' for us at Junior's garage the next
morning. As we stowed our gear, I felt the mood of the whole company. The
constant feel of static electricity hoverin' over them two days ago was
gone. I'd almost shook that feelin', but then I went and got it again.

I said my good-byes to Clark's parents. I tried to make it simple, but
neither one of them would hear it. I was hugged by each of them, and
couldn't help but hug back. "Thank you. You've been so kind," I told
Margaret as I let go.

She patted me on the back. "Anytime," she said simply.

I watched Clark talking with his friend Junior, and thought the mechanic's
demeanor wasn't nearly like the hick we'd first seen. I shook my head to
myself. No one's ever what they seem.

~~~~~~~~~~

My dressin' room in Philadelphia was filled with flowers. The mingled
scents of uncounted varieties of flowers wafted out of the room in the
instant I opened it. I plucked a couple cards out of bouquets. From Rex.
I'd got flowers from him after each of the shows in the other cities, but
this was far beyond the typical nosegay. I had wondered with each of those
whether he was tryin' to let me know I was in his thoughts, or instill
memory of himself in me. A vase of roses on the vanity held a larger card.
"Success be yours in a triumphant night on the eve of your soon to be
heralded turn on Broadway. Love Rex." I inhaled the fragrances. Either way,
it was workin'.

And we did have a smashing last show on the road. Frank had been tweakin'
the show all along the road, and since our stay in Petiton, he'd wanted to
throw out a major portion of the repertoire in favor of his latest
brainstorm. We'd worked on the new routines between Richmond and Washington
and Philly; they were rough, but I figured they'd work when we had time to
smooth them out. Two hours before the curtain in Philadelphia, Frank
gathered the company together.

"I wanna toss the Hoagy Carmichael bit out and go wi' the modified square
dance number. We're gonna have ta rearrange a couple of ya in the line so's
ya can get in position better for the next number. Okay, Jay, Cheri,
Sloane..."

"Frank, you're nuts," I finally spoke up. "This ain't worked out all the
way, and we don't even have costumes for that bit, yet."

"Yeah, I don't wanna go with traditional outfits on this one. We're gonna
juxtapose the dance and the dress. Toots," he looked at me, "you and the
girls are gonna wear evening gowns, and boys, you're in the tuxes for that
number."

A collective gasp went up. He was tryin' to kill us at the last possible
moment. I saw my shot at Broadway dive like a hawk on a rodent. And where'd
he learn a word like juxtapose, anyway? Musta been listenin' to some word
power tape all those nights on the bus. Great time for a mid-life crisis.

"You got a fever or somethin'? We're gonna look like fools out there, and
the only thing that'll keep 'em from noticin' when we miss the cues'll be
them laughin' at our outfits."

"Now, Buttercup, we're all professionals here. Ya had it down the last
rehearsal, so I don't see the problem. It's a small part of the show, and I
need ta gauge the audience response before I make the rest of the changes.
We're gonna do it, so you'd better get ready." He looked up at everyone.
They stared back. He spoke very softly, "Um, I think that means you all
should GET MOVIN' NOW." The bulldog snapped, and for once, his bite sounded
worse than his bark. The entire company jumped, and ran for their
professional lives.

"Fasten your seat belts," I muttered, "It's gonna be a bumpy night."

I'll be damned if it didn't work. The audience loved it. The critics were
enamored. Frank Swan was theater's version of Andy Warhol. That 'Sphere'
reviewer, Grey, had been right when he talked about alchemy. His touch
turned everythin' to gold. The stroke I almost had that night was replaced
by my increased respect for the man.

And with that, we stormed Broadway.

~~~~~~~~~~

A new theatre. A nearly all new show. Our new openin' night. My name in
lights! I'd walked one helluva rocky road to get there. Climbed every
mountain, forded every stream, followed every rainbow, I did it my way.

Kent had acquired us a beautiful old theater, one with a colorful history
of legends troddin' the boards and successful long-runnin' shows. Ornate
engravings depicted mythological fables on decorated columns, the edges of
the stage, around the orchestra pit, and the balcony and box seats. They
don't make 'em like that anymore. Our show would bring out the spirits of a
bygone era. That was why I loved what I was doin'. If I could evoke the
emotions of the audience and take them back to a simpler, maybe happier,
time for a little while, or take them and myself out of our bodies and
transport us where the cares of the everday world just didn't exist, then
I'd learned my craft well.

Yeah, yeah, I know, sex sells. And we were sellin'. It was all part of
playing the game. Ya gotta get 'em in the theater. I thought of that as an
outta body experience, though. Or wish it had been. I'm sure it evokes fond
memories for people. Somewhere.

Opening night was a sell-out. Advance tickets had been unavailable almost
since we were still on the road. And there wasn't a seat to be bought
legitimately for two months down the road. The scalpers, however, were
improvin' their styles of livin' by us. I wondered if they were
overconfident, dressing better than they used to, and comin' to the theater
in cabs. But we hadn't disappointed 'em yet.

The company was comfortable together now, too. We knew each other's
talents, relied on our partners and friends with the sure belief that we
wouldn't be let down, trusted Frank implicitly, took any crises in such
calm stride; it was like a normal day at the office. We had something
special, and we knew it.

And Kent. Oh, yes, Kent. Kent, who never failed us, never second guessed
our plans, always happy to assist in any way, Kent was our guardian angel.
He'd rescued me from a fate worse than AM radio, less than a year earlier,
become a beacon to the down-and-outers on the fringes of show business,
listened to my opinions about our show without his hands ever once
wanderin' toward me in order to stake some sort of territorial claim. He
asked for nothin', but seemed to give everything of himself. I would never
believe it was any sort of act to promote himself. He only came out when
some truly dire problem emerged, then stepped back into the wings, waiting
and alert, trying to anticipate the next problem. I had never imagined
anyone in my life like Kent, before he came, but now I didn't know what it
would be like without him.

Then there was Clark. He was like a favorite old slipper, somethin' you
could slip into when you were home alone with a bottle of tequila. Sure, we
bickered. We annoyed each other, just to see where each other's buttons
were. He was like the brother I never had. I thought that was what it would
be like to have a brother, anyway. Someone who protects you from bullies on
the playground, but beheads your favorite dolls at home. Well, if I'd ever
spent much time on a playground, or had any dolls to play with. I had come
to count on him always being around. Chalk up another prediction for
Hieronymous Grey.

It was still hard work. Frank wouldn't let us sit on our laurels, and I
couldn't have done that, anyway. The bulldog's ultimate goal seemed to be
to figure out how to bring every nerve in the audience's bodies to the
surface where he could electrify them into a state of sensory overload.

"Ya ever go hot-tubbin' in winter, and ya pop outta the tub long enough to
roll in the snow, and jump back in?" he asked us once when we were trying
to work out a new routine. I had to shake my head "no" on that one. I think
we all did. "Yer skin tingles, like the top layer's bein' burnt off ya. The
sensation's exquisite." **Exquisite?** I screwed up my face in a look of
utter peculiarity. "Aw, just go try it sometime. That's what we're gonna do
ta these people. They're gonna come in here paragons of virtue, but when
they leave, I want 'em ta feel like someone's run their fingers through
their hair, scratched fingernails down their backs--I want 'em ta feel like
they need a cigarette by the time they get ta the lobby."

I shook my head with some mirth. "Frank, if we go any farther, we oughta
just go into the audience and give 'em orgasms."

"Yeah, Honey Pot, but we're gonna do it *legal*." Frank's grin was almost
depraved.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rex had been payin' me quite a bit of attention since our return to New
York. More flowers in my apartment when I got home. An invitation to the
opera. Dinner at the most exclusive restaurants.

"You were born for this type of existence, Wanda," Rex told me. "I want to
acclimate you."

I playfully slapped his arm. "Now, Rex. I'm *not* that kind of girl."

He chuckled. "Ah, Wanda, you have such élan. Where have you been all my life?"

**On the other side of the tracks,** I thought wistfully.

"I'd like to see you Monday evening. Shall I pick you up at 8 o'clock?"

"Monday? Well, um, I...the company is getting together to hear the Tony
nominations. We just barely got qualified, ya know. We're celebrating if we
do well. Would you like to come?"

"My dear, I'm a selfish man. I want you all to myself." He squeezed my
hand. "I'll leave you, then, to the company of your compatriots for one
evening. But if you wish to get away later, just let me know." He brushed
my lips gently with his own. "Good night, Wanda." He left me in my doorway,
not for the first time.

Poor Rex. So isolated in his ivory tower. I wished there was some way to
bring him back to what he loved, but whether he had distanced himself, or
been pushed up on his lofty pedestal, he was afraid to come down off it. I
could only hope that being with me in some way reacquainted him with what
he missed in the world of theater.

~~~~~~~~~~

Geysers of champagne spouted everywhere, as the bottles' pent up energy was
released, overflowin' into willing cups and glasses. The cheers and
applause were our own that day; we thought we had conquered the universe.
Six nominations bestowed on us by the rest of the theater world. My dreams
were all coming true.

"A toast," I said, raising my glass, "to Frank. We thought you were crazy
as an Eskimo in the Congo, but we wouldn't be here without ya. Thanks for
draggin' us into the jungle with ya. And may the best director--and the
best choreographer--win!"

Cheers went up again, and someone shook up a bottle of bubbly and sprayed
the room.

I raised my voice above the din. "And to Kent, who can't be with us
tonight, because he always seems to be off saving the world from ruin. At
least our little world. Where would we be without him? I know he'd say he'd
be nowhere without us, but we know the truth. He is more than our
benefactor. He sees the best in all of us, but more than that, he makes us
see it in ourselves. I don't even want to think what the world would be
like without Kent Tucker."

This time, the applause was more sober, and I took a sip of champagne and
thought for a moment.

"And here's to Wanda and Clark!" I looked up as Frank took the floor, "Who
took a plain ol' show and fired it up in a sexy display of talent and brass
and spunk. The two of ya click like magnets, whether y'admit it or not. I
wouldn't wanna think about what it would be like to separate ya. And as
long as I have a say in it, you'll be together, one way or another."

The room was quiet a moment. I felt Clark's hand touch my shoulder, and my
face heated up like a furnace blast. I looked down at the floor. After an
eon, someone started clappin', slowly, then the whole company joined in. I
swallowed air, as much as I could get. My heart beat like a rabbit's. If
this was what it was like to get a nomination, I thought I'd explode if I
won. I reached over and hugged Frank. And suddenly, everyone was huggin'
me, and Clark, and Frank. I'd never felt so at home before. Here was where
I belonged.

~~~~~~~~~~

"It won't be long before you have so many of those, you won't have room for
them," Kent said. We stood, arm in arm, looking at the glistenin' statuette
where I'd set it on the old mahogany mantle, amid garlands of roses, and
spotlighted. Everything glittered. Maybe it was the tears of absolute joy
in my eyes, refracting light like prisms, enhancing what I saw. It wouldn't
stop; the tears kept flowin'.

I turned to face Kent fully. "It's just a representation of what other's
think, a little campaigning, some politics. It's nice, but there's so much
more to life than that, don't ya think?" Our favorite song played softly in
the background, and we swayed slowly with it. "This, for instance." I
half-smiled at him, cradled in his arms, safe from the world. My mouth
parted, thinkin' of the touch of his lips on mine, his breath filling me.

He smiled that gleamin' smile of his, and still the light bounced off
everything, filtering broken bits of images into my mind's eye. All the
pieces of him were as beautiful as the whole, and if I had to, I'd take
them all and glue them together. A picture of Kent as a Picasso entered my
mind, and I thought, **Maybe not.** I smiled, a little girl smile, and he
caught it. "What?"

"Nothing." A throaty chuckle. "I'm just so happy, right now, right here.
With you."

"Then I'm happy, too, here, now, with you." He drew me closer to him,
movin' us both rhythmically to the music, humming in my ear. I followed his
lead, and crooned.

...you beneath the moon and under the sun.
Whether near to me or far,
It's no matter, Darling, where you are,
I think of you, night and day...

He twirled me, held me close, toured us around our private ballroom, danced
with me cheek to cheek, whirled us both until the ostrich feathers from my
dress began flying away. They billowed all around the sparkling art deco
room, dipping and rising in our wake. "Oh," I sighed, breathlessly, "it's
like floating on air...dancing with you. I love this. Kent, I love you."

His eyes, those semi-sweet morsels of chocolate that enveloped me in their
rich, creamy-smooth taste, twinkled, then darkened with his passion, as his
face lowered to meet mine, to take what I would willingly give him.

I started back to reality at the junction between the Star Spangled Banner
and  off-the-air static, the movie over. I was suckin' on my hand.

~~~~~~~~~~
"They're beautiful, don't you think?" Clark held his trophy next to mine in
the lights outside Radio City Music Hall.

I hesitated before I answered. "Uh...yeah- Yes, they are, Clark."

He looked at me curiously. I glanced from him, to the awards, and back, and
gave a crooked smile. "They're great," I said, tryin' to sound more
convincin'.

"Their beauty will never outshine yours, my dear," Rex said softly in my ear.

I turned my head slightly towards him and smiled as he lifted my hand and
kissed it.

"Shall we go? I have reservations at 21. I knew a celebration was in
order." Rex motioned towards his waiting limo.

I looked over at Clark. His face had become tight, serious. I didn't
understand where this animosity came from, but the tension between both men
flowed like electricity. Someone was gonna get burned.

"Good night, Clark."

He broke his stare contest from Rex. "Good night, Wanda...And Wanda...take
care of yourself."

I tilted my head, raised an eyebrow. **Of course I will. What's the big
deal?** I got in Rex's limo. I looked back at Clark as we pulled away from
the curb. He was still staring after us. I settled uncomfortably in the
seat.

"Wanda, you mustn't worry too much about your friends. Cream rises to the
surface, and they are simply going to have to get used to the fact that
they are the curds."

"Huh. According to the rest of the theater community tonight,
they--*we*--are all the cream, Rex. Not just me. And they deserved it, too."

"Yes, you're right, they did," Rex nodded. "But for all of that, you still
stand far above them. You soar through the clouds, while they are set in
clay. I see no way around that fact." He picked up my hand again. "Look at
that statuette, Wanda. You are destined for many of those. I can't
guarantee that the rest of your gang would fare so well on their own."

I let out a deep breath. Time would tell. My drive and ambition were
strong; they'd got me this far. Were the others weaker than me? Clark? He
had a different attitude, that was for sure, but he was driven by
something. I hadn't figured out what yet, but I was workin' on it. Frank
had been a second rate director until he came to the show. Now he had come
into his own. Whether he could take this success beyond our show was the
question. I laid my head on the back of the seat. How well did I truly know
these people? Rex could very well be right. I ran my fingers over the prize
in my lap. I decided it was best to enjoy this moment, than ponder what I
had no answers for.

Rex had arranged a private room for us at 21. As we walked through the
restaurant, I was recognized, and a polite applause began, which grew
stronger, more enthusiastic, as more joined in. I nodded my head and waved.
My dream...my dream.

Tucked away in our private dining room, outta the glow of the limelight, I
set my focus back on Rex, but I wished, just for once, and that night, of
all nights, we coulda eaten out there, amid the attention of my fans, sure,
but also just for the human connection. Rex treated me like a bird in a
gilded cage...or he was himself the bird, and to have contact with him, I
had to climb in the cage, too. I wanted to flap my wings.

"Wanda, I'm going to be serious for a moment," Rex said, lookin' intently
into my glimmerin' orbs. "We spoke once before about what I could do for
you, for your career. I understand you wanting to accomplish what you have
on your own, but you've done it now. I have a theater waiting for you. A
show being developed just for your talents. You have only to say yes,
Wanda, and it's all yours."

The answer was easier for me this time than the first. I had gotten to the
top by my own talent. No one could say I didn't earn this. We all had,
Kent, Frank, Clark --the whole company--we made a good team. We'd all
gotten noticed for it, too. The critics touted so many aspects of the show,
nearly everyone got some credit. And now we'd got accolades from our peers.
I'd proven myself in that atmosphere. I had confidence that I could go on
to even greater work from this starting block. Another challenge waited
just around the corner.

"Rex, you're wonderful to think so much of me." I had to ask. "A show just
for me?"

"Yes, Wanda, no one will mistake who the true star of your show is."

"I- I can't, Rex. I can't take advantage of you like that. You don't have
to ply me with money, or a theater, or my own show, to keep me near you.
And I guess I just think of my career as mine. I'd like to keep it that
way." I implored him to understand with my eyes. I had no desire to hurt
this man, and yet, I had to be true to myself.

He cracked a wan smile. "I wish you would reconsider, but I will try to
understand. I admire your ambition, Wanda. It's not often that someone with
your passion comes along. Forgive me for wanting to be near that spark.
You've rekindled my own fire for this business."

"It has nothin' to do with us personally, Rex. I enjoy your company. We
don't have to stop..."

His dark brown eyes regained some of their sparkle. "I certainly hope not,
my dear. I have many plans for us."

~~~~~~~~~~

"What're you boys doin' here so late?" I asked Clark, Frank, and some of
the band members.

"Poker game, Wanda. Want to ante up? Somehow I think you'd be very good at
this." Clark said with a devilish smirk.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Barre. Rex'll be pickin' me up any minute."

"Huh, I thought we were finally on a first name basis, *De*troit. We
wouldn't care if Rullor threw a few bucks in the kitty. Make this
worthwhile." He shuffled a deck of cards.

"Go ahead and try him. He's usually got better things to do, but it might
strike his fancy." If Clark could be a snot, so could I.

Rex walked briskly through the backstage. "Wanda, dear, I'm sorry I'm late.
Some of my plans took a bit longer to enact then I anticipated." He looked
around. "Well, this is quite the little party, isn't it? Don't throw your
nickels away too quickly." Turning back to me, "We should hurry if we're to
make this engagement. Shall we?" He held his arm out for me to take.

"Mmm. I think we shall," I said, looking back at Clark. His head turned
away as I did so. I smiled inwardly.

Outside, the air, chilly from an evening rain, reminded me I'd forgot my
wrap. "Oh, Rex, can you hold on a moment? I just realized I forgot
something."

Before he could protest, I was back in the theater. It wasn't in my
dressin' room, so I figured I'd at least got it as far as the poker game. I
came down the gangway, smellin' the smoke from the stinky, cheap cigars the
boys must've been puffin' on while they played. It was an odd odor, nothing
like Rex's cigars. Like the sounds and smells of the street didn't belong
in the rarefied air around his penthouse, the differences in their worldly
pleasures separated the man from the boys here.

"Clark, you're sittin' on my wrap."

He turned away from the table to look at me, then at the back of his chair.
"Feel happy I picked it up off the floor," he said, pulling it out and
handing it to me.

I gave him a wincin' smile, just as Rex came back in the theater lookin'
for me.

"Wanda, we really must be moving along. We're late as it is."

I nodded to him, and turned to walk out, then turned back around. "You
ain't smokin' cigars." Clark and Frank looked at me like I was a news
bulletin. "I smelled smoke upstairs...I assumed you boys were stinkin' up
the place."

We all raised our eyes to the rafters together. I couldn't see anything in
the blackness of the eaves, then I realized that I should be able to see
the catwalks and lighting equipment. A lick of flame caught the corner of
my eye.

"Oh, my lord..." Frank started.

"Everybody move! Get out of here!" Clark said, pushing people towards the
exit.

Rex tugged on my arm, "Wanda, hurry..."

A mad rush of pandemonium ensued. I turned to follow Rex and the others,
when the heel broke off my brand new Manolo Blahnik stilettos, four hundred
dollar shoes I'd just bought for the evening, and down I went.

A poppin', crackin' sound caught my attention and I looked up again, in
time to see a catwalk swing in a long arc towards Rex and me. I opened my
mouth to warn him, but everything was happenin' at double-speed, and I
couldn't get the words out in time for him to know what was behind him. The
metal framin' smashed into him with a solid crunch, and he slid across the
stage. He pushed himself up on his arms, shaking his head groggily.

"Wanda! Rex! Where are you?" It was Clark's voice, from the direction of
the stage entrance, but the air was thick and hazy now, and I couldn't see
him.

I yelled over the increasing roar of the inferno, guidin' Clark with my
voice. I looked back to where Rex lay, started to move to him. My eyes
burned from the smoke, my lungs seared by the heat, but I was mere feet
away, ready to reach my hand out to him. A strong arm pulled me back. I
heard, or felt a dull thud vibrate the stage, and wondered if I'd hit
something, but I felt no pain.

Clark had a hold of my arm, standin' between me and Rex. Flames consumed
the curtains on the sides of the stage, and I thought of the heavy bundles
gathered and hangin' above us. I suddenly feared the sky was truly fallin'.
I could see something, a big lump laying across Rex's sprawled form. I
moved toward him. A sandbag, pinnin' his leg down. Clark rolled it off, and
together we lifted Rex by his arms and pulled him towards the door.

I couldn't see anything. Could barely hear, I thought, sirens over the
cacklin' rage of the fire that was our theater, the history and memories
that were now fallin' about us in charred ruins. Clark guided us, I don't
know how, to the exit. Behind me, I felt debris -- equipment, rafters,
curtains -- shake the floor as gravity pulled their weakened forms
downward.

A wall of flames descended in front of us, sprayin' sparks and cinders as
it crashed to the floor. I raised my arm to protect myself, and felt
something larger, a body, shield me from the flames. Clark had pulled all
three of us into a huddle, his own back closest to the incendiary barrier
on our path to safety.

We moved to the left, tryin' to get around it, all the while the smoke
becomin' thicker, the heat hotter, our breathin' harder, our
consciousnesses dimmer. We found a gap in the flames and pushed through,
working our way back to the exit.

As we neared the open door, my watering eyes made out the diffused red
light of a fire engine, a flashin' beacon markin' our way to safety. We
spilled out of the theater, coughin' and gaspin' for fresh air.

The cool night air felt good, but I could still feel the intensity of the
blaze behind me. A blanket materialized on my shoulders, and I was being
pulled further into the street by an EMT, then an oxygen mask was shoved in
my face, and skilled hands examined me for more serious injuries. I looked
around frantically for a familiar face, and as if in answer, Kent appeared
next to me. I reached out to touch him, wantin' to be sure he wasn't some
illusion of the smoke. He was as solid as granite, and I breathed deeply in
relief.

"I came as soon as I knew. Are you alright?" He reached out tenderly to
brush a stray hair away from my face.

"Oh, Kent- the theater. I'm sorry." I sobbed suddenly as the impact began
to hit me. Kent pulled me to him, wrappin' an arm across my shoulders. No
matter what, that gesture made me feel I'd always be safe under his wing.

"I'm just happy you're safe, Wanda. You, and everyone in there, are far
more important than a building."

"Great, now I feel like a heel worryin' about the show." I sniffled.

Kent laughed softly. "Wanda, the loyalty you have for this show is
something I admire greatly. It's that fire I first saw in you down at Gus'.
Don't you ever lose that."

My head was nestled on his shoulder, I felt so right in the crook of his
arm. I raised my eyes to look at his face, my nose running, tears streakin'
down my cheeks, and if my hands were any indication, my face was smeared
with soot. Kent's gaze never wavered, his grip never loosened, his smile
never faltered. I was sure he knew what was in my heart, and suddenly I was
sure what was in his. I shifted a little straighter in his arm. "Kent, I-"

"Mr. Tucker, the Fire Chief would like to speak with you over here," a
fireman  walked up to us, and gestured behind a fire engine.

"Excuse me, Wanda. Duty calls." He set me gently upright, and moved away
with the fire fighter. I watched his back until he disappeared, took a few
deep breaths to pull myself together, and looked up at the still blazing
theater. Streams of water arced through the night air, but the flames
shootin' from the buildin' lashed back, the tide of the battle not yet
turning in our favor.

I stood on shaky legs, wonderin' how everyone was. I hadn't seen anyone
since we stumbled onto the pavement. I'd only taken a few steps when Clark
was by my side, streaked with soot, eyes reddened.

"How are you?"

"Are you okay?"

We spoke at the same time. I nodded to him, and inhaled the oxygen. He
smiled, and I saw worried creases in his brow relax. Whether they stood out
as charcoal etchin's, or he'd always shown this much concern, I wasn't
sure. There was something about his expression that said more about what he
was thinkin' than I'd ever known. An image suddenly flashed through my mind
of the looks I could feel in the dark corners of those saloons I started
in. Burnin' stares that said, "I know who you are, and what you pretend to
be." I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Thank you," I said. I meant it, even through my strange uneasiness, but
Clark's continued study of me made me want to change the subject.

A creakin' groan welled up from the theater just then, grew to a crashin'
roar, and the roof collapsed inward. Sparks shot into the air, red hot
stars momentarily overtaking the ones twinklin' permanently in the night. I
sighed. What was left, now?

I turned back to Clark. "I guess that's about the end of it, huh?" He
nodded, slowly, sadly. "How's everyone? Where's Rex, is he alright?" I
leaned to look around him, where an ambulance was parked. I could see a
gurney, and a man strapped to it. I limped over to him in my busted shoe.

Clark followed. "His leg's broken, but they said he looked okay, otherwise.
Same as us, mostly. Smoke inhalation. Frank and everyone else are fine.
They've taken them all to the hospital just to make sure. I guess Frank
raised a ruckus until he saw us come out."

I reached Rex, and took his hand. They'd snapped an oxygen mask on him,
and, I imagined, pain killers. His eyes were closed, but opened at my
touch. "Wanda," he rasped, smiled weakly.

"You hush, Rex," I said, pattin' his hand. It felt awkward, I was some odd
mother hen, and it ain't something I'm good at. Rex relaxed, though, so I
guess I was doin' something right.

The paramedics motioned me aside and pushed the bed into the ambulance. One
asked if I wanted to ride with them. I looked up at the smokin', burnt husk
of the theater, blackened, arthritic spires of the wreckage stabbin' into
the dark of the sky. It was no more than a rotted out corpse now, and I had
a sudden vision of my own future just as desiccated. I nodded to the man
and climbed in the back.

Clark watched as the doors closed, lights strobin' across his strong
features. Another EMT walked up to him, takin' his attention, as we lurched
away, and I realized he'd never told me he was alright.

~~~~~~~~~~

We stood, a small clot of people on the sidewalk, each assessing the damage
for ourselves. Daylight did nothin' to dispel the images imprinted on my
brain from the fire. A wisp of smoke floated up from somewhere, proving it
wasn't just a nightmare. The silence spoke of the hopelessness we all saw.
Frank delivered the bad news.

"Well, obviously we're shut down. The owner's not intendin' ta rebuild, and
it'd be months before another theater could be found. Kent's up to his
eyeballs tryin' ta salvage this, but, well, ah, the books were just
startin' ta show in the black, an' expenses for startin' up all over again
would be high."

"Whaddaya mean, 'would be,' Frank? Like, we ain't gonna?" Cast and crew
shuffled restlessly behind me.

"It don't look good, Punkin. We're gonna have trouble payin' anybody past
next week, so we can't really expect y'all ta sit around waitin' for us ta
develop a new show."

My mind was numb. Mutterin' behind me told me some of the others were angry
more than stunned. I turned on my heel. "I ain't gonna pretend this doesn't
hurt like hell," I started, "and I don't want to be anywhere else than
here, workin' with y'all. This is my life, my home," I steeled my eyes
against the tears that threatened, bit back a sob. "But it's gone. We gotta
go on from right here, right now. There's nothin' else..." I held myself
tight, knuckles tensin' white on my arms. I whispered, "Nothin' else to do."

Kent stepped forward then, and for a split second, before the strength of
the aura that always seemed to surround him came bursting through, I saw
the wounded helplessness he felt, the trace of that shadow in his eyes, and
I was crushed. Not because this was the one time he wouldn't come through
for us; I'd lost count of everything he'd done. If he couldn't help us now,
it was because we were beyond all help, all hope. No, I was crushed,
devastated, that he should feel this as his failure, that he was letting us
down, that it was his fault somehow, and I wanted to reach out to him right
there, and tell him it was okay, and I understood.

But he was Kent, again, in the next moment, and he was there as our
protector, looking out for us, in the face of what he couldn't save.
"Folks, I'm sorry, we're trying everything, and if we find the answer that
solves all our problems, you'll all be back together, doing what you've
dreamed of. We'd much rather have you together, our extended family, but we
know you have to do what's best for yourselves, and we don't want to hold
you back." He was doing his best to convince everyone, maybe himself, too,
that it wasn't the end of the world, his penetratin' gaze meeting everyone
squarely in the eye. I don't think he knew any other way. He was like no
other man I'd ever known. His unwaverin' look stopped on me, I felt him
sendin' me an unspoken message, and I held his look, sending him all the
support I could, back. "Each and every one of you has too much talent to
hide away, you need to be seen, given an audience. This was just the
beginning for you, but it most certainly is not the end. You have your
entire futures in front of you."

I felt Frank's arm hug my shoulders.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rex was recoverin' well. The break had been clean, so they set and cast it
and sent him home late the next day. He asked me to dinner the followin'
evening.

His face lit up when I walked into his livin' room, and he struggled to his
feet with a cane.

"Oh, Rex, please don't do that for me." I put my hands out to motion him
back down on the sofa.

He smiled warmly. "Wanda, I will rise to any occasion when you enter the
room." He clasped my hand. "How are you, my dear? The theater, I
understand, is a total loss."

I dropped my head. "Yes, it looks like the show's over. There isn't enough
money to start over. Rex-" the idea popped into my head so quickly, I
couldn't stop myself, "this is the sort of thing you've been looking for,
isn't it? You could put this show back on its feet." I immediately
regretted my words. How could I ask this of him, after what he'd been
through? "Oh, God, I...I'm sorry. I never should have..."

He squeezed my hand tighter. "It's quite all right, Wanda, dear. I know how
important this is to you." He smiled, but wearily. "Please, let's sit."

"Oh, yes, of course. Are you sure you feel up to having me for dinner?"

"Absolutely. If I had my way, you would have dinner with me every night.
Now, Wanda, I want you to know, if there was something I could do to
resurrect your show, I would. Unfortunately, circumstances won't permit
that, exactly. But I do have an idea for you. You know I've wanted to
develop a show around you. I can bring that project to genesis again. What
do you say?" His eyes delved deeply into mine, searching for the answer
he'd been wantin' for so long.

"Oh my. Rex, you would still do that for me?" I was taken aback, once
again, by his altruism.

"Without hesitation. You have only to say the word."

"I...Rex, would it be possible for some of the others from the show to work
on the new one?" My hopes were risin' for the first time in days. "Clark,
perhaps, and Cheri, maybe some of the others? What about Frank?"

"I would be happy to see what we could do for as many of them as possible."

"Do you know you're keeping my dream alive? Rex, the answer is yes."

"And you are making mine finally come true, my dear. You know, I have
another dream, as well."

I cocked an eyebrow at him. I couldn't imagine what else he wanted right then.

He struggled, a little awkwardly, off the sofa, onto his good knee in front
of me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. My mouth
almost gaped open.

"I was hopin' to ask you this the other night, but events rather
overshadowed any appropriate moments, don't you think?" His eye twinkled.
My mind was blank. "Wanda, would you do me the great honor of becoming my
wife?" The box popped open, revealing a jewel of a size I thought only
existed in museums, or royal treasuries.

My chest constricted, the unexpectedness of this turn of events taking my
breath away. And then my body overreacted, and I started hyperventilating.
Control. I needed to get some control. I pulled mysel