Worthy 51, The Phone Call

Rhiannon Worthy enters her home in Seattle, Washington, and slips out of her Crocs, then pads across the living room, sorting through her mail. She’s been on a 48-hour rotation at the hospital, where she’s a nursing supervisor, and she’s looking forward to some down time. It’s been a week since her daughter, Abigail and niece, Genevieve left for Atlanta, and Rhiannon is hoping for a phone call updating her on their progress later this evening. While Genevieve has gone there to possibly start school at Georgia Tech, Abigail tagged along for moral support, and will most likely be back in a week or so.

She hears a delivery truck pulling up near her home, but thinks little of it, until her doorbell rings. She answers to find a Fedex driver outside with a medium-sized parcel. “Rhiannon Worthy?” She signs for it, and thanks the driver, then takes the package to the dining room table. She does not recognize the shipping address, which appears to be a realty office in Massachusetts.

Rhiannon gets a utility knife, and opens the box. Inside, she finds an off-brand cell phone with its charger, sitting on top of an envelope addressed to her, and two individually-wrapped packages. There’s a post-it on the phone that reads, “Start here”. The phone is dead, so she plugs it in. Once it comes on, she checks the directory and finds a single phone number programmed in. She hesitates a moment, then clicks to dial. After six or seven rings, a man answers, “Ms. Worthy. So glad you called.”

“Who is this?” Rhiannon says.

“My apologies,” he says. “This is Marcel Duchard. Paul’s brother. We met, once, years ago, at Rosalind and Paul’s wedding.”

“I remember,” she says. “You’re not in the US are you?”

“No, I’m in Mozambique these days,” he says. “My Portuguese is still a bit rusty, but I like the climate. I won’t elaborate further on my whereabouts, for obvious reasons.”

“Why have you contacted me?” she says.

“I realized I had some unfinished business with regards to Rosalind’s estate, so I had the package sent to you with a means of contacting me,” Marcel tells her. “Once I’ve explained everything, you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Okay, why all the cloak and dagger?” Rhiannon says.

“I apologize for the intrigue,” he says, “but, as you might imagine, I need to be somewhat discrete in my dealings within the US. It’s for your protection as much as mine. The cell phone you’re using is a burner, and I strongly recommend that you discard it once our call is done.”

“Fine,” Rhiannon says. “What’s this all about? What do you mean by unfinished business?”

“You’re Rosalind’s executor,” he says, “and have probably noted, her estate was fairly straight forward. Everything goes to Genevieve.”

“Right,” she says.

“Well, there’s one piece of property she left out of the copy of her will that you have,” he says. “That, she left to you. In the package, the very next item will be an envelope with your name on it. That contains an updated copy of her will, with details on the property. I suggest you file that as soon as possible.”

“What property?” Rhiannon says.

“It’s an old waterfront warehouse Rosalind paid five thousand for around 1972,” he replies. “Rather astute move on her part, actually. The building’s part of a riverfront development now. Worth millions.”

“Rosalind owned that?” Rhiannon says.

“Yes. She’s been leasing it out to an art academy since she’s had it,” Marcel says.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Rhiannon says. “Why wasn’t this in her original will?”

“She didn’t want you to know about it until she was gone, for reasons known only to her,” he says. “Again, I apologize, as I should have gotten this to you sooner, but news is sometimes hard to come by when one is running from authorities. I only learned of Rosalind’s death when I tried to contact my neice a month ago. By the way, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“The other packages contain information which should tell you everything you need to know,” he says. “They’re Rosalind and Regan’s diaries.”

“Regan?” Rhiannon says to herself.

“Rosalind left them with me for safekeeping,” Marcel goes on. “When I had to leave, I gave them to an attorney friend of mine. She saw to it they were delivered to you, along with a method for contacting me. She can also put you in touch with the witnesses to the will.”

“Why didn’t Rosie just give them to me?” Rhiannon says.

“I’m afraid I’ve told you everything I can.” he says. “As you know, Rosalind could be rather mysterious in her dealings for no good reason. She set this up with me about a year after Paul died, and as her attorney, I couldn’t disclose anything about it until the time was right.”

“Okay, thanks,” Rhiannon says.

“Now, if there are no more questions, I’ll conclude our business,” Marcel says. “If you should speak to Genevieve, send her my regards. I’d contact her myself, but the last time we spoke, she told me she’d turn me in if she knew my whereabouts. I was a bit disappointed, but I understand.”

“What if I have other questions?” she says.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own,” he says. “I plan to lose this number as soon as I conclude this call, which I’m doing now.”

With that, the line disconnects.

Just One Look

Eddie's Attic stage

The stage at Eddie’s Attic, Decatur, GA, 6 October 2016

Rebecca Asher, sixteen, takes a seat at the bar in Eddie’s Attic, and picks up a menu. It’s her first time here, attending an “all ages” show featuring local Atlanta performers. She’s been anxious to visit, since it regularly hosts artists like Michelle Malone and The Indigo Girls, who Rebecca follows on the radio. She doubts either will be in the lineup tonight, since they’re national acts — the Indigo Girls had been on David Letterman — but some of her older friends told her that sometimes big name performers show up to watch the shows, and will go up for a song or two, if asked. Following her friend’s advice, she arrived early, just as the house opened, and has been rewarded with a great seat at the end of the bar, with an unobstructed view of the stage.

The bartender comes over and points at Rebecca. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Rebecca sits up, and in her most adult voice, says, “Bring me a rum and Coke.”

“Sure,” the bartender replies. “Can I see your ID?”

Rebecca sighs. “Bring me a Coke.”

“Coming up,” the bartender says and starts to go.

Rebecca says after her, “No ice”, which the bartender acknowledges, then looks over the menu, deciding on fries, and mac and cheese (Decatur’s Best!) by the time the bartender returns. Her food order handled, Rebecca sips her Coke and turns so she’s facing the stage. There are, at least, three guitars, a small drum set, and keyboards onstage, with a couple of tambourines and a harmonica holder hanging from the mic stands. Rebecca looked at the poster that described the artists performing when she bought her ticket, but other than one called Echo, who she’s not sure is a person or a group, she can’t recall them.

Lately, Rebecca has felt in need of some sort of release. A sophomore at Decatur High School (Class of 1999!), she’s the oldest sibling in her family, which consists of her, younger brother Steven, and mother Sharon. Her father, Owen, a pilot, abandoned the family when Rebecca was nine — “flew right out of our lives,” Sharon always says — and Rebecca has not had any contact with him since. For the past six months, her aunt, Rachel Lawson, has been living with them, having come to look after Sharon, after she was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer. It was Sharon who suggested Rebecca have a night out, perhaps correctly sensing her daughter could use a break.

As upbeat and positive as Rachel tries to be around Rebecca and Steven, she’s never sugarcoated the stark facts of Sharon’s illness or chances for survival. Sharon had ignored the symptoms, then put off treatment too long, despite warnings from Rachel, who had been living on the West Coast when Sharon first started complaining of feeling run down. In recent weeks, Rebecca has seen her mother’s energy level further drain away, as Sharon moved from the previous aggressive treatment she’d endured to what Rachel now calls “maintenance of pain”. Rebecca and Steven have both been reluctant to leave the house for fear their mother might slip away while they’re gone, but tonight, Sharon had insisted, giving Rebecca plenty of money to do whatever she wanted, once Steven left to spend the evening with a school mate.

Rebecca’s food arrives, and she starts eating. She tastes the mac and cheese, then douses it with a generous helping of Tabasco sauce, then tries another bite.

“Best gets better,” she says.

As the crowd starts filling in, a tall, shapely, dark-haired woman in her early-20s enters and leans against a stool near Rebecca, who can’t tear her eyes away. The woman sits with her back to the bar, and seems to be watching the door for someone.

Rebecca decides to try her luck. Leaning toward the woman, she says, “Excuse me. Are you performing?”

The woman glances over her shoulder at Rebecca, before returning her eyes to the door. She gives a quick, “No.”

Rebecca considers this, then presses ahead. “I’m Rebecca. Ah, Becky.”

“Good for you,” the tall woman says without looking. She rises, and Rebecca looks to see a tall, slender, dark-haired man, accompanied by a small woman with light, red hair, who looks not much older than Rebecca, headed toward the tall woman.

“We set?” the man says.

“Yeah, I talked to the sound guy,” the tall woman says. “He seems to know what’s what.”

“What, what, what,” the smaller woman says, all the while twisting her head slightly to the left. “Let’s get ready. We’re opening.”

They move away from the bar and toward the stage. Rebecca keeps her eyes on the tall woman. She suspects it could be love at first sight.

For more than a year, Rebecca has been trying to come to terms with the feelings she’s been having for some of her female classmates. She’s well aware of the implications, having been exposed to the topics in human sexuality class, but had not anticipated that it would affect her in a personal sense. Still, she concludes, if it’s how she is, there’s nothing much she can do about it, so she might as well learn to live with it. She doubts her mother or Steven will mind, and has considered broaching the topic with Rachel, but Rebecca isn’t sure how much she trusts her aunt. Rachel isn’t quite what Rebecca was expecting from her mother’s description of her older sister.

Sharon has always described Rachel as a “classic free spirit” and always seemed a bit in awe of her slightly older sister. Rachel moved to California in the 70s right out of high school with her best friend, and her life there has been shrouded in mystery. From what little she’s been told, Rebecca knows Rachel’s friend died, and Rachel became a nurse, but Sharon hasn’t spoken much of what Rachel was doing during the 80s. Prior to Rachel’s arrival, Rebecca formed this image of this wild party girl, hobnobbing with celebrities and cruising LA in a hot sports car. The woman who appeared at the house this past November was totally different, more “new age” than Rebecca expected, with few stories of her exciting Hollywood lifestyle.

The trio of the tall woman and her two companions are now on stage, the man behind the keyboards, and the smaller woman holding a guitar. The tall woman appears to be helping with setup, communicating with the person in the booth as the smaller woman strums the guitar. The lights dim, and the tall woman takes a seat to the right of the stage. A man who identifies himself as Eddie comes to the stage, tells the audience to “hush up” while the singers are performing, and introduces the first act, Echo.

The smaller woman tells the crowd she’s Charlotte, and introduces her brother, Brian on the keyboards, then launches into a song that leaves Rebecca blown away. For such a small person, Charlotte has a huge voice, that floods into every corner of the room, and puts Rebecca in mind of Alison Moyet or Annie Lenox. At one point, midway through the forty-minute set, the tall woman goes to the booth and speaks to the man running sound. She spends the remainder of the performance stationed in front of the booth, listening.

Afterward, Rebecca heads to the lobby between the music room and the patio, where Charlotte is speaking to some audience members, and signing people up for Echo’s mailing list. Brian and the tall woman are packing up their instruments.

“I enjoyed your performance,” Rebecca says, as she’s adding her name to the list.

“Thanks,” Charlotte says. “We’re going to be working on an album real soon.” Her speaking voice reminds Rebecca of how her father’s relatives around Macon talk.

“Is that other woman your sister?” Rebecca asks.

“Sister, sister, sis–” Charlotte begins, giving Rebecca an idea of where the group gets its name. “No, that’s our friend, Claire. She does our sound and helps set up.”

Brian enters and joins Charlotte, who introduces Rebecca.

“Always nice to gain a new fan,” he says as he shakes Rebecca’s hand.

“Is Claire waiting?” Charlotte says, to which Brian nods. She looks back to Rebecca. “It’s great meeting you, Becky. Hopefully we’ll get some stuff out to the mailing list about our next show.”

“I’ll look for it,” Rebecca says.

Once Charlotte and Brian leave, Rebecca goes back to the music room and settles her tab. She hangs out for a couple more performers, but can’t stop worrying about her mother, so she decides to call it a night and heads home.

Rebecca makes a mental note to try and keep up with Echo, but in the meantime, life intrudes. Less than a month later, Sharon Asher loses her battle with cancer. 

Rebecca, Too: Oakhurst


After spending her afternoon with Alyssa and receiving her charge, so to speak, Leah heads out the next morning to visit Steven Asher in Oakhurst. She calls first to introduce herself and to make sure Steven is willing to talk to her. At the house, she notes that the home at 466 East Lake Drive, is not far from a house she owned in Kirkwood several years ago, before she moved to her condo in Midtown. The house is two stories with a full porch, and looks like it was built mid-century. The exterior could use a coat of paint, but otherwise, it’s well-maintained and in excellent shape. Leah estimates its value at well over $300K, no doubt considerably more than what Steven’s parents had paid for it. She steps up onto the porch and rings the bell.

“I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Steven,” she tells him, once she’s inside. “I imagine this is all pretty weird for you.”

“Weird?” he replies. “Anywhere from six to twelve times an hour I get a call from this woman who sounds nothing like my sister but with all her attitude and mannerisms. I had to turn the phone off.”

“I’m hoping, if we put our heads together, we can figure out why the Princess is acting like this,” Leah says.

“Princess?” Steven asks.

“It’s what I call Alyssa,” Leah says.

“Then you don’t think this is about Becky,” Steven says.

“Rebecca figures into it, somehow,” Leah says. “What has me stumped is why Alyssa chose to take on her personality. Obviously, they know one another, but how well is anyone’s guess.”

“I’ll tell you what I can about Becky,” he says, “but before Alyssa left that message for me, I’d never even heard her name.”

Leah wanders around and surveys the living room and surroundings. “I’ve been reading a lot of Rebecca’s work the past couple of days. I find I rarely agree with her opinions, but I like her prose style — very direct and in-your-face.”

“That’s Becky,” Steven says, sitting on the arm of the couch. “A publisher was interested in doing something with her blog, but she died before she’d compiled very much. I’ve thought about shopping her work around to a small publisher, or self-publishing — if I ever have time to work on it, that is.”

“Let’s hope you do,” Leah says. “Her feminist critique of the work of Bette Davis was a little lacking in details, but she definitely brought a fresh perspective.”

“Yeah, she really liked Bette Davis,” Steven says. “What would you like to know about my sister?”

Leah stops pacing near the couch and sits. “I need to know the real Rebecca. Maybe then I can sort out what she represents to the Princess. Everything I know comes from what I’ve read by or about her. How does Alyssa’s version compare?”

“She knows enough to convince me she spent quite a bit of time with Becky,” Steven says. “If I had to guess, though, she probably spent more time with her when Becky was younger. Becky changed a lot after she went away to college.”

“Funny you should mention that.” Leah hands him the photo of Alyssa and Rebecca in Florida. “Ever see this?”

Steven takes the photo, looks it over, and nods. “I remember the trip. Aunt Rachel — our guardian at the time — didn’t think Becky was old enough to go on her own.” He hands the photo back.

“Obviously Rebecca didn’t agree,” she says as she returns the photo to her pocket.

“Becky never got along with Rachel, even before she went to college,” Steven says. “After she left school, things just got worse.”

“Left school?” Leah says. “She didn’t graduate?”

“No, Becky dropped out her junior year,” he says. “She never said why.”

He relates a story to Leah. As he tells it, she visualizes the encounter. Leah imagines a much less idealized version of Rebecca than the one Alyssa has portrayed but still generally keeping with the image she’s formed from Alyssa’s depiction.

Rebecca backs into the room from the kitchen, very angry, yelling at someone.

“You fucking slut, don’t you dare tell me when I can come and go. You don’t control me, you bitch.”

Steven goes to her. “Becky, calm down.”

Rebecca pivots toward him.

“Stay out of this, Stevie. It’s between me and that fucking bitch in there.”

“She’s just trying to help. You staggered in at three a.m. last night and woke everyone up.”

“I am a fucking adult. I’ll do whatever I goddamn please.”

Rebecca storms out the front door.

“How tall was Rebecca?” Leah says.

“How tall?” he says.

“It helps me picture her,” she says. “In the photo, Alyssa’s leaning beside her, so it’s hard to gauge.”

Steven nods. “Top of her head didn’t quite come up to my shoulder.”

“You’re six feet?”

“Six, two,” he says.

Leah rewinds the scene. Rebecca returns from the front door and assumes her stance just before confronting Steven. She’s now shorter than she was initially.

“Small, medium, or large frame?” Leah says.

“Large,” he says. “Definitely.”

“Stocky?” she says.

He nods.

Leah adds twenty pounds to her image of Rebecca.

“On a scale of one to ten,” Leah says, “one being Meryl Streep and ten being Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch, how annoying was her voice?”

Steven considers it, then nods. “Seven. And, she was always trying to imitate Bette Davis’ inflections.”

Leah nods. “Got it.”

Rebecca pivots toward Steven. In a voice reminiscent of Bette Davis from All About Eve, she says, “Stay out of this, Stevie. It’s between me and that fucking bitch in there.”

“She’s just trying to help. You staggered in at three a.m. last night and woke everyone up.”

“I am a fucking adult. I’ll do whatever I goddamn please.”

Rebecca storms out the front door.

“That’s better,” Leah says. “Please continue.”

“Her feud with Rachel got so bad Rachel locked her out of the house,” he says.

Leah hears Rebecca’s voice coming from outside the door. Rebecca pounds angrily on the door, and rings the bell over and over. She sounds drunk.

“Open this god-damned door, you bitch! Stevie, please, let me in. Don’t let her do this.”

Steven moves toward the door. A woman’s voice is heard. “Steven.” He stops and addresses someone else.

“I’m not letting her in.” To the door, he says, “Sorry, Becky.”

“I know Rebecca became your legal guardian,” Leah says. “Was your aunt doing a bad job?”

“No. Rachel and I get along great,” Steven says. “We always have. That didn’t stop Becky from kicking Rachel out of the house, once she became my guardian.”

“I called your aunt as you suggested,” Leah says. “She gave me her schedule and told me to drop by some evening. I’m thinking of doing so tonight. What does she do for a living?”

“She’s a nurse who specializes in terminal patients,” Steve tells her.

“High stress work,” Leah says. “She ever bring any of that home?”

Steven shakes his head. “I’ve never known her to be anything but patient and tolerant. She needed it with Becky.”

“Whatever Rebecca thought about your aunt,” Leah says, “she’s not on Alyssa’s radar. I haven’t heard Rachel’s name once from the Princess — not even when she talks about being your guardian.” Leah looks around at the house. “This is a nice place. I can see you’ve done some work recently.”

“My parents bought it before I was born,” he says. “Back in the 80s when it was really cheap. I’m trying to convince my girlfriend to move in.”

“Full basement?” she asks, to which he nods.

“Partially finished with a separate entrance,” he replies. “I’d like to rent it out if I can get it in shape and find something to do with the the pool table that’s down there now.”

“Awful lot of room for one or two people,” Leah says, more to herself than Steven. “I bet a young, upwardly mobile family would pay a fortune for a place like this. I’ve been known to flip a few houses in my time, if you’re interested.”

“No thanks,” he says. “I plan to have an upwardly mobile family myself one day.”

“Then let’s talk sisters,” she says, sliding to the edge of the couch. “On the day before her accident, Alyssa spent an extraordinary amount of time reading up on Rebecca. She appears to have read everything Rebecca wrote, and just about everything written about her, warts and all.”

Steven slips from the arm down onto the couch, at the opposite end from Leah. He crosses his legs and leans on one hand. “You found all this on her computer?”

“I’m an Internet security consultant,” she says. This gives her a thought. “Hey. Want to cover your tracks on the Web? I can show you how to be invisible.” Leah hands Steven her business card. “I teach an extension course at Georgia Perimeter from time to time. I’ll get you a discount if you want to sit in on a session.” He examines the card, nods, and puts in his pocket.

Leah leans forward and focuses ahead of her, like she’s picturing something. “Let’s break this down. Assume Alyssa learned about Rebecca’s death a day or so before her accident. She spends hours reading up on Rebecca, then tries to contact you just minutes before she’s in a car accident herself. And the first thing she does when she wakes up—”

Steven picks up the thought. “Is contact me — just like Becky would have.”

“So, what was life like with Rebecca in charge?” Leah asks.

“More like I was in charge,” he says. “Becky wasn’t very responsible.”

Steven relates some stories. During one, Leah imagines the phone ringing, which Steven answers. She hears Rebecca’s voice.

“Hey, Goonie, where’s the pizza that was in the fridge?” she says.

“You mean the pizza that was in the refrigerator for three weeks?” Steven replies. “I threw it out.”

Rebecca comes out of the kitchen, still talking on the phone as though Steven isn’t there. “Why’d you throw it out? I was going to eat that.”

Steven starts to answer on the phone, then stops himself, hangs up and speaks to Rebecca. She continues to hold the phone to her ear, though she’s addressing Steven directly.

“Becky, there was stuff growing on it,” he tells her.

“So?” she says. “Just zap it in the god-damned microwave. That kills just about anything.”

“I can’t believe you ever lived on your own” he says. “Did your roommates in New York take care of you?”

“What am I supposed to have for dinner now?” she says.

“Why don’t you use one of the numbers on the refrigerator?” he says indicating the kitchen. “There are at least five pizza places.”

“My fucking credit card’s not working again.”

“What’s wrong with your card?” Steven says.

“I don’t know. It just keeps getting declined,” she says.

“You paid them, right?” he says. “You’re supposed to do that every month, you know.”

“Oops!” she says, covering her mouth.

He sighs. “Order something. I’ll pay for it.”

Rebecca gives him thumbs up. “Yes! Yea, Stevie!”

“If Alyssa spent any time with my sister, she’d have seen how obsessive Becky was about staying in touch,” Steven says. “Half the time she was calling me. The other half, it was Claire.”

“Yes. Clarabella,” Leah says. “The only person from Rebecca’s past other than you or your father that Alyssa has mentioned by name.”

Steven lowers his head. “On the day she died, when Becky suddenly went silent, I was sure something bad had happened.”

“Tim said you identified her body,” Leah says.

He nods. “Rachel offered to take care of all that, but I insisted. I just wanted to see, to know for sure.”

Leah pats his shoulder. “It’s tough being the responsible one.” She takes out a slip of paper and hands it to him. “That reminds me. Do you recognize the top number? I know the bottom one is yours.”

“Becky’s cell phone,” he says.

“Interesting,” Leah says. “Alyssa called the cell number and when I looked it up, I found both numbers linked and flagged in my contacts log from 2005.”

“Flagged?” Steven asks. “What do you mean?”

“I had a land line I used for private calls,” Leah says. “I only give out the number to family and close associates, and I screen my calls. Rebecca must have called me from one or both of those numbers, or she made an unsolicited call from one, and I called back on the other.”

“Why would she have called you?” Steven wonders.

Leah shakes her head. “No idea. The call was in mid-2005, and I was on my first big project for NSA back then. All my files are archived, but I rang up the number and reached a guy from Moscow named Sergei.”

“Sergei?”

“Nice guy,” Leah says. “Sells shoes at Lenox. Promised me a sweet deal on some suede boots next time I’m in the area. When he found out I speak Russian, he talked my ear off. Tried to set me up with his brother-in-law. “

Steven finds this amusing. “Okay.”

“Said he used to get calls all the time for Rebecca Asher but only one in the past few weeks,” Leah says.

“Alyssa,” Steven says. “She must have tried to call before she did the research on the Internet. Becky’s information is pretty easy to find.”

“Yes, it is, and the things Alyssa looked up online contained a lot of background about Rebecca,” Leah says. “Stories, reviews, her blog.”

“The sort of information she wouldn’t need if she knew her well,” Steven says.

“Exactly,” Leah says, pointing at Steven. “I have Alyssa’s diary from high school and other than the time they spent in Florida, I can’t find any evidence they interacted at all back then.”

“Whatever means Alyssa came by the information,” Steven says. “she definitely knows a lot about Becky.”

Leah rises. “Yes. Tim told me about your initial meeting.” She goes to the credenza and picks up the photo of Rebecca. “What about Clarabella? From the way the Princess talks about her, it sounds like Rebecca’s relationship with Claire was rather stormy.”

“That’s one thing I’m confused about,” Steven says. “Alyssa seems to believe Claire and Becky were dating.”

“They weren’t?”

“Not at all,” Steven says. “Knowing the types of women my sister typically associated with, I was surprised she and Claire were even as close friends as they were.”

Leah puts down the photo of Rebecca and leans against the credenza. “Really? To hear Alyssa describe her, Claire was the love of Rebecca’s life.”

“Maybe Becky thought so, but Claire certainly didn’t,” Steven says. “Claire doesn’t even identify as a lesbian. She’s always claimed to be celibate. As far as them being friends, I usually got along with Claire about as well as she got along with Becky. Probably better, in fact. It’s why we’ve stayed in touch. They did spend a lot of time together — and Becky had her pet name for her, ‘Clarabella’, which was unusual — but by the time she died, they were majorly on the outs with one another.”

“Do you know why?”

“Take your pick,” Steven says. “Claire hated most of Becky’s friends. They were always making fun of her when she wasn’t around, which was usually if Becky had others over. I think they were intimidated by her and lashed out behind her back. If Becky and Claire had been involved, Becky would have given her a lot of reasons to feel insecure.”

“Like what?”

“Look, I love my sister,” Steven says, “but emotionally, she was a train wreck. She couldn’t sustain a relationship beyond a few times in bed with someone. She usually got bored with the other person after a few days. She was always making videos of herself with other women.” He raises a finger. “Speaking of which, do your computing skills include data recovery?”

Leah shrugs. “It’s not my specialty but I’ve done it before when I contracted for NSA. Plus, I know people. Why do you ask?”

“Hang on.” Steven goes into another room and returns with a small box which he hands to Leah. “That’s the hard drive from Becky’s laptop. The computer was destroyed in the accident but I managed to salvage the drive. No idea what kind of shape it’s in but if you can access it, there might be something you can use. I’ve wanted to see what was on it, but didn’t want Becky’s private affairs showing up on YouTube.”

“Not to worry,” she says. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.”

Leah recalls something. ‘Did Rebecca have a special talent, other than writing?”

“Like what?”

“During a moment of lucidity, Alyssa said Rebecca has something Alyssa doesn’t — her super power,” Leah says. “Did she have an ability someone like Alyssa might envy?”

“I can’t think of many people who envied Becky,” Steven says. “Most who knew her well just steered clear of her.”

Leah turns back to the photos, and picks up the one of Owen. “This must be Owen the pilot.” She looks at Steven. “I see the resemblance. Are you in contact with him now?”

“Yeah, he showed up at Becky’s funeral,” Steven says. “One of the few times I saw my aunt almost lose it. Since then, we’ve managed to rebuild our relationship. He drops in whenever he’s in town and I visit him on the West Coast when I can.”

Leah stares at the photo. “Who does he fly for?”

“Delta,” Steven says. “He was with Northwest and went to Delta when they merged.”

Leah nods. “My roommate from college works for Delta. I’ve tried, but couldn’t get much out of the Princess about your Dad. When she mentions him, she tends to focus on the loss — a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.”

“Becky was much angrier than sad,” Steven says.

Leah puts the photo back and turns to Steven. “There are a lot of inconsistencies in how Alyssa has chosen to recreate Rebecca, aside from how she depicts Rebecca’s relationship with Claire. She doesn’t recognize your father. She doesn’t talk about your aunt. It’s like she’s hiding behind her image of Rebecca rather than being her — very confusing.”

The doorbell rings. Steven heads to the window that looks out onto the porch.

“That’s not your father, is it?” Leah asks.

“No, he has his own key,” Steven says.

Steven glances out the window. “What’s she doing here?”

“Who is it?” Leah asks.

“Claire.”

“That’s convenient,” Leah says.

Steven opens the door, for Claire. The first thing Leah notes is that Claire is very tall, taller than Steven, though that appears to be due to the platform boots she’s wearing, which over-emphasize her height. Her hair is a buzz cut on the left side but well below her shoulders on the right, and braided into a pigtail. She’s wearing a leather biker’s jacket, despite the temperature outside, and white, shorty jeans with fishnet stockings underneath. Under her jacket is a black sweat shirt with its sleeves and collar ripped off, and a V cut at the neck. She’s wearing aviator shades, but removes them when Steven opens the door and drops them into the inside pocket of her jacket. Leah notes that Claire appears very intimidating and unapproachable, but Leah imagines it’s a front. Claire greets Steven with a pleasant smile. She hasn’t yet noticed Leah.

“Claire. This is a surprise,” Steven says as she gives him a quick hug.

“You surprised me with your call so I thought I’d return the favor,” she says.

Claire enters the living room but pauses when she sees Leah, and puts up a cool front. “I didn’t realize you had company. Hello.”

Steven indicates Leah. “Ah yes. CC Belmonte, this is—”

“LJ Walker,” Leah says as she moves toward Claire, right hand extended.

They shake hands. Claire asks, “How do you know Steven?”

Steven starts to speak, but Leah cuts him off, “Oh, I’m an old friend of the family.”

Steven looks at Leah and shakes his head, but doesn’t contradict her description.

“Really? Did you know Becky?” Claire asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” Leah says, somewhat mysteriously.

“What does that mean?” Claire says, looking between Leah and Steven.

Steven steps between them. “What can I do for you, Claire?”

She gives Leah a quick, second glance, then says, “I wanted to see if you’ve given any thought to next Friday?”

He nods. “Yes. I’m free and can attend your graduation show.”

“Great,” Claire says. “Rachel said she’s free. It should be a lot of fun.”

“Graduation show?” Leah says. “Acting? Singing?”

“I’m talking an improv class at The Comedy Factory,” Claire explains. “I run the sound board for them, so they give me comps all the time.”

“The Comedy Factory,” Leah says, “in Midtown? Dan Barton performs there, doesn’t he?”

Claire relaxes a bit. “Yes. He’s my instructor.”

“He’s excellent,” Leah says. “Haven’t checked in with him for a while. I need to look him up.”

Claire acknowledges this and turns again to Steven. “I also wanted to see if you’ve heard anything more from that crazy lady who called pretending to be Rebecca.”

“Who would do something like that?” Leah says, sounding very shocked.

Steven looks from Leah back to Claire. “It’s kind of complicated.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Claire says, walking away from him. “I hate complications.”

While Claire’s occupied with Steven, Leah takes out her phone and snaps a picture of her. Claire stares angrily at Leah.

“Did you just take my picture?” she says.

“Yeah,” Leah says.

“Well delete it,” Claire says. “I didn’t give you permission for that.”

Leah puts the phone in her pocket. “I don’t need permission to take your picture, just to publish it, which I’m not intending to do.”

“Then why did you take it?” Claire demands.

“For personal reference,” Leah says.

“What does that even mean?” Claire says.

Leah thinks quickly. “It’s just a quirk I have. I like to document the little moments in my life. I meet so many people, it’s hard to keep track of them all. What’s the problem?”

Claire looks away from Leah. “It’s not polite to take someone’s photo without asking, for whatever reason you do it.”

Leah takes out the phone and pulls up the photo. “Sorry, but I think your appearance is very unconventional and it caught my interest. See?” Leah holds up her phone to show Claire the picture but Claire won’t look at it. Leah approaches Claire with the phone. “Take a look. It’s a good shot.”

Claire finally looks at the photo. She’s pleasantly surprised. “Oh. Well that’s not so bad. Are you a photographer?”

Leah puts away her phone. “Occasionally. I mainly take photos and video of properties I’m listing. Free advice, if you’re planning on being on stage, you better get used to having your photo taken. You have a really distinctive look.”

Claire gives her a genuine smile. “Thank you for saying so.”

Steven steps toward Claire, saying, “So, Claire, have you heard from anyone?”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t spoken to anyone, but yesterday, I had nine or ten calls from a number I didn’t recognize. My curiosity got the better of me last night, so I called back and got the voice mail for some security firm.”

“Security firm?” Leah takes out a different phone. Steven takes note of this.

“How many phones do you have?” Steven asks her.

“One for home, one for business,” Leah says. “Oh, and a Blackberry. I still contract for the government sometimes.” Leah calls up a number. “So, that’s why I couldn’t find my phone yesterday.” She chuckles. “I underestimated you Princess.”

“Excuse me?” Claire says.

Leah glances at Claire. “Did you call that number around eleven?”

“Something like that,” Claire said. “Why?”

Leah hits redial and fixes her eyes on Claire, as her phone starts to ring. Claire takes it out, looks at it, then stares at Leah with a slightly panicked look. “Why do you have my number?”

Leah considers it and shakes her head. “You’ve got it posted on Facebook, haven’t you?”

“Well,” Claire says then pauses. “Yes.”

Leah throws up her hands. “You might as well just rent a damn billboard. When are you people going to learn?”

Steven interjects, “Wait a minute. Becky wasn’t on Facebook. It wasn’t even around back then.”

“No,” Leah says. “But Alyssa is.”

Claire looks totally confused. She goes to Steven. “Steven, what is going on here and who is this woman?”

Steven looks between her and Leah. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

“Well simplify it!” Claire says.

Leah moves toward them. “Oh, what the hell. Let’s flip all the cards and I’ll tell you the crazy lady who called here is my baby sister, Alyssa.”

“Your sister?” Claire says.

“Yep,” Leah replies. “She was in a car crash and woke up thinking she’s Rebecca.”

“Then you lied about being an old family friend,” Claire says, glancing at Steven when she says it.

“I may have stretched the truth a little.” Leah indicates Steven. “We’re friendly.”

“You be quiet,” Claire says to Leah, then, swats Steven’s arm. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was I supposed to say?” he says. “It’s not the sort of situation that can be summed up in fifty words or less.”

“Is she telling the truth?” Claire says.

“I’m afraid so,” Steven says. “The crazy lady didn’t just phone. She sort of stopped by as well.”

“Kind of left out that detail, eh, Steven?” Claire says, circling him.

He turns to keep her in his field of vision. “It was after we talked. She was the one who was beating the door down. Remember?”

Leah approaches Claire. “How would you like to meet her, Claire?”

Claire stops and stares at Leah. “Her being—”

“The crazy lady who thinks she’s Rebecca,” Leah says as though it should be obvious.

Claire closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, then faces Leah. “Let me see if I understand this. I’ve known you for less than five minutes during which time you’ve lied to me about who you are, and, apparently, you’ve been stalking me.”

“That was not me,” Leah says, “that was the Princess.”

“Princess?” Claire yells. “What Princess?”

“It’s what I call my sister,” Leah says. “She’s not really a princess.”

Claire becomes more unnerved. “No, she’s obviously a very disturbed woman who thinks she’s a dead friend of mine — and you’re asking me to meet her?” She turns to Steven. “Are you sure Ashton Kutcher isn’t hiding somewhere in the house with a camera crew, because I feel like I’m being Punk’d right now.”

“I apologize, Claire,” Steven says. “We’re trying to sort this whole thing out and getting the two of you together was mentioned as a possible option. I am not asking you to do it.”

Claire considers this, then focuses on Steven. “She really thinks she’s Becky?”

“It’s what she says,” Steven says.

Claire puts her hand on his chest. “You believed her?”

Steven touches her hand. “She called me Goonie. Yes. She’s very convincing.”

“We thought getting you together might shock her back into reality,” Leah says.

Claire pivots and puts her hands on her hips. “It would certainly shock the hell out of me.” She turns again toward Steven. “How could you possibly think that would be a good idea?”

He throws up his hands to try to calm her. “Like I say, I’m not asking you to do it.”

“Well I’m glad because I don’t need any more complications in my life. The original Becky was complicated enough.” Clare shakes her head, then starts toward the door. “I need to get out of here.”

Leah realizes she’s pushed Claire too far. She tries to think of a carrot she can use as she goes to intercept her. “No, don’t leave, Claire. I admit I can be a little assertive.”

“Assertive?” Claire says, trying to get past Leah. “I guess that’s one word for it.”

Something Claire said comes back to Leah. “You say you’re taking improv classes with Dan, right?

“That’s right,” Claire says, pausing.

“Does he ever talk about his days in Boston?” Leah says.

“Boston?” Claire considers this. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, he has talked about it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“I knew him then. We were a team for a few months on the road,” Leah says quickly. “We called ourselves The Backwoods Impresarios. It was just after I got out of Wellesley in the early 90s.”

Claire puts her index finger up to her lips and thinks this over. She shakes her finger at Leah. “Yeah, he’s talked about that in class.” A thought hits her. “Were you Leander? As in Dander and Leander?”

“Yes!” Leah says. “Those are the names we performed under. My forte was group think. Dan was better at characters.”

Claire laughs slightly. “He speaks very fondly of you, actually.”

“He should,” Leah says. “We were practically joined at the hip before he moved to Chicago to work for Second City. You cannot sleep in a car with someone on the road for six months without establishing a strong bond — or strangling one another.”

“I’d imagine,” Claire says. “Why didn’t you go with him to Chicago?”

“Dan wrangled an invitation for me but I wasn’t who they wanted,” Leah says. “I’d been deferring my admission to MIT and decided I’d have a better future with them. Plus, I once had a nasty run-in with Del Close at a workshop in San Francisco and did not want to risk a repeat of that.”

Claire takes in all that Leah has said. “Wow. Leander. I’d love to pick your brain sometime. Dan says I’ve got the character basics down, but miss a lot of offers.”

“Why don’t I buy you lunch?” Leah offers. “I still remember a few exercises that can help your concentration.” She smiles. “It would also give me the perfect opportunity to tell you all about the Princess.”

Steven comes over to them. “I don’t remember Claire agreeing on that.”

“No, no, Steven, that’s okay,” Claire says. Turning back to Leah, she concludes, “We can talk but I’m not making any promises.”

Leah extends her hand. “Deal.”

They shake on it.

Discarded Purple Madness

Occasionally, as I’m out walking, I come across items people have misplaced or forgotten, which I chronicle in a series on my Instagram account (gmatt63) entitled Discarded Items. Typically, I’ll identify the item as “Discarded” then describe what it is, usually with a color, such as Discarded Green Shorts. On 15 September 2017, I first encountered what has become the most daunting discarded item of all, what I initially tagged as “Discarded Purple Warmup Top”, but, which I’ve since been labeling “Discarded Purple Hoodie”. The story unfolds, in pictures and with my original Instagram captions below. I am including alternate shots, when available, which don’t have captions.

15 September 2017, Discarded Purple Warmup Top, South Peachtree Creek PATH, Atlanta, GA.

My criteria for assessing a discarded item is that it must be totally unattended, with no one around who might be the owner. For instance, I noted a runner one morning stopping by a seat and taking a sip of water from a bottle that had been left there, with two others. I assumed, from this, the runner and a companion left them there for this purpose, so I could not classify them as discarded items.

15 September 2017, A first, ladies and gentlemen! A recurring discarded item. When I came back by, someone had moved the Discarded Purple Warmup Top. But, the mystery deepens, as you shall soon see.

15 September 2017, Behold, viewers, a second Discarded Purple Warmup Top in a different location, which appeared after I passed the first time. It would appear there’s a Serial Purple Warmup Top Discarder on the loose! Be vigilant.

17 September 2017, The saga of the Discarded Purple Warmup Top continues. Here, we can see it’s clearly a Discarded Purple Hoodie, which someone keeps moving but won’t take away. I am bound by honor not to disturb discarded items found in the wild.

After the above photo was taken, I witnessed a man skulking around the trail marker, like he was trying to read the information on it. I had a sense, however, he was eying the Discarded Purple Hoodie. If you’re behind this, sir, be assured, I saw you. I can’t remember exactly what you look like, but I saw you. Oh, yes, I did.

24 September 2017, The saga of the Discarded Purple Hoodie took a disturbing turn today, when someone moved it to the entrance of the trail.

While still hanging around, the Discarded Purple Hoodie was, nonetheless, moving in the right direction, that is, toward the dumpsters.

Of course, I haven’t been here every day, but every day I’ve been here, I’ve spotted it. It will settle somewhere, then next time I’m around, it’s in a new location.

26 September 2017, When I did not see the Discarded Purple Hoodie at the beginning of the trail, I thought the nightmare was over. It’s obvious now, someone is trying to drive me insane.

​​​Here’s a short video I made about the most recent sighting of the Discarded Purple Hoodie.

Eleven days, folks. That’s how long this item has been floating around the trail. The first one I noted disappeared quickly and hasn’t been back, but this one just keeps popping up. Maybe it’s trying to make it back to the woods. Who knows? I shall continue to document its progress as long as necessary.

Leah and Dottie

Ballet Olympia, SunTrust Plaza, Atlanta, GA.

Leah Walker enters her dorm room at Wellesley College and sets her backpack onto a chair. It’s her freshman year, and her roommate, Heather, is visiting family for several days, so Leah’s looking forward to having the room to herself for a long weekend. Leah’s average height, with shoulder-length auburn hair, and steel-blue eyes. She’s wearing her usual attire of baggie warmup shorts, New Balance sneakers, and an oversized MIT sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She drops her keys onto the nightstand and takes a package of red Solo cups from the top drawer, removes one cup, and replaces the rest. From behind the nightstand, she takes out a bottle of Merlot she bought at a package store in Boston which never checks ID, unscrews the top, and pours half a cup.

Leah’s from Atlanta, and Wellesley is her first time living away from her family. She continued to live in her family’s home in Buckhead after the family moved to Lawrenceville just before the start of her senior year at Pace Academy, but Leah doesn’t count that, since her father, Paxton, was there off and on throughout the week. Leah had objected to the long commute, and both her parents deemed her responsible enough to go it alone for the remaining time before graduation. Since Paxton still had business in town during the week, he would stay at the house evenings when he needed to be at the office early. Leah viewed it as an opportunity to get closer to her father, with whom she’d always had a tense and distant relationship. Unfortunately, the best they managed was a sort of détente, where they’d exchange a few words going or coming, or, a bit of conversation if Paxton happened to be around in the living room while Leah was working on a school assignment.

She sits on her bed, takes a sip of wine, and picks up a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale, a gift from Marla Prentice, an instructor in one of Leah’s core Humanities classes, and with whom Leah’s been spending a lot of time lately. Starting her second week at school, Leah found herself involved in a rather passionate relationship with Marla, which started nearly the moment she entered class, and fell under Marla’s scrutiny. After class, Marla made a point of striking up a conversation with Leah. Marla’s a few inches taller than Leah, and several years older, with a trim, athletic build, and jet black hair, that’s very long, and which she wears in dreads. She always wears short, dark dresses, over tights in various colors, with clogs. Her complexion gives Leah the impression that Marla’s of mixed race, though Leah can’t tell which races went into the mix. Marla’s very economical in the facts she shares about herself. She speaks and moves with a frenetic energy, which Leah finds infectious. They ran into one another a short while later, on a smoke break before lunch, and Marla invited Leah to join her for a bite. They ended up back at Marla’s apartment, just off campus, where things got very heated very quickly. Over the next week, their afternoon dalliances progressed into an intense physical relationship, which surprised Leah, as she’s never before entertained ideas of being involved with another woman.

The situation excites and troubles Leah, who finds the intimacy thrilling, but wonders what it all means. Throughout high school, she had the usual teen relationships, occasional dates with guys she knew from math class or science club, who’d take her out after school, or sometimes evenings, often with other computer geeks like her, and she had a number of girls she spent time with in school and out, or with whom she played on the lacrosse or softball teams, but she’d never entertained the thought of having a sexual relationship with any of them, male or female, nor could she recall ever having crushes on any of her female teachers, regardless of how attractive they’d been. It worries her that she could be so unaware of such an important aspect of her personality, and wonders what else she might have missed. A few days into the relationship, Leah decided she needed advice from someone more worldly.

She has a great relationship with her mother, Melinda, but she’s not sure how her mother will react to Leah potentially being a lesbian, so, for advice, she decided to sound out her aunt Margaret on the matter. Since childhood, Margaret has been an important influence on Leah, second only to Melinda, with whom Margaret’s been friends since college. Like Leah, Margaret is a first-born daughter, who’s two years older than Paxton, and it was Margaret who introduced Paxton to Melinda when Leah’s mother was still in college. Melinda had traveled to Atlanta from Charleston, South Carolina, to attend Agnes Scott, with the intention of being a teacher, but instead met and married Paxton Walker. As she was getting started back at school, she discovered she was pregnant with Leah, and put her dreams of teaching on hold. Leah has always harbored a bit of guilt, knowing that she prevented her mother from finishing school, but Melinda’s always maintained a cheerful and upbeat attitude about it, telling Leah she’ll head back to school once Alyssa, Leah’s baby sister, who’s twelve years younger, is out of the house.

Leah phoned Margaret and wasted little time in getting to the point.

“Margaret, have you ever been with another woman?” Leah asked.

“In what sense do you mean that?” Margaret said, a bit of discomfort evident in her voice.

“Seriously?” Leah said. “What sense do you think?”

“Oh,” Margaret said. “Well, if that’s what you mean, then no.”

“Have you thought about it?” Leah said.

“Hmm, let me guess,” Margaret said, “you’re asking because you’ve either thought about it, or—”

“No, I’m way beyond thinking about it, at this point,” Leah said.

“I see. Well. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” Leah said.

“Then what’s the problem?” Margaret asked. “If you had a good time, where’s the harm?”

“But what does it mean?” Leah said.

“Why does it have to mean something?” Margaret said.

“I guess it doesn’t have to,” Leah said. “It just usually does.”

“Look, you didn’t go blind and you weren’t struck by lightning were you?” Margaret asked

“Not yet.”

“Then, we can assume the universe is okay with it,” Margaret said.

“I don’t know if I’m okay with it,” Leah said, “I mean, I like her, but I don’t think either of us is interested in a real relationship.”

“Is it ongoing?” Margaret asked.

“As of right now, it is,” Leah said.

“Then go with it,” Margaret said. “See where it leads. I’ve never found myself in this situation, so I don’t know how I’d respond. You went away to college to learn, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, part of that is learning about yourself,” Margaret said. “You have an excellent opportunity to explore who you are without the glare of your family judging your every move. Take advantage of that.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Margaret.”

“Anytime, sweetie,” Margaret said. “Let me know how things turn out.”

Leah leans back on her bed and resumes reading the book. She manages about five pages when her reading is interrupted by the sound of someone pounding insistently on the door. An unfamiliar voice follows the first round of pounding. “Open this door, you bitch!”

The pounding resumes.

Leah puts down the book and cautiously approaches the door.

“Who is it?” she says.

“I said open this door,” the voice says, “I’m going to kick your ass, you slut.”

Whoever’s outside sounds drunk.

Leah looks at Heather’s bed, then says, “Are you here to kick the ass of a brunette or a redhead? Cause the brunette isn’t here.”

There’s a long pause, before, “Kind of reddish brown. Not a brunette.”

“Perfect,” Leah says to herself.

She considers calling campus security, but decides against it. As the next round of pounding begins, she quickly pulls open the door. A young woman, about Leah’s age and height, with curly, dirty blonde hair, and wearing a short, polka dotted dress and slip-on sneakers, comes tumbling into the room. She falls to her hands and knees and seems somewhat confused. Leah takes the opportunity to grab her roommate’s umbrella, which she brandishes as a weapon.

“Who the hell are you and what do you want?” Leah says to the woman. “Apart from what you’ve already stated.”

“I said I’m going to kick your ass, you bitch,” the woman says as she struggles to get her footing and rise. She looks up at Leah, then says, “Yeah. You.” She looks around for something to hold onto. At last, she pulls herself up on a table and stands up straight, but swaying, as she confronts Leah. She’s wearing a slight amount of makeup, but it’s gotten splotchy from crying. Leah holds the umbrella in front of her as she speaks.

“Okay, I gather that you’re pissed about something,” Leah says. “Why don’t we start with your name. Who are you?”

“I’m Dottie,” the woman says. “Dorothy, actually, but most people call me Dottie.”

“Okay — ah — Dottie,” Leah says, still brandishing the umbrella. “I’m Leah — or do you already know that?”

“How the hell should I know what your name is?” Dottie says.

“You showed up at my door wanting to beat me up,” Leah says, “I assume you’d know my name. What’s this about?”

“It’s about Marla,” Dottie says.

“Marla Prentice? What about her?”

Dottie begins to reply, but suddenly throws her hand over her mouth and starts to heave. Leah hurriedly points to the bathroom. Dottie quickly stumbles in and kicks the door closed. Leah can hear her vomiting. She puts down the umbrella and sits on her bed until she hears the sounds subside. At last, the toilet flushes, followed by the sound of water running in the sink. This goes on for several minutes before Dottie returns to the room, far more subdued than when she left. Leah motions to Heather’s bed and Dottie sits.

“Let’s start over, shall we?” Leah says. “You want to kick my ass and it has something to do with Marla.”

“You stole her from me,” Dottie says. “She won’t return my calls. Then I saw you with her at our coffee shop.”

“Coffee shop?” Leah says. “You mean Sandusky’s? I took her there.”

“You did?” Dottie says. “She said it was our special place.”

“Yeah, she sort of told me the same thing after our first visit,” Leah says. “When did you start seeing her?”

“Right after classes started,” Dottie says. “About a month after I got here.”

“So did I,” Leah says. An idea occurs to her. “Did she take you to The Jewel of the Nile?”

Dottie nods. “The night we first—”

Leah holds up her hand. “Same here.”

“Why aren’t you upset?” Dottie says. “I just confirmed I’ve been sleeping with Marla. That doesn’t bother you?”

“Not really,” Leah says. “I haven’t figured out exactly what our relationship is yet. I take it you feel a bit more committed?”

“I haven’t felt this way before,” Dottie says. “I was all ready to tell my family I’m gay and she ditches me. Told me I’m getting too serious. I figured there was someone else, so I followed her. That’s where I saw you.”

“Meaning you must have followed me here,” Leah says.

“Yesterday,” Dottie says. “It took me all afternoon to get up the courage to come over.”

“Speaking of which,” Leah says. “How much did you drink?”

“Bottle, bottle and a half,” Dottie says. She notices the book and points to it. “I suppose she gave you that.”

“She did.”

“I gave it to her,” Dottie says.

Leah picks it up and looks at the spine. “You’re DG? She said it was on the book when she bought it.”

Dottie nods. “Dorothy Gage.”

“Isn’t that the person in The Wizard of Oz?” Leah says.

“Oh, that’s original,” Dottie says. “Her name is Dorothy Gale. Don’t change the subject.”

“What makes you think I stole Marla from you?” Leah says. “Sounds to me like she’s been leading us both on.”

“Yeah, it’s starting to look that way,” Dottie says. “There’s this girl in my English Lit class who said she had an affair with Marla last year. I didn’t want to believe her, but then I saw the two of you together.”

“Why didn’t you confront Marla?” Leah says.

“I tried, but she’s not at her apartment,” Dottie says.

Leah shakes her head. “She’s never there on the weekend. Hmm. This makes me wonder where she goes.”

Dottie looks down. “Would you mind if I just lie down for a minute or two?”

“You’re not going to throw up again are you? I doubt Heather would like that, and I don’t feel like cleaning up after you.”

“God, I hope not,” Dottie replies. She lies on her side, and pulls her knees up, crossing her arms in front of her.

“I suppose you can kick my ass when you wake up,” Leah says.

“Maybe,” Dottie says as she drifts off.

Leah continues reading while Dottie sleeps. She’s still asleep when Leah goes to bed. The following morning, Dottie is awake and very embarrassed by her behavior. Leah treats Dottie to breakfast at the nearest cafe, and they have a long talk, where they discover a lot of common interests. Leah is fluent in most of the European languages, owing to her family’s many visits to the continent as she was growing up, and she’s pleased to learn Dottie is as well. They switch to speaking German to keep people from eavesdropping on them as they decide what to do about Marla. By the time they part ways, they’ve developed a plan of action.

A few days later, Leah is sitting with Marla at the coffee shop. They’re discussing The Handmaid’s Tale.

“Take that lesson to heart,” Marla tells her. “Men are not to be trusted.”

“They certainly didn’t come off very well in the book,” Leah says.

“Have you read any of Dworkin’s work?” Marla says.

“Andrea Dworkin? I’ve heard of her.”

Marla suddenly focuses on something over Leah’s shoulder and shakes her head. “I don’t believe this.”

“What is it?” Leah says. She looks to see Dottie seated at the lunch counter, wearing dark glasses, situated where she has a good view of Leah and Marla.

“Nothing,” Marla says. “Just this student who’s been giving me a hard time over a grade.” Marla rises. “Excuse me just a minute.”

She goes over and confronts Dottie in low tones. While she’s gone, Leah slides over and picks up Marla’s bag. She checks to be sure Marla isn’t looking, then she pulls out Marla’s wallet and checks her driver’s license and credit cards. Finished, she replaces the wallet, and puts the bag back where it was. She moves back to her chair, and makes an okay sign to Dottie, who abruptly breaks off her argument with Marla, gathers her things, and storms out.

“I’m really sorry about that,” Marla says when she returns to the table. “I failed her on a test and she’s been stalking me ever since.”

“Not a problem,” Leah says. “Say, where do you disappear to on the weekends?”

“Where did this come from all of a sudden?” Marla says.

“I’m just curious,” Leah says. “I figured you must be sneaking off to some cozy little bed and breakfast to write and might want some company.”

Marla laughs. “Trust me, if I was, you’d be the first one I’d call.” She reaches over and places her hand on Leah’s. “I’m free for the next hour. Want to swing by my place?”

“I’d love to,” Leah says, “but I have a midterm in chemistry coming up. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

“You’re on,” Marla says. They talk for a few minutes before Leah insists she needs to go. Marla walks her to the door and they part with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then head off in different directions. Leah walks about half a block, then checks to be sure Marla is far enough away, then ducks down a side street and circles back to the rear of the coffee shop, where she finds Dottie seated on the back deck. Leah sits with her.

“Anything?” Dottie says.

Leah shakes her head. “Her license has her campus address. But it did have a different name, Marla Rogan.”

“Rogan?” Dottie says. “That kind of takes some of the luster off.”

Leah leans forward and says confidentially, “Know anyone who works for the university? If I can get on the computer network, I can probably hack into payroll and find out where they’re mailing her checks.”

“Actually, I do,” Dottie says, “and she spends a lot of time away from her desk.” She rises. “Come on.”

Several hours later, they’re back at Leah’s dorm room with new information.

“Shrewsbury,” Dottie says. “Figures she’d live someplace called Shrewsbury.”

“She’s also listed as Mrs. Marla Rogan in payroll,” Leah says.

“I can’t believe you got in so easily,” Dottie says. “How’d you know Barb’s password?”

“I didn’t,” Leah says. “I took the chance she used ‘password’ and it worked.”

“So, what next?”

Leah grins. “Marla has classes all morning. How about a trip to Shrewsbury?”

Dottie laughs. “So, I wonder what the husband of the ultimate feminist looks like?”

“Only one way to find out,” Leah says.

The following morning they hop into Leah’s Karmann Ghia, which Margaret loaned her as she headed off to college, and drove to the address in Shrewsbury, where Marla’s paychecks are being sent. Parked out in front of the brownstone, Dottie says, “You think this is a good idea?”

“Probably not, but I don’t see a lot of options,” Leah replies. “If we just ignore her, she’ll keep doing this.”

“I mean, rather than the dumping part, I did have a good time,” Dottie says.

“Same here,” Leah says. “But she’s taking advantage of impressionable girls when they’re least equipped to handle it.”

“Right,” Dottie says. “We’re just taking a stand. That’s all.”

“Right,” Leah says. She holds up her hand and Dottie grips it and nods.

“Let’s do this,” Dottie says.

They get out and walk up to the door. Dottie rings the bell. A few moments later, a child can be heard yelling, followed by the locks being unlocked. A thin man, probably just under six feet tall, with short blonde hair and tanned, leathery skin, opens the door.

“Yes?” he says. “How may I help you?”

He speaks with the precise phrasing that’s reminiscent of someone who’s first language isn’t English, but Leah cannot detect any recognizable accent.

“Hi,” she says, “are you Mr. Rogan?”

“I’m Lance Rogan, yes,” the man says.

“I’m Dorothy,” Dottie says, “this is Leah. We’re — ah — friends of Marla’s.”

“Ah, yes,” Lance says. “Marla’s not here currently. I believe she’s teaching today.”

“We know,” Leah says. “We’re not here to speak with her.”

“More to speak about her,” Dottie adds.

“I don’t understand,” Lance says. He opens the outer security door. “Please come in.”

As they enter, Leah notes a black woman, wearing a uniform and holding the hand of a small boy.

“Nina, would you take Alexander to the play room?” Lance says to her.

“Of course, Mr. Rogan,” Nina says in what sounds, to Leah, like a Jamaican accent.

“Please have a seat in here,” Lance says, directing the women to the living room. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Water would be great,” Dottie says, to which Leah nods.

Leah and Dottie sit on the couch. A moment later, Lance returns with a pitcher and two glasses on a tray which he sets on the coffee table in front of them. He takes a seat in a leather chair facing them.

“Now, how may I help you ladies?” he says. “You say this is about Marla?”

Leah and Dottie look at one another and Leah says, “Mr. Rogan, there’s probably no easy way to say this, but Dorothy and I have been — involved with Marla.”

Lance continues to look at them displaying no emotion. “I see. Why have you brought this information to me? Are you here for money?”

“Oh, no. No. Nothing like that,” Dottie says.

Leah slides to the edge of the couch. “She’s right. We’re here because we feel we’ve been taken advantage of and we wanted to let you know.”

“Please, tell me your stories,” Lance says.

First Dottie, then Leah tells Lance about their relationships with Marla. Throughout both stories, his expression does not change, nor does he display any reaction, other than to occasionally nod. When Leah finishes her story, they sit for a long moment in silence.

Finally, Lance says, “What is it you wish me to do about this? That is, if you are certain you’re not here for money.”

“We don’t exactly know,” Leah says. “To be honest, we didn’t really think this part through very well before coming here.”

“I see,” Lance says with the hint of a smile. “Well, I do not wish to share intimate details of my marriage, since I know nothing about either of you. However I will say that I am aware Marla has certain needs that I’m not able to address. If you have been harmed in any way I apologize.” He rises. “I’ll have a talk with her when she gets in this evening, and we’ll decide together how best to handle this situation.”

He motions toward the door. Leah and Dottie rise and follow him back to the front door.

“I trust you will be making no further trips to visit us?” he says.

Leah and Dottie look at one another.

“Definitely not,” Dottie says. Leah concurs.

“Very good,” Lance says. “I will appreciate your continued discretion on this matter, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Leah says.

“You ladies have an nice afternoon,” Lance says as he lets them out.

Back in the car, Dottie says, “What just happened in there?”

“I have no idea,” Leah says. “Let’s get lunch somewhere.”

“You’re on.”

The following day, when Leah shows up for her Humanities class, Marla isn’t there. The instructor filling in for her explains that Marla has taken a leave of absence for “family reasons”. Neither Leah, nor Dottie, see or hear from her again.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Dottie says as she and Leah are lying on the bed in her dorm room. “You think she’s okay?”

“Hard to tell,” Leah says. “That’s an odd family.”

“We make a pretty good team,” Dottie says. “I have this feeling you and I are going to get into lots of trouble together.”

“I think you’re right,” Leah says. “Still planning on telling your family you’re gay?”

“Nah, I’ve gone back to questioning,” Dottie says. “Why limit myself? My family can figure it out on their own.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Leah says.

“Hey,” Dottie says, sitting up. “What do you think about getting an apartment?”

“Now?”

“No,” Dottie says, “over the summer. You know, just stick around Boston instead of going home.”

“Summer’s a long way off,” Leah says.

“I know. But it doesn’t hurt to plan,” Dottie says. “If we strike at the right time, we could get a great deal.”

“Oh, trust me, I know real estate,” Leah says. “My father’s the man who gave Atlanta its suburban sprawl.”

“Good to know,” Dottie says.

From that point on, not a day goes by that they don’t spend time together. As summer comes along, they move off campus into a nice apartment.

Discarded Items

A sampling of some of the items I’ve found left behind during my early morning walks along the South Peachtree Creek PATH and Stone Mountain.

6 August 2017, Discarded Garter, South Peachtree Creek PATH.

4 August 2017, Discarded Blue Bird Toy, South Peachtree Creek PATH.

31 July 2017, Discarded Green Shorts, Stone Mountain, GA.

30 July 2017, Discarded Yuki-Ball, Medlock Park, Decatur, GA.

27 July 2017, Discarded Dead Baseball, Medlock Park, Decatur, GA.

12 July 2017, Discarded Orange Sippy Cup, South Peachtree Creek PATH.

7 July 2017, Discarded Blue Pacifier, South Peachtree Creek PATH.

6 July 2017, Discarded Shades, South Peachtree Creek PATH.

5 July 2017, Discarded Patriotic Vans, Medlock Park, Decatur, GA.

Another Mother World Premiere in August

Artwork for Another Mother by G. M. Lupo, by Lauren Pallotta, featuring Rylee Bunton as Genevieve.

My play, Another Mother, will have its world premiere at the 2017 Essential Theatre Festival, which starts July 28. My play premieres August 4, at the West End Performing Arts Center, directed by Peter Hardy. Another Mother tells the story of Genevieve Duchard, a young woman who learns that the circumstances of her birth aren’t as she’s always believed them to be, and sets out to learn the truth. Tickets and Festival passes are available at the Essential Theatre’s website. Another Mother runs in repertory with Lauren Gunderson’s play, Ada and the Memory Engine, which begins July 28.