Less Than Swimming News

I knew exactly where we were going long before we reached the bridge, casting its lanterned-glow over the Bay.

And, frankly, the gun pointed at my side the entire drive felt unnecessary, like a prop left over from a melodrama. I knew where we were going and I wasn't about to exit before my entrance.

However, the bone-thin model next to me seemed to have an entirely different idea of what was necessary. Her cats' eyes (one green, one blue) were cool and expressionless, but alert, as if waiting for the slightest movement. Hadn't she heard of color-correcting contacts? (Probably not.)

If I had to bet, I'd say the Cat never, ever ate her vegetables.

As we turned off the causeway, I caught a glimpse of the red coral charm hanging from the neck of my captor. It reminded me of the centuries-old puzzle I had yet to unravel and did nothing to calm my feeling that this return to Star Island, this first visit in ten years, was not going to be good.

Return to the Sort-of-Real World

If I had even the slightest sense of time, I might have realized that we weren't going to make it to the Queen's book signing. But as Brad pushed me through the doors of the over-airconditioned mega-bookstore, I hoped that the Queen might be signing one last, false-adoring page of Love sincerely, your own idol, the Queen.

Instead, as I should have expected, Eva blocked our entrance, holding a book to her chest like a life-preserver.

"It. Didn't. Go. Well," she says, shifting her icy gaze between us. "I needed you."

I glance at Brad, not sure if Eva meant him or me.

"I'm sorry," we both say at once, then look away from her, guilty of some imagined conspiracy. Though I still don't know what the Second Point means, the Writing on the Wall stretches invisibly between us, a mystery to be solved, or dissected, or searched. Now that people (and opossums) are dying, I'm not sure if I can be the Queen's pretend third assistant, or Khost's true assistant, or if true is even the opposite of pretend, but still, not knowing how, I find myself saying (or hearing?):

I'll make it up to you.

Eva, at least, thinks I've said it. She growls: "Well, the Queen's long gone. Driver took her back to her Palace. Betty's signing another box of books for her -- fans won't know the difference. So I guess all that leaves is...you telling me where the hell you've been this evening."

Brad: "I should go."

Eva (a little manic): "No...no, you stay here. I want to see if you get that, that eyebrow twitch that happens when you hear a lie."

Brad: "You noticed that?"

Eva: "Please, I knew you knew I'd never risk a real tan. Every time I came back from "sunbathing": twitchy."

"I was at the library," I say quickly. "I'm sorry I can't be more interesting for you, Eva, but I'm old, I'm boring, I was at the library with the dust motes."

"Very boring," coughs Brad, eyebrows still.

For some reason I feel compelled to keep going. "And I caught Brad, here, your Brad, researching shiny objects. Shiny glittery objects. But I'm sure you'd be the least surprised to hear that," I say.

Instead of looking pleased, Eva eyes Brad strangely.

"Oh," she says, simply, unreadable.

I'm trying to process. But this is not the only thing going on. Down the street, a lone car is slowly making its way towards us. The silver Bentley crawls to a stop right outside the mega-bookstore, and a few feet away.

Max lets out a large squawk and I turn around, almost in slow motion, as the door swings crudely open.

Diverging Roads

"I can't believe you took the train here," I say, leading Brad through the dense foliage to my car.

"Library stop," says Brad, "right before Government Center. Everyone usually sleeps through it."

I check around the wheels to my car before I get in. Opossom is gone.

Max settles between us as Brad directs me back to the city. I'm actually glad to be with someone who knows where he's going.

"Thanks," I say. "For getting us out of there." Max sniffs.

"No prob," Brad says, "I wasn't about to let a famous playwright burn to death in a library. That'd be...ironically messed up. Besides, I told your brother I'd look after you."

"Keith? When did you see him?"

"Ran into him at Cafe Mauricio's, a few weeks before you moved back. He was telling me all about his sister, the poor city bird, unable to survive on her own in the wilds of Miami."

"Please, my brother still has mom iron his shirts."

"So this was just...brotherly humor? Nothing more?"

"No...I...He thinks if you drive a Camry you're D-list. It's all about attitude. And not caring. I highly recommend the not caring. Plus, it's not like I'm in the tabs." Brad smiles uncomfortably. "Sorry, I didn't--"

"No, no, it's refreshing. To hear about someone who doesn't have to care." Brad runs his finger across the dust on his side window.

"So which way now?" I ask, quietly, as we approach a four-way stop.

"Left," says Brad, "or right. It doesn't matter."

We drive on in silence.