The Singing Bone (29 page)

Trina would go along, whispering in the bathroom with Alice, looking down the hallway and shutting the door: “You're playing the part of the babysitter, but don't tell anyone you're acting.”

“Okay,” Alice said. She passed her hands over her face. Happy, sad; sad, happy. “I won't tell. I'm
always
acting,” Alice said. “What's your part?”

“I'm the daughter.”

“Who are your parents again?”

“Mr. Wyck and Allegra.”

“Who's Allegra?” Alice knew who the real Allegra was, but she wanted to know who was playing the part of Allegra while Allegra was away.

“She's gone. Remember?”

“Right. And no one's filling in? How do you think the audience will react to that?”

“Jesus, Alice. Don't worry about it. Mr. Wyck has it figured out. Let it be his job.”

When Trina refused to review the action with Alice, Alice got nervous. Mr. Wyck would smile at her from across the room. It was a Be Good smile.

On the sofa, Alice tried to imitate Mr. Wyck's Be Good smile, but Trina was doing Molly's cards for her. Alice picked at a scab on her knee. She sniffed under her arm. Trina was right. She smelled. She was supposed to take the twins trick-or-treating tonight. It was an act inside of an act.

“All right,” Mr. Wyck said, coming stage right into the living room. “We need to get moving.” Alice looked at him. He was always in character. When he broke something, he really broke it. She was impressed. Method acting was not the easiest. She remembered Mr. Valetti telling her over lunch one day how method acting wore some actors out. Alice thought she might be one of those actors.

“Alice has to take a shower first,” Trina said. “And we don't have the kind of warm clothes we need to go to the Smiths.”

Mr. Wyck stood in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus Christ, Allegra,” he said. Alice looked around to see if there was a new actress, but no one else had come onstage.

“People,” Lee said. “You're so ridiculous. It's Halloween. Wear whatever you want.”

Mr. Wyck pointed at him. “Smart boy,” he said.

“I'm going to be a princess,” Molly said. “Help me get ready.”

“No drugs before the Smiths. Are you high?” Mr. Wyck said. Molly stretched her legs out and pointed her toes. “Or a ballerina.” She laughed. Mr. Wyck came over and peered into Molly's eyes and slapped her gently across each cheek. She lifted her chin and closed her eyes for a kiss. He picked up the Aunt Jemima bong and threw it across the room. “Make her some coffee,” he said to Lee. “Get her a shower. Help her turn into a princess. She ain't one right now.”

“I told you,” Alice began, but Trina stopped her.

“Didn't you hear?” Trina said. “The union came out and demanded we have showers on set.”

Alice stared at her. She'd never heard of such a thing. “Do they have hot water?”

“What's this nonsense?” Mr. Wyck said.

“You haven't heard about the play?” Lee looked bored. Alice had to make some decisions about Lee's backstory. The scab came off. Underneath was a raw red dot. She couldn't see Lee in Vietnam.

“Alice,” Mr. Wyck said. “You are not in a play.”

Alice laughed. “Okay. Call it what you will. Cinema verité then.” She got up. “Do the showers really work?”

“I'll show you,” Trina said.

Alice stopped and put her hands up. “I can't have cameras in the bathroom.”

“Call the union!” Lee yelled as Trina pulled her up the stairs. Alice could hear them laughing. She turned, as if to go back down the steps, but Trina stopped her. “Come on,” she said. “When you go back down, remember: It's your part in the play not to be in a play. No one can know it's a play. Make it real.”

“That is so fucking French.”

“Oui,” Trina said.

“You're the assistant director?”

“I have authority from the director to tell you that.”

It was true. Trina was working closely with the director. Alice and Molly had been asked to vacate Mr. Wyck's bedroom so that he and Trina could have some time together. Alice and Molly moved into Allegra's old room. At first, Alice demanded to know what Trina and Mr. Wyck were working on. One night, when she hadn't been able to sleep, she went to find out. Alice sat on the corner of the bed while they slept. “Trina,” she whispered. “T.” Alice shook Trina's arm. “What are you working on?”

“Huh?”

“What's going to happen?”

“Alice,” Trina said. “It's the middle of the night.” She rolled over, but Alice shook her arm again.

“Trina,” Alice said. “I need to know what's going to happen.”

“Shut up, Alice. Go back to bed.” Trina pulled the covers around her and kept her back to Alice. Alice was cold. She got under the covers between Trina and Mr. Wyck and fell asleep. After that, whenever she tried to get into their room at night, the door was locked, but she stood outside and knocked lightly anyway, calling for them until Mr. Wyck threw the door open and yelled at Alice. She didn't see the point in waking the whole crew up when all Alice wanted to know was what was going to happen in the next scene. Alice went back to bed. She and Molly shared one of the single beds. There were two beds in the room, but it was too cold to sleep alone. They piled all the blankets and clothes on top of themselves at night and curled into each other, shaking at first, but gradually warming.

But there were days when Alice woke up and knew she wasn't in a play, and it terrified her that she had been so convinced. Everyone seemed relieved when she didn't talk about the play and Alice could see why. She promised herself she wouldn't slip into the play stuff again, but by the late afternoon, she'd begin to feel again like she was acting, and by the time dinner rolled around, or people came over to hang out, Alice would again be fully committed to the idea of the play. If people weren't principal characters, they just thought she was tripping. They went along with her. Big John loved to talk about the play with Alice. Schizz, too. Schizz wanted to know who he was. “Alice,” he would say, “give me a good part. Make me the main man.” He stood to dance. Alice watched his small hips.

“Oh, you're the dancer,” she said. “All right.” Big John held his stomach and laughed until he coughed.

When Trina took Alice into the bathroom and turned on the shower, Alice looked at the water and shook her head. “Amazing,” she said. Trina gave her shampoo and soap and sat on the toilet lid while Alice showered. Afterwards, Trina helped Alice dry her hair and comb it out. “So tangled,” she murmured. She brought her a cup of tea and Mr. Wyck's thick wool socks and his red sweater with the frayed sleeves.

“Where did you go?” Alice asked Trina. “What did he do to you?”

“When?”

“That night. The night he left you in the woods.”

“The night the play started?” Trina said.

“Maybe.” Alice couldn't set a date to the start of the play.

“He made it simple. He said I could come back, but that I had to come on my own, and if I trusted him, I would get out of the woods, and that if I didn't trust him, I would die there.”

Alice's eyes grew wide. “Die?” she repeated.

“But I knew I wouldn't.”

“You found your way back.”

“I did.”

“How?”

Trina hesitated. “I followed a light. It went on and off. I could see it in the distance. It was like Tinkerbell. I followed it.”

“That was me!” Alice said, and she told Trina how they'd all done magic together to help her come back. “I'm Tinkerbell?” Alice asked. She hadn't seen herself that way. It didn't fit.

“No, you're Alice.”

“Alice,” Alice repeated.

“Thank you for helping me.”

Alice took Trina's hand in hers. “I was so scared,” she said.

“I know. But you didn't have to be. What do you want to be for Halloween?” Trina asked.

Alice thought. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Myself,” she answered.

Alice is trying to make sense of the Polish variant of “The Twa' Sisters.” She taps her pen on the table and gazes out the window, humming. The ballad is not linear. It jumps from one image to the next and unlike the other variants, the sisters have names—albeit strange ones: Night and Death. There's no miller, and even with those names, there's no murder. There is no musician or revenge motif, no singing bone, but this spare variant is almost more menacing. The imagination takes over. Night, death, a traveler. A story like that cannot end well.

Alice goes to the bedroom and begins packing. Just a few things. She doesn't know how long she'll be gone. A thin sweater, a thick sweater, a short-sleeved T-shirt, a long-sleeved one. Or where she'll go. She could drive up to the Catskills. If she wanted, she could keep going. Yes. She needs a real vacation—but later—a warm beach, the ocean's horizon.

The song lingers
. There were two sisters, Night and Death
. Darker and darkest. She's plucked the word “chalice” from the ballad. Here, a traveler breaks a chalice. A loss of innocence, certainly. Implied sex. The traveler is demanding. She folds her trousers along the crease line and tucks her pajamas into the mesh lining of her suitcase, then zips it shut and leaves it standing next to her bed.

Humming, she goes to the kitchen to clean up.
There were two sisters, Night and Death—
but how does she know this part? She hasn't translated it yet. She turns the water on and sings, picking the words out of the air.
There were two sisters, Night and Death. Death was bigger and Night was smaller.
She gets lost in the song. Maybe she would translate it as “Death was older and Night was younger.”
What do these strange sisters look like?
she wonders. Right:
Night was delicate like a dream, but Death
—and here she stops. She closes her mouth. The rest of the words flood her head:
Death was even more beautiful.
“Hey nonny hey!” she opens her mouth wide and sings. Alice puts her hand to her lips and turns her head. Someone's opened the front door. She shuts off the water and listens.
Death was even more beautiful
. She walks slowly into the living room, taking a knife with her. The front door is standing open. Alice is sure she locked it. The door is bumping softly against the wall as if there was a breeze. There's a crash in the bedroom, then glass breaks.

Alice watches the door bump against the wall. She waits for mayhem, but it doesn't come.
Run to the door
, she tells herself.
Run
. But she doesn't move.
Go
, she thinks. Instead, she begins the slow walk down the narrow hallway to her bedroom. She grips the knife, holding it in front of her in both hands. The song is still going through her head.
Night and Death owned an inn—
She stops in the doorway. The bedroom is filled with light, the window is opened, and the metal blind bangs against the glass. Her suitcase is on its side, opened. The things she's packed are strewn on the floor. The mirror over her dresser has fallen.
Near where the river ran deep—

But Alice sees no one. She steps carefully over the clothes and makes her way farther into the room.
A traveler came and called— 
Alice walks around the bed.
Bring me a drink! I'm thirsty!
Alice hums, keeping the knife in front of her. She can see that someone is hiding—or trying to—on the other side of the bed, crouching. Alice moves slowly. She bites her lip. The knife is in the air, but there, on the floor, is only a girl.
So Night ran up to him lightly— 
The girl's back is shaking. Alice sees that her hands are scraped and bruised. Her clothes are wet and caked with mud.
And Death came gladly—
Her yellow hair is matted with leaves. The afternoon light illuminates the yellow curls, shining and wet. A cold wind blows into the room.

“Hey,” Alice says. “It's all right.” She opens her mouth, reaches a soothing palm. “What happen—” she begins, but just as she sinks to the floor to join her, the girl looks up at Alice. It's Molly, her eyes a cloudy bluish gray, her lips swollen and bleeding, her forehead caked with blood. Alice rises, backs away, clutching the useless knife. She reaches to catch herself on the bureau's edge and cuts her hand on the broken mirror. In an instant, Molly flattens herself out on the floor and disappears, scuttling crablike, beneath the bed.

And Alice falls. The glass breaks into splinters as she goes. It's ice cracking, the wind snapping the branches away from winter trees. Alice falls. The light disappears. The black water rises over her head. Alice falls, and it is as dark and as cold as the bottom of a lake in wintertime.

“Stuart Malloy won't answer my phone calls,” Ariel says. They're in the car, on their way to see Detective Simon, the original investigator. He wants to see Jack Wyck's drawings and letters.

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“This morning when I called his wife picked up the phone and said ‘Leave us alone' and hung up.”

“Let's back off until later. Give them some space. Family. They want to be involved or they don't—Sophia hopes maybe the film will help her find her sister, but Stuart? His sister's not coming back.”

“No. What about Mr. and Mrs. Malloy? They might bring something to the film.”

Hans has been turning this over. Likely, he will contact them—and soon—but he sees that the film might be changing, and he is beginning to see how he might take Alice out of the film all together. He might focus on Jack's release, on the Wyckians, on finding Allegra. He's slipping further down the well, the stones slick, the air heavier. And he must go where the film tells him to go. He remembers trying to turn
America, I Love You
into a film about Vietnam, but the threads of narrative he thought he knew so well kept slipping out of his hands. Finally, he decided to make it into a film of vignettes, of individual stories, and it came together quickly, finding its rhythm. It was a valuable lesson in narrative. You couldn't force a narrative onto something—the narrative had to surface on its own. It was only his job to find it.