Page 63 of In What World
“Definitely not. I don’t act,” Marlowe replies.
This Dallas turns toward me. “A Marlowe Jenkins who says things like ‘I don’t act.’ How sacrilegious is that? It would be like meeting a Dallas who doesn’t tailor his own clothes.”
“Every version of you we’ve met has been impeccably dressed,” I confirm, glad to have a true positive to contribute.
He lingers on my face for a beat too long, and I recognize the knowing in his gaze. He has not been fooled into the myth of Cilla Cove. He sees the scared woman beneath, grasping for something solid to hold. “Thank you both for coming to see me,” he says. “I’d love to stick around and chat some more, but I have to get ready for the next performance. I hope I’ve been of help.”
“You’ve given us more information than any other Dallas, including our own,” Marlowe tells him.
This Dallas gives us each a generous hug, starting with Marlowe and then making his way to me.
“You good?” he whispers in my ear, too quiet for Marlowe to catch.
I say nothing. He squeezes me even tighter, planting a kiss on my temple.
“Please don’t give up on him,” he tells us both. “He might act like he doesn’t want your help, but he needs it. I can promise you that.”
21
Marlowe
On the driveback, Cilla watches the darkened landscape while I focus on the road. The radio plays songs I’d sing along to on any other night. I can’t use my own voice right now, for fear it might betray me in attempting a conversation. Talking to Cilla only ever seems to lead me down risky paths, and the psychics said she has to let me go so she can find a meaningful relationship. Who would I be to deprive her of that? And for what, other than my own selfish desires?
If we return to our real lives, she is an actress who lives in Los Angeles and I am a schoolteacher in Iowa. That isn’t a world where we make sense together.
When we pull into the psychics’ driveway, they’re on the front porch, sitting at the bistro table that came from my grandma—something no one in my family has ever made use of in our version of this house. The presence of the psychics is both a surprise and a welcome buffer. I don’t have to talk to Cilla directly. I can talkalongsideheras we tell them about our time with Dallas.
Psychic Marlowe drills us for every detail we can spare, on everything from the performance (sensational) to the mozzarella sticks (forgettable).
At my fourth involuntary yawn, Psychic Priscilla claps her hands on her knees. “We need to let them go to bed,” she tells Psychic Marlowe. “She’s about to keel over.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Psychic Marlowe says. “I just love hearingeverysinglepieceof a story.”
It’s almost like she knows about Teddy. Maybe she does. Sheisthe psychic. But Cilla and I are the ones who seem to be using telepathy. Despite no discussion on the matter, neither of us has mentioned him. We must both agree it’s not our information to share, and that if their Dallas wants to open up to them about Teddy someday, that’s his decision to make.
“We’ve prepped the downstairs bedroom for you two,” Psychic Priscilla tells us.
“Oh,” I reply, suddenlyveryawake. “Are neither of the other upstairs bedrooms available?”
“We use one for crafting, and the other one is for meditation,” Psychic Marlowe says. “And as you know, the rest of our basement is for the business.”
“No problem,” Cilla says.
It is very much a problem. That room istiny. In my parents’ house, it’s my dad’s “man cave,” which is exactly as embarrassing as it sounds and also as cave-like as advertised. Because the space is subterranean, the only window is a small rectangle at the very top of the wall, with a view of those metal tube things that let in some airflow. The biggest bed that could possibly fit in there is a full, and that would leave very little floor room. I’ll never be able to give Cilla the space from me she needs. Or really, the spaceIneed.
Whatever twisted game the psychics are playing, they mustbe enjoying it, because when they take us downstairs, they open the door to reveal they have turned on only the side lamps, making it feel very intimate in here. Then they whisper their goodnights swiftly, smiling with all of their teeth before closing us in our shared dungeon.
Forget my previous generosity. I don’t believe they’re grifters, but I do believe they are manipulating our reality to cater to their own enjoyment.
Instead of a red-walled ode to masculinity that is my dad’s man cave, the room is painted a nice shade of midnight blue with a gallery of mystical art on each side wall. There’s a celestial tapestry hanging over a reddish-purple comforter that appears to be made of crushed velvet. The bed itself does almost fill the space, with only narrow slivers on either side just wide enough for a person to walk down and side tables to squeeze in, those damned lamps atop them, casting their hypnotizing glow.
“I’ll take the floor,” I volunteer.
Cilla doesn’t even have to glance around before she asks, “And what floor would that be?”
Two piles of nightclothes await us at the end of the bed. I snatch mine and hurry to change in the bathroom, using it as an excuse to avoid the logistics of our sleep setup a bit longer.
Psychic Marlowe has given me a pair of plaid boxer shorts and an oversized cast T-shirt from the Garden Meadows Community Theater’s production ofCats. I get dressed, then brush my teeth with the supplies the psychics have provided.
