Friday April 14, 1978
The Lyric Theater- Female Lead Dressing Room
Belfast, Northern Ireland
10:56 PM Local Time
There was no possible way that Margaret Blaine could have been in a better mood.
Tonight had been, in no uncertain terms, the biggest night of her life. She had been in the theatrical arts since she was a little girl, but tonight had been the first time she had performed as the lead in a major production. The opening night of ‘My Fair Lady’ had been looming ahead of her ever since she had gotten the lead. She had been terrified, thrown up her lunch in the bathroom about a half-hour before showtime, and had looked so pale to the point the director told off the makeup lady for applying too much powder. But despite the nerves, she had done it. She had NAILED it.
Already she was envisioning the Entertainment section in the next morning’s edition of the Belfast Telegraph. She knew the review would be good- there was no possible way it couldn’t have been. She wondered what words would be used to describe her performance of Eliza Doolittle. Sublime? Flawless? Julie Andrews, Eat Your Heart Out?
Margaret laughed out loud at the thought. A girl could dream, after all.
Humming “Wouldn’t it be Loverly” to herself, the twenty-five year old Englishwoman picked up a case of lipstick, and quickly applied it to her lips, blotting them on a piece of tissue, and admiring herself in the mirror. Her job may have been finished for the night, but there was no way her evening was done.
“You’re off-key,” came a sour, Irish accented voice from the open doorway to her dressing room. Margaret started at first, but quickly calmed herself, turning to acknowledge the uninvited guest. There was no denying that Gayle O’Reilly was a pretty woman, with the small dash of freckles on her nose and cheeks complimenting her long chestnut hair. And there was no denying that the woman could act and sing, possibly, although she hated to admit it, even better than Margaret herself..
But there was also no denying that her understudy was a damnably unpleasant woman. She wondered how much prettier that face of Gayle’s would be if it wasn’t scowling all the time. She wondered how much prettier her voice would be if it wasn’t constantly giving imperious commands to everyone within hearing distance.
Still, she tried to force a smile. “Well, it’s a good thing I wasn’t on-stage, then!” Margaret laughed, not unkindly, but unable to keep the excitement from her voice. “Did you see them, Gayle? They loved it! SIX curtain calls! On opening night! I can’t believe it!”
Gayle’s face took on a hard edge, and Margaret almost winced at the almost predatory smile that was forced towards her. “Neither can I,” the brunette seethed.
An awkward silence reigned over the dressing room. Margaret hadn’t meant to offend Gayle with her exuberance, but it was obvious that she had. She supposed she couldn’t blame Gayle, the rivalry the two had developed as they had fought for the role of Eliza had been intense, and Margaret still counted herself lucky that she had beaten out the native Belfastian. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that there were hard feelings here, especially considering Gayle’s nature.
“I should be going,” Margaret said, trying to sound apologetic as she did. “Gareth is going to be waiting for me.”
“Oh right,” Gayle replied, her tone acidic. “Your... boyfriend.”
Margaret bristled at the latent ridicule behind Gayle’s statement, but merely bit her lip. It was true that Lord Kensington was fifteen years older than her, but there was no denying that the two of them were made for each other. Whatever his reputation as a member of the House of Lords was, around her, it didn’t matter. He was kind, caring, intelligent, witty, handsome- everything she could ever want in a man.
“Yes,” Margaret replied stiffly. “My boyfriend. He came up from London just to see me tonight, and he’s flying back tomorrow. So I’d better get going...”
“Ah yes, rushing back to introduce ANOTHER law that will treat the Irish like dirt, right? Can’t leave well enough alone?”
Margaret closed her eyes, and sighed. She hated politics. “Look, I know the curfew, and the restricted areas are unpopular,” she tried explaining. “But he’s just trying to keep the peace here.”
“You want peace in Belfast? Easy,” Gayle explained. “Go to London, and tell that bitch on the throne that she and her church can go fuck themselves, and leave us to our own.”
“I’m not arguing this, Gayle. Not tonight,” Margaret said softly, yet firmly. “We should be celebrating, not fighting. Where’s Augustus? Aren’t you two going out tonight as well?”
For the first time, Gayle’s anger seemed to melt away, and the blonde sensed something else in her understudy. She didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t happiness. Dismay? Resignation?
“Gussie’s working late at the dinner theater,” Gayle finally replied. “But yeah, we’re going out after that.”
Margaret snatched up her coat, and smiled at her rival. “Well, have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow, Gayle.”
She left the dressing room, to a half-hearted farewell from Gayle, and stepped into the hallway. It took another few minutes to reach the exit- other cast and crew kept coming up and congratulating her on her performance. But finally, she was out the door, into the cool spring evening.
For once, it wasn’t raining, Margaret thought as she walked towards her car, a 1976 Jaguar that Lord Kensington had bought for her several months ago. Maybe tonight, after dinner, they could go up to Black Mountain, which overlooked the city, and...
Margaret was so in tune with her thoughts and plans, that she never noticed the lone figure atop the building across the street, looking down on her in the darkness. She never saw the flash of light coming from the roof, and never heard the loud crack that echoed through the night air. She only barely registered something hitting the side of her head, and then she knew no more.
Margaret Blaine, twenty-five years old, stood upright for just a fraction of a second longer, before her knees buckled, and she pitched forward onto the ground. Her car keys slipped from her hands, and skittered on the asphalt a couple feet away.
And Margaret Blaine lay there, motionless, face-down in a puddle of the blood that was pouring from the bullet hole in her temple.
====================
Wednesday November 16, 2011
The Nest- Front Lawn
Indianapolis, Indiana
7:43 AM Local Time
“WAIT!”
The sound of a little girl’s voice filled the crisp autumn morning as Theresa Thompson sprinted across her front lawn, waving her arms frantically. The five year old yelled again, a pleading that the yellow school bus two hundred yards away would wait for her. Her breathing labored, she pounded after the large transport, letting out a final, desperate scream as the bus pulled away from the stop, slowly accelerating.
And then stopped. Whether the driver had heard her, he had seen the frantically running child in his rear mirror, or another student had alerted him, he had taken notice. Theresa didn’t slow down, continuing to sprint until she had reached the yellow vehicle.
From the front porch of the Nest, Wendy Briese-Thompson sighed with relief as she watched her daughter climb up the steps inside. A couple seconds pause, and the bus rolled away again, this time for good. Wendy turned around to go inside, exhaling another misty cloud of morning air, before tugging the front door shut behind her.
That had been too close, and this was becoming too frequent, she thought to herself. Once the novelty of being in school had worn off, Theresa had turned sluggish in the morning, to the point that every day seemed to be a battle to get her out the door on time. She wasn’t going through one more year of that- much less thirteen. If Theresa was having problems getting ready in the morning, she’d simply have to get up earlier. And that would mean going to bed earlier. If anything, maybe the threat of an eight-thirty bedtime might get the girl to stop dragging her heels in the morning.
“One can only hope,” Wendy muttered to no one in particular. The house was empty- Terrence had gone down to Thompson Auto to help out Steve, and so she was alone, at least until Pollaski came over in a couple of hours to pick her up for their daily training session.
Wandering into the kitchen, Wendy plucked a box of Life Cereal from the shelf, and poured a bowl, adding a liberal helping of skim milk. Grabbing a spoon, she carried her breakfast to the kitchen table, grabbing her laptop on the way and powering it up.
Wendy munched on her cereal as she read the news from various websites, including a preview of her now twenty-fourth ranked Irish’s upcoming game against Boston College, as well as numerous news and rumors concerning the upcoming Violent Night pay-per-view. She had just finished her cereal, and was starting to read the debut edition of the Cat’s Eye column, when the phone rang.
A cordless set was on the counter, and Wendy grabbed it, pressing the talk button. “Hello?”
“Yes, ma’am. May I please speak to a Ms. Gwendolyn Briese, please?” To Wendy’s surprise, the official-sounding voice carried an Irish accent.
“Um... this is her,” she replied, not even bothering to ask that her true first name not be used.
“Ma’am, my name is David O’Leary, and I’m a Sergeant with the Belfast City Police Department. Do you know a woman by the name of Constance O’Reilly?”
Wendy suddenly had a sinking feeling that she knew what this call was about. “I.. I do. She’s my grandmother. Why... is she okay?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. She was found dead in her flat this morning.”
Wendy sucked in a sharp intake of breath, and exhaled slowly, closing her eyes. “Oh, Nana,” she breathed. It was something she had been expecting- the woman had been well into her eighties and had certainly looked more frail when she had come to visit the prior year, but still, it was news that the young redhead was hardly looking forward to.
It took another couple seconds to remember that she was on an international line, and her manners. “I’m sorry,” she said, more for lack of anything else. “Thank... thank you for letting me know.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.” In truth, the voice sounded like it had made this call too many times for genuine sympathy to show through anymore. “You’re in the United States, correct?”
“Yes, um... Indiana,” Wendy clarified, although it likely didn’t matter.
“Well, you were the only person who’s contact information we could find. And, well, city policy says that we have to notify any next of kin if possible before we, um, assume control of the remains. Do we have your permission to dispose of the body? She’ll be cremated, and buried in a small cemetery. We’ll send you information on the site, if you’d like.”
For a second, Wendy almost said yes, but something stopped her. It wasn’t right she realized. The woman had lived eighty-plus years, had two daughters, a son, and at least eight grandchildren, and she was going to be ‘disposed of’ by a couple of city bureaucrats?
“No, I’ll come out and take care of it,” Wendy said, trying to sound forceful. “She should.. be buried by someone she knew. I’ll be on a plane tomorrow, and in on Friday.”
“Very well, ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes, um. If it’s not too much trouble. Do you have a number for any cemeteries? Preferably a Catholic one.”
“Sure thing ma’am. Just hang on while I pull this up...”
The officer actually provided her with several, and Wendy thanked him before hanging up. She leaned against the counter staring at the phone, as if still wondering if what she had just heard was a dream. She supposed she should cry- after all, isn’t that what you were supposed to do when someone you loved died?
But no tears came, just a sense of resignation that this had to happen sooner or later. And, strangely, a feeling of relief. Wendy couldn’t deny it- her grandmother had hardly been the most likeable woman. Her whole life had been filled with anger, and bitterness, and something inside Wendy was at least grateful that the woman was finally at peace. Everyone needed to find peace in the end.
Everyone...
Suddenly, she knew EXACTLY what she was going to have to do. She grabbed the phone, and quickly dialed Pollaski’s number.
“Wha....?” obviously her call had just woken her manager up. “Igotanhour...”
“Dan, I need your help here,” Wendy insisted, trying to cut through Pollaski’s sleepiness. “I just got a call... Nana’s dead.”
“Wait, what?” Apparently that woke him up a bit. “Your grandmother’s dead?”
“Yeah. Belfast police found her this morning.”
There was a pause, although Wendy was almost certain that she could hear her manager humming a few bars of Kool & The Gang’s “Celebrate”. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Pollaski finally said, suddenly chipper.
Wendy sighed. This morning was going more downhill by the second. “Listen, Dan. I’m going to Belfast. I’ve got to take care of this.”
“What? Why? The city’ll take care of it. Let them.”
“I... can’t. I can’t explain why, I just know I have to go over, okay?”
Pollaski was taking on a tone that was suggesting she was being unreasonable. “Wendy, you have a match in ten days. In front of a live crowd of a hundred thousand people. Against a girl who would LOVE to humiliate you. And you’re going to fly halfway around the world?”
“I didn’t plan this Dan, okay?” Wendy was starting to feel irritated. “That’s why I’m calling you. You’re my manager. I need your help here.”
There was a long pause. “Fine, what all do you want me to set up?”
“I’ll leave tomorrow, and come back Sunday, so get me a hotel for Friday and Saturday nights. And see if you can find a gym that I can train at.”
“Isn’t the School of Hard Knocks in Belfast?” Pollaski asked, a teasing note entering his voice.
“Dublin, I think. And *NOT* them, given that they’re a little more affiliated with my opponent.”
“Alright, alright. So a hotel, a place to workout. And a flight, I assume.”
“Hold off on the flight, I’m getting to that,” Wendy said. Her mind was racing now, and she was struggling to keep the words from pouring out at once, lest she not be understood. “I’m going to email you some numbers for Belfast cemeteries. Call around, and see if you can get me two burial plots. Price is not an issue.”
“Okay... wait.. TWO burial plots?”
“Yeah, Dan. Two. And I’m not going to Belfast straight away. I need to go to Carthage, New York. I think the closest airport’s Syracuse, but if you can get me nearer, so much the better. I don’t want to spend much time there.”
“Carthage, New... where the FUCK is that?” Pollaski exclaimed, as Wendy heard him typing, evidently on google maps. “Yeah... closest is Syracuse, but it’s still a two fucking hour drive. Wait... I remember this place. That’s where they buried your...”
Wendy nodded, even though she knew Pollaski couldn’t see her. For the first time, the emotion was starting to overwhelm her. “Yeah. It is. It’s not where she belongs, Dan. It never was, and it’s time to fix it. I’m going to get her, and I’m going to bring her home.”
She sniffled as the tears began to leak out,
“I’m taking mama back to Ireland.”
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