“I like chocolate,” Fletch said. “I like to see birds hopping on the grass. Do you like to see little birds hopping on the green grass?”
She said something that was lost in the wind.
“What else do you like?” Fletch asked. “Who do you like on television?”
There was no answer.
“Mike Wallace? Merv Griffin? How about
No answer.
Fletch’s throat was dry.
“Hey,” he said, “do you remember the smell of a brand new car? Really new?”
No answer.
“How about the smell of brownies baking? Isn’t that the greatest?”
From above she was staring down at him.
“What kind of sounds do you like?” he asked. “Harmonica?
Violin? Guitar?”
No answer.
“You know what I like?” he asked. “I love seeing a newspaper page blowing along a city street. I love to hear rain—really hard rain—when I’m in bed. The yap of a puppy. Do you like to hear the yap of a puppy sometimes?”
“Hey,” the woman said. “Kid.”
“Yeah?”
“Take my hand, willya? I’m scared shitless.”
“So am I,” Fletch said.
She began reaching for him, immediately tottering.
“Wait a minute,” Fletch said. “There has to be a right way to do this.”
To sidle toward her, Fletch would have to take his feet off the strut.
“Just sit down,” Fletch said. “Right where you are. Slowly, carefully.”
Slowly, carefully she sat down on the cable, facing the bridge. The green plastic slipper dangled from her foot.
“Hold onto me,” she said.
Fletch took her hand.
“Wait for the cops,” Fletch said. “We’ll wait for the cops.”
“What the fuck we doing out here?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Sometimes we find ourselves places like this.”
She was shivering then. “It’s not my fault, you know. It really isn’t.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Fletch said. “Tell me what you like. What’s the nicest book you ever read?”
“That’s a funny question.”
“Well, what is the nicest book you ever read?”
“
“Tell me about it.”
The woman thought a moment. “I don’t remember nothin’ about it,” she said,” ‘cept that I liked it.”
“Hey, great,” Fletch said. “You get to read it again.”
“This really isn’t my fault,” the woman said. “Believe me.”
“I believe you,” Fletch said. “Believe me I believe you.”
And there came onto the bridge the swirling lights of two police cars, then a fire truck, then the Rescue Squad truck. A policeman and then a fireman had spoken to Moxie and the taxi driver.
The man in the fire hat called to Fletch and the woman. “All right to come over?”
“Sure,” Fletch answered.
“All right,” the woman said.
A canvas-backed ladder was run across to them, landing on the cable between them, and a fireman walked across on it and took the woman by the arms and helped her to stand up. He guided her feet on the ladder, putting himself behind her, holding her arms, bearing most of her weight himself, urging her to move her feet along. From behind he looked a giant child walking a rag doll.
Halfway across, the fireman turned his head back to Fletch. “Want me to come back for you?”
“Just give me a minute,” Fletch said. “I’ll be right there. Put the coffee pot on.”
Once the woman and the fireman were off the ladder, Fletch crawled along it back to the bridge on all fours.
20
“R E A L L Y, M O X I E,” S A I D the theater Director in the light-weight, double-breasted blazer, “this does not bode well. If you’re so late showing up for a cocktail party, how can I expect you to show up on time for rehearsals and performances?”
“We got held up on the bridge,” Fletch said.
“Everyone gets held up by a bridge,” the Director said. “That’s what bridges do.”
“We were delayed on the bridge,” Moxie said.
The Colloquial, like most theaters not putting on an illusion at that moment, looked a cross between a dirty warehouse and an impoverished church. On one side of the stage, lumber was stacked. On the other side, a long, flimsy table held half-eaten wheels of cheese and many empty wine bottles. Out front were rows of dispirited, sagging chairs, existentially weary of tears and laughter, tragedy and comedy.
When Moxie and Fletch had entered the stage from the wings other members of the cast and crew summed up Moxie coolly, professionally watching the way she walked and stood. None evinced a more human interest in her. Only the Director had come forward to greet her.
“At least you’re alive,” the Director said. “And you’re here. We must be grateful for small favors.”
“And I’ve studied the
“Paul, I think it’s wonderful.”
“You’ll meet the author tomorrow, I trust,” the Director said. “He flew in from New York this afternoon and was just too exhausted to stand up, he said. I suspect the truth is he intends to use his time out here trying to get a paying job in television.” The Director elevated his eyebrows at Fletch. “Is this the boy you wanted me to meet?”
“This is Fletch,” Moxie said. “You said on the phone you’re not all that keen on Sam …”
The Director stood back, eyebrows still half way up his forehead, and looked Fletch up and down and up again, as if to gauge his suit size.
“Nice looking,” the Director said. “Natural. I suppose your bodies would work well together.”
“They do,” commented Fletch.
“How do you feel about being naked?” the Director asked.
Fletch answered, “I was born that way.”
“But you weren’t born on a stage,” the Director said. “Although, of course, Moxie was. How is dear Freddy Mooney, Moxie, your inveterate Pa?”
“Inveterate, thank you.”
“But, my God, doesn’t he bathe?” the Director said of Fletch. “I mean, I know dirt turns some people on, but not enough of them to fill a theater at these prices.”
“Am I dirty?” Fletch asked Moxie.
“Grimy,” Moxie said. “Streaked.”
“I’ll swear I took a shower in the Fall.”
“He’s really as clean as a whistle, usually,” Moxie said. “It’s just that, on the way over, he …”
“He what?” asked the Director. “Did the backstroke through the city dump?”
“He saved a woman’s life,” Moxie said. “Sweaty work, that.”
“But can he act?” the Director asked.
