The Dingo Dilemma

This was to no avail. Melodie's eyes were mere slits. 'Howie Rosenblum?' she inquired of Harriet in a tight tone. 'The Howie Rosenblum?'

From Harriet's expression, she'd realized too late that this was a risky topic. 'Gotta run,' she said, moving out the front door as fast as her bulk allowed.

'I suppose I should be grateful you didn't try to take over Larry-my-agent,' Melodie snarled.

This was progress. She was actually talking to me. 'Fair dinkum,' I said, 'getting cast as Olive was because I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.'

Melodie's eyes had gone from slits to wide-eyed outrage. 'I've slaved at my craft for years. Years, Kylie. And yet you, with no training, no talent, and no burning drive to succeed in the biz…' She threw up her hands at the injustice of it all.

'I've got zero ambitions to be an actor.'

'Oh, sure,' said Melodie scathingly, 'so that's why you went ahead with the audition.' Using unnecessary force, she began to pack up her things, preparatory to leaving for the day. She paused to snap, 'Just don't come crawling to me for help the first time you have to interpret the role and you fall flat on your face.'

'I am a bit worried about that,' I said.

She made a derisive sound. 'What do you understand of the techniques for reaching deep within yourself to connect with your innermost primal store of fundamental emotions?' she inquired.

'Crikey, not much, so it's lucky I'm only in two episodes.'

'Only two episodes, you say?' Melodie drew a shuddering breath. 'Stellar careers have been launched on the strength of one episode in a series. And you have two. Two!'

Muttering to herself, she picked up her things and stomped towards the door. To placate her, I said, 'No matter how many episodes Olive's in, there's not much risk of me launching a stellar career on Darken Come Home, is there?'

'None,' said Melodie. 'Less than none. Less than less than none.' She paused to consider, then added, 'A two-headed Martian with no experience in the performing arts would have a better chance of a successful acting career than you.'

****

When everyone had gone, I went in search of Julia Roberts. It was odd that she wasn't in evidence, as she had an impressively accurate internal clock that never failed to alert her to the fact that her dinner time was fast approaching.

I even checked Lonnie's room, just in case she had managed to sneak in and hide herself. 'Jules? Are you lurking in here somewhere?'

I thought I heard a muffled but indignant yowl back in the direction of the kitchen. 'Jules?'

Guided by increasingly irritated cries, I found myself in front of the disaster supplies storage room. When I opened the door, Julia Roberts shot out like a tawny rocket.

'How did you manage to get yourself shut in?' I asked. Jules didn't deign to answer, being busy soothing herself with a quick wash, 'Fran is very thingie about the disaster supplies,' I pointed out, 'and she's likely to throw a wobbly if she finds out you've been in there.'

Jules stopped washing and gave me a thoughtful look. 'OK,' I said, 'it can be our little secret, but don't do it again.'

My heart gave a happy leap as I heard the unmistakable sound of Ariana's footsteps in the hallway. I went to meet her, Jules following behind with her tail held confidently high.

Ariana looked absolutely drained. There were dark smudges under her blue eyes and lines of strain on her face. Without even considering she might reject the embrace, I walked up to her and put my arms around her. She leaned into me and I held her tight, my sharp delight tempered with concern.

'It's Natalie,' she said against my shoulder. 'Yesterday morning she collapsed. A stroke. I've been with her at the hospital ever since.'

'Ariana, I'm so sorry.'

This was a perilous subject. I didn't dare say more, although my head buzzed with questions. Was the stroke catastrophic or mild? Was Natalie conscious? What was the prognosis?

Alzheimer's had robbed Natalie of her memories and left Ariana in a limbo where the woman she loved was still physically present, but only faint flickers of her personality remained. If you gave me the choice, I'd die rather than exist in a life of gray confusion. Did Ariana think that too? Now that Natalie had suffered an additional assault upon the tissues of her brain, did Ariana wish the shell that remained of Natalie would give up and quietly slip away?

Inexplicably, a line of poetry I remembered from English class at Wollegudgerie High came to me: I have been half in love with easeful Death. It was Keats, I thought, and I hadn't really understood it then-I did now.

I dropped my arms as Ariana stepped back from me. She answered one of my questions by saying, 'It was a moderately severe stroke that's affected her left side. I waited to speak with her doctor about results of the latest tests. Natalie's heart is strong. He expects her to survive.'

I ventured to ask, 'Does Natalie have any family?'

'No living relatives. Thank God that years ago we thought to get medical power of attorney for each other. If I didn't have that, I wouldn't be able to see her, or have any say in her treatment.'

Feeling there was nothing else I could safely ask, I said, 'Would you like something to drink? I haven't got any hard liquor, but I've got wine.'

She didn't demur, as I expected, but simply said, 'Thank you, yes.”

Julia Roberts led the way to the kitchen, her ears at an impatient slant. I followed her with Ariana, thinking how bonzer it would be if I had a sitting area where the storage room now stood. If it existed, Ariana and I wouldn't have to perch on tall stools in the kitchen, but could luxuriate in comfortable lounge chairs. Blast Fran's obsession with Homeland Security's more alarmist recommendations. I approved of being prepared for unexpected crises, but not quite that prepared.

I must have muttered Fran's name, because Ariana said, 'Fran? She's not still here, is she? When I was turning in through the gates, I thought I saw Quip sitting in a car on the other side of the road.'

'She went home ages ago.'

'Then I was mistaken. It wasn't Quip.'

I'd left the letter from Norris Blainey on the kitchen counter, meaning to open it after dinner if Ariana hadn't come by. When I pointed the envelope out to her, she grimaced. 'I'll fax the letter to Kenneth Smithson tomorrow. He'll be representing us in any communications with Blainey.'

Julia Roberts had marched into the kitchen and made a bee-line for her dish. Now she was directing an implacable stare in my direction. I hastened to provide liver and chicken, simmered, the label assured me, in its own delicious juices.

'That smells good,' said Ariana as I opened the can. 'I must be hungry.'

I knew she preferred red wine. 'This is a tip-top Aussie Cabernet Sauvignon,' I said, pouring two glasses.

Ariana rubbed her forehead and sighed. 'This is going to knock me for a loop. I've had countless cups of hospital coffee, but I couldn't eat anything much.'

'Steak and mashed potatoes? I can rustle that up in no time.'

She gave me a tired smile. 'That sounds wonderful.'

While Ariana called her next-door neighbor to ask him to feed Gussie, Ariana's gorgeous German shepherd, I started dinner. I wasn't what you'd call a gourmet cook by any stretch, but I was OK with plain food.

I'd mastered the stove's griller, though oddly, the appliance booklet referred to it as a broiler. I had two filet steaks sitting in the refrigerator, as I'd bought them on the way home from meeting with Howie Rosenblum, thinking that I'd have to show Brucie some hospitality by cooking him at least one meal in the next few days. Brucie's loss would be Ariana's gain.

'I've only got frozen mashed potatoes to heat in the microwave,' I said apologetically, 'not the real thing made from scratch.'

'Frozen is fine. I'm suddenly starving, so anything sounds appetizing to me.'