“You came here, instead.”
“That’s my right.”
“Your right?”
“Well, both our rights. Accuser and accused.” Annette’s fingers got momentarily confused who was who. “I’m sorry about all this. Grandma asks a lot of us to fulfill our duty. We have to push aside personal feelings. Despite that, I visited. Have you had many guests?”
“I have no family, Annette. No one else is allowed.”
“Then it’s good I came.” She looked around as if the furniture had secretly moved. “Is that a window?”
Zelda turned toward the narrow two-by-two square. “If it could be called that.”
“There’s a night game at the baseball stadium. Very historic. The first time in ages. I was with my fiance Elias Kenuda, Third Cousin and Commissioner, who put this event together.”
Zelda gave her the finger, which only made Annette’s smile widen.
“He’s a brilliant man. So much to be done. You probably think, oh, a concert, here’s the mike, play the piano. Here’s a baseball game, throw the ball. Astonishing what goes into it. I did make my contribution to the cause with some advice, he’ll get the credit, well, we are a couple and will be getting married in two months once the trial period passes. I bet we can hear the crowd from that window if not actually see something.”
Annette pressed her face against the pane. Something about Annette’s pitiable expression drew Zelda. Their shoulders touched in the narrow space.
“I hear the fans, don’t you?” Annette squinted through the fading sunlight.
“That’s my stomach growling,” Zelda said.
“Maybe you need to feed the baby.” She stared at Zelda’s stomach. “Can I pet it?”
Zelda nodded slowly. Annette leaned forward, hand on Zelda’s belly, mouth by her ear.
“They’re moving you to a BT facility tomorrow.”
Zelda stiffened. The Annette she’d always known quickly returned with a boisterous shout out the window.
“Let’s go Puppy and all that baseball stuff.”
• • • •
DALE LAY FLAT on her back, legs propped against the back wall. Outside the control room, one of her five guards charged with keeping the human race away raised an eyebrow as her skirt fell around her hips, revealing her pink panties. Dale bared her teeth and the girl turned away so quickly her head nearly got stuck backwards.
Once again, Dale blotted out the din from the fans, vendors, flies, grass, clouds. There should’ve been complete quiet. How can I work with all this noise? Dale pounded the floor. I’m fine, she told herself, sitting up. Everything’s going to be fine. She threw back her blonde curls and walked calmly, if a little stiffly, back to her control panel.
Twenty thousand candles flickered from the bleachers to home as the sun slowly set. Down on the field, Dara and a small band entertained, guided by three squat lamps. The teams idly tossed balls in front of the dugouts. The noises, to a person not melting down, were really hums of expectation. Respectful, quiet, unsure what was going to happen since few if any of them had ever seen a sports night game; there were a lot of craning heads looking up at the brocades.
Dale stared at the console. She hated doing anything too quickly because it meant she lost an element of control. Yet she loved spontaneity because it left a part of her behind and she was arrogant enough to know her genius mind had already figured everything out.
She hadn’t really figured this out. The scoreboard was different. She understood programming and imagination and creating, glancing at a Dale HG racing past on a carpet resembling an infield. This was boring. She was easily bored. She knew she must really love Frecklie if they’d been together a year and he hadn’t bored her yet.
Frecklie waved a flashlight by the Yankees dugout, waiting for the signal back. It was getting really dark now, he gestured. Like she didn’t fucking know that. By home plate, Dara shot her a pleading look and launched into another song, her voice like a cow getting it up the ass; Dale shoved in her earplugs.
Shit, she suddenly remembered, crawling under the console and unhooking the rerouter. If you forgot something this important, what else have you forgotten?
Okay. What’s the worst that could happen? Dale casually licked a caramel cane. The lights don’t go on. That’s pretty bad. Or the lights go on and Yankee Stadium blows up. That’s even worse. Probably about fifty thousand people here and more outside. That’d be ugly. Dale Danaka, the Butcher of the Bronx.
She smiled. The nearness of catastrophe gave her a sense of calm. Dale cracked her fingers. The stadium was now totally dark, except for the candles and the lamps around home plate. She waved her flashlight, cueing Dara, who began the countdown from ten, the crowd shyly joining in.
At two, Dale hit the switch. Nothing.
She glowered at the console. Work you motherfuckers.
As if God walked in holding one really big candle, the lights turned on, quickly rushing across the upper decks, foul pole to foul pole until Yankee Stadium was ablaze. The crowd fell into stunned silence, then cheered, turning toward Dale, who bowed, taking full credit, as she should.
Beyond the outfield, the Bronx went dark. Like God blew out His candle.
• • • •
SHE WAITED UNTIL the lights went out before running into the pitch black lobby of the Bronx Courthouse, slipping through the bewildered visitors and guards and past the abandoned security check-in up the steps, two at a time. The floor plans from the library were quite good and she quickly found Room 202, ducking into the doorway as Blue Shirts raced down the steps.
She slid the thin piece of metal into the doorframe and slipped inside so quietly the two shadowed women peering out the window didn’t notice.
Two?
Beth pulled off her thin black ski mask. Zelda’s surprise lasted a second
