When it came to the dark, Joanna was a coward. She couldn’t sleep in a room without a night-light. As she lay on the uncomfortably hard mattress in the rooster bedroom, the red seven-watt bulb inside an opaque plastic likeness of Rocky the Rooster from the movie Chicken Run gave off barely enough light for her to see her hand in front of her face. She had the odd sense that she and Rocky were part of an old Victorian seance. Any minute she would begin to hear faint knocking sounds, tables would jump and move all on their own. Right then and there she decided that in the morning, she would look around for a different night-light, one that was brighter and didn’t suffuse the room with such a sense of eerie otherworldliness.
Tucking the covers up under her chin, she tried to remember a time when she’d slept without a light in the room, when darkness felt restful and gentle. It was certainly before she’d met Gordon. She should have trusted her instincts all those years ago. God help her if she didn’t trust them now.
Joanna had spent the afternoon reading the script Freddy had sent her. He was right. It was pure gold. She would kill to play the part. She couldn’t believe he’d come through for her like this, offering her a part at a point in her life when she was literally scared to death to
refuse. The timing seemed almost too incredible, but as usual, Joanna didn’t want to exert the effort to analyze it.
After her evening of nonstop smoking, her lungs ached, but she’d been too keyed up to stop. She liked Faye, enjoyed her company, and was thinking that she’d take her up on her offer to let her work on her hair tomorrow. Maybe even have her nails done. Cordelia was expecting her at the theater, but with Gordon out there lurking in every shadow, she figured she could beg off one more day without the roof caving in. That would give her the weekend to make a firm decision about the movie.
For the first time today, Joanna closed her eyes but flipped them back up when she heard a rustling sound near the door. She felt momentarily suspended, searching the darkness for the cause of the noise.
An indistinct form moved into the doorway.
She sat up, held her breath. “David?”
“Hi-ho.”
“Are you trying to give me a coronary?” She wasn’t sure, but it looked like he was in his underwear and a T-shirt. “I can hardly see you.”
“Really? Bad night vision. I can see you perfectly. Comes from eating your carrots.”
“Haven’t you gone to bed yet? It’s after three.”
“I’m cold.”
“There are a couple extra blankets in my closet.” She pointed.
“Thanks.” But he didn’t move.
“Aren’t you going to get one?”
“Yes.” He walked over to the empty side of the king-size bed and sat down on the edge.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s not clear to me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Probably.” He stretched out, snapping a pillow behind his head.
When Joanna looked over at him, she saw that he was gripping a gun in his right hand. The hand was resting on his stomach.
Edging away from him, she said, “Maybe I’ll go sleep in the living room.”
“Whatever.”
She hesitated. “David?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” She wasn’t sure she should bring up the gun. She’d never seen him like this before.
“Maybe I should fix us some food,” he said, turning on his side to face her. The gun dangled from his hand.
“No. Really. I’m not hungry.”
“Okay.” He closed his eyes.
“Are you planning to stay here?”
“Yup. Kinda tired.”
She was at a total loss. She waited until his breath evened out and she was pretty sure he was asleep, then gently lifted the gun from his hand. He stirred but didn’t wake. She eased off the bed and took the gun into the kitchen, where she flipped on the light under the microwave so that she could examine it. It felt too light to be real. That’s when she realized she’d seen it before in the Americana bedroom. She pulled the trigger. An American flag flew out.
Joanna sat down at the table, tapped a cigarette out of the pack of Chesterfields lying amid the dirty dishes, and snapped a match to the tip. The question was: Did David know it wasn’t a real gun? He was so sleepy, she couldn’t be sure. But if he thought it was real, what was he doing with it? Why had he come into her room with it in his hand? It didn’t seem likely that she’d get much sleep tonight with a potential lunatic in the loft.
Taking a deep hit off the cigarette, she wondered why she always had such stellar luck when it came to men. Boyfriend, business associate, brother. It didn’t matter. “Maybe it’s time for the convent,” she whispered, leaning back in her chair and blowing smoke into the darkness. She imagined that there were worse fates. Not that she could think of any.