Act Fourteen – Scene 2:
Demons and Angels
'I could
never explain what intuitive sense I felt, but it all came for naught when I
entered that room and saw her standing there, her thin frame made angular-like
by the cut of her dress. She looked no older than twelve or thirteen, and yet
the strength in her hands alone could have crushed my will as though it were a
piece of waste paper. And when I saw her sit down to the piano, I was angry
because she could do something I could not. It was her words that handed out my
final sentencing. I perceived in them two things – that she was a machine, and
that she was more a woman than I had ever been in my life.'
The clock
reads 8:26 am, and Dorothy sits down at the piano with her fingers poised to
lift the dust cover and reveal the keys for the first time in nearly a month
and six days. She scans her memory for a suitable, no, for the appropriate song
to wake Roger from his slumber when a voice interrupts her thoughts exteriorly.
"Miss
Dorothy, there is a visitor coming up," Norman says with distaste.
"Who is it,
Norman?" her voice is cool; she already knows who it will be without asking.
She reasons that it will be same visitor that attempted to gain entrance during
Roger's 'leave of absence,' and had been turned away at the door. The blond
haired vixen probably forced herself in through the door and proceeded upstairs
to try and beat the butler.
Not so easy
in a house such as this one. Not when the butler knows every nook and cranny and
secret hall and weak point in the entire building and is fit enough to run up
ten flights of stairs with ease.
"Miss
Patricia Lovejoy," Norman says hinting ever so heavily that he would have used
'Casey Jenkins' instead.
Dorothy
does not respond, but continues to contemplate the proper song. The clock
changes to read eight-thirty in the morning, and the sky is overcast a darker
gray than normal. Norman moves to stand at the gate to the elevator and Dorothy
hears him ask her to please wait a moment.
"Dorothy,
will you wake Master Roger? Miss Lovejoy says it is imperative she speak with
him directly." Norman bristles.
"Immediately,
I surmise," Dorothy replies, deciding to forgo the piano music this morning
since the routine is broken from its normal cycle anyway. She gently opens the
door to Roger's room and steps inside, closing it behind her.
"She can't
just go into his room, what if he isn't decent," Angel mutters.
"The two of
them are not restricted by such limitations, Miss Lovejoy. Or is it Miss
Jenkins? It would be like myself asking for your coat." Norman stands rigid and
stiff, his only form of protest against the guest to his young master's house.
"It isn't
proper," she counters, arrogance high for an interloper.
"Well it
isn't your house so you worry about proper on your own time," Roger snaps, robe
wrapped around him securely, hair tousled without any attempt to change its
state from that of sleep. "Now what the hell do you want?" he asks coarsely.
He had been
dreaming the first peaceful dream in an entire month when Dorothy had gently
woken him and relayed the message 'Angel' had given Norman. Complacent with
Dorothy's wake up call being in person, but angry at the necessity, he had
decided to take it out on the source and not the messenger. So he got out of
bed and got into the robe Dorothy held aloft for him and then prowled out to
meet with the woman he was beginning to despise.
"I came to
see how you were doing."
"I'll start
breakfast," Norman says, moving towards the kitchen as soon as he sees Roger
emerge, satisfied he can protect his belongings in any mood, and aware that his
crossness at being woken earlier than Dorothy's piano playing would bolster his
wit to evade the woman's tactics at information requisitioning.
There is
silence between the two for a moment, then Dorothy exits the bedroom with a
small basket of dirty clothing and moves to one of the rooms towards the back
of the long hall.
"I'm
obviously doing all right, no funeral notices were posted," he says dryly,
moving across the room to the windows at the far end, those looking out over
the bay side of the city.
"No, Roger,
I meant… about…"
"I don't
want to discuss this with you," Roger replies evenly, seeking out the couch in
the parlor where the piano sits forlorn and almost forgotten. He looks at the
ebony instrument and imagines Dorothy seated there playing and it lifts his
spirits. "Since I am almost fully recovered I will be returning to my work
soon, if that is your underlying reason for coming this morning. But it
shouldn't be because you obviously can tell I am not a very good morning
person."
Dorothy
returns to the area with a few hangers of clothing and reenters the bedroom.
"Who is
that?" Angel inquires, attempting polite conversation to cover her fear at the
sight of the girl who looked so much like the crazed and homicidal R*D that she
found herself frightened for the first time in many long years. She hadn't been
afraid of anything… then R*D had, and this young lady she was only catching
glimpses of appeared, in her eyes, to resemble the other.
"None of
your concern at this time." Roger turns to look out the window, smoothing back
his hair with his right hand ineffectually. "Now please either explain your
purpose here this morning or leave me to my breakfast."
Dorothy
emerges from the room again and pauses. "Shall I play the piano this morning,
Roger?"
He nods
stiffly, thankful for that much of the routine salvaged, at least. She crosses
the room between the two of them and takes her seat at the piano, caringly
brushing the dust from the cover of the keyboard before moving it out of the
way and setting her fingers on the keys. Her mind finally made up after the
quarter-hour in which had passed since she was last seated in front of the
ebony masterpiece.
Angel takes
a step further into the room as the first bars of music leave the piano in a
forlorn improvisation on 'The Kiss,' a song from an old movie she had heard
while passing a shop downtown with Perot previously. It had been a brief burst
of the Morgan Creek song, but her ears had identified and acquired the rest of
the song easily, and she found it an appealing song in tense situations. Roger
never asked the name, and if he had, she might have lied to save face for the
both of them. Dorothy closes her eyes and allows her arms to move her upper
body with the flow of the music. The tune moves slowly from her fingertips to
the air about them with practiced ease and a grace only her unerring skills,
wrought by both Instro's tutelage and her own mechanical perfection could only
produce.
Roger
relaxes on the couch a bit and Angel freezes as she takes in the scene before
her. The girl at the piano striking a chord within her memory, "Red…" she
begins, but then stops and looks at the young woman at the piano, obviously an
accomplished pianist, and yet so familiar. Similar down to the smallest degree,
but something seemed different about this young woman. She appeared more…
alive…
'Is this
the blueprint or the prototype?' Angel puzzles in her head. 'She certainly
appears harmless, so small and frail looking. Her skin does not appear that it
has seen the sun much. But so did that of Red Destiny. I hope Roger is not so
foolish as to trust that she is not…'
"Do you
have nothing to say at all, Miss Angel?" the young lady asks quietly as she
continues to play. "You seem at a loss for words. Is it something I have done
to offend you?"
"No, of
course not…" she barely catches herself before calling the young lady Red
Destiny. 'Now what was her name again…?'
Roger murmurs
something sleepily and Angel's eyes narrow dangerously. 'Why is he responding
to this… music so emotionally? And what does this girl have to do with him? She
was never even mentioned when I spoke with him before.' She balls her fist at
her side and sees the girl eyes move and notice it. 'She is perceptive. Perhaps
this is who he hinted of so fondly.'
Her mind
goes blank as her eyes bore into his more laconic ones. His body relaxes the
more she remains standing in the room with the girl at the piano playing
softly. Neither woman offer any more words but Roger can see the gears of her
memory turning, bringing back his words before to try and place this girl in
his life. He allows a little of his smirk onto his lips and motions her to the
empty space at the other end of the small divan.
"If you cannot speak and you will not go,
please sit down, Miss Angel." His eyes linger on Dorothy as she sways her head
in time with her fingers. As the piece draws to a close he hears Angel whisper
tightly, "Child molestation is against the law, Negotiator."
Eyes still
trained on Dorothy's body, he sees her stiffen and begin another tune.
"Ah, yes,"
he replies. "But it isn't that sort of a relationship, Miss Angel, she is a
client of mine."
He hears
the angry snort from her end of the couch as he continues to watch Dorothy play
the jazzy tune. "Some client."
"If I
didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous, Miss Angel," he chides. "It
might be flattering if either of us cared about each other in a more than
business-like manner, but under the circumstances I am inclined to believe you
mean some barb to the young lady rather than any playful teasing to myself."
"I merely
state the facts, Mr. Smith."
"A virtue."
"Until you
step on the wrong person's toes," she counters. 'Why do I feel so inclined to
fight him? Who is she? Why do I feel so threatened? I don't feel anything for
Roger. He is the negotiator. I am only a potential client that seems to end up
around him more than normal. Nothing more.'
"You didn't
seem to think that when we were trapped under so much water, Mr. Smith."
Dorothy's eyes steal a glance at the
two of them, satisfied at the space between them. Angel catches that look as
well. 'If that's so…'
'Then why
am I jealous of her?'
'Is it even
jealousy? Or is it fear?'
"Breakfast
is served, sir."
"Thank you
Norman," Roger stands. "Would you care to join us, Miss Angel?"
The red
haired young woman stops playing the piano as she brings the piece to a quick
close, and stands as well. Angel nods, dumbstruck. "Certainly, what is…?" The
other two start moving in the direction of the elevator. Angel stands and
follows quickly. 'So this is a day in the life of Roger Smith,' she thinks. 'If
there is any chance for this stupid feeling in my heart, it'll be confirmed or
denied quick enough.'
The table
is a large, moderately wide slab of oak… or maybe chestnut suspended at a level
comfortable for the young woman and, at the same time, Roger himself.
'Interesting design. I'll have to copy it.' She stares in wonder a moment and
then the young woman speaks up, "Shall I take my usual seat?" her voice is
even.
"No, it is
customary to honor guests, you can sit down here next to me."
"Yes,
Roger."
'Her voice
is so subservient it makes me sick,' Angel thinks as Norman shows her to her
seat at the opposite end of the table. 'She is so impartial that she seems
bored with all this. I wonder how long she has been staying here.'
The plates
are brought out and Angel notices that the girl barely has anything on her
plate. Roger inquires after this as well, but the redhead merely says, "I ate
when I woke up this morning."
"When was
that?" Angel asks.
"Four," she
replies simply, taking a long sip of her tea. Perhaps it was coffee.
Staring
down at the two of them, and seeing Roger watching the other young lady despite
the direction of his gaze towards herself made up Angel's mind for her. Roger
Smith was the wrong man for her. Too frigid, and far too disarming.
She would
do all she could to have him.