ACT TWO

Scene Twenty-six:

"The Interrogation"

There was a knock on the door of the Talis apartment.

Inside the kitchen, Caitlyn now wore her darkest colored dress, an inky navy blue, nearly matching her hair color. She wiped her eyes at the kitchen sink, recollecting the last time she saw Jayce the previous morning at breakfast.

The knock was persistent.

Composing herself, Caitlyn went to answer it, but she froze when she opened the door.

A man she'd never seen before was standing there, by himself, his raincoat and fedora dripping from the rain. His pencil mustache reminded her of a rat.

"Ma'am," he nodded to her. "I'm Lieutenant Schrank. I'm here to ask a few questions about Jayce Talis."

Caitlyn's eyes flicked to the badge on his coat, and she stared at him, unable to speak.

Hearing the man's voice, Mel exited her bedroom and saw Caitlyn frozen at the door. She crossed through the kitchen, taking Caitlyn's place at the doorway, gently waving her back.

"This late? I already answered your questions at the station," Mel said.

Caitlyn stepped back, turning to go to her bedroom. Hide her unfinished suitcase.

"Not you," the man said, waving his hand dismissively as he looked down at his note pad. "Caitlyn Talis."

Caitlyn stopped walking. Mel and Caitlyn looked at each other with wide eyes.

Marcus looked between the two of them. "I assume that's you?" he asked.

Caitlyn closed her mouth and silently nodded.

"Why don't you take a seat?" he said, gesturing to the kitchen table.

For a moment, Caitlyn couldn't move as the man stepped inside without preamble, but a look and a nod from Mel gave her the strength to move her body to the chair. She slowly sat down.

Coming inside, Marcus flipped through a few pages of his notes, remaining standing. He glanced to Mel, who closed the door and moved to stand behind Caitlyn's chair. One hand on Caitlyn's shoulder, the other holding the back rest of the chair.

"Jayce was your husband?" he asked Mel, for clarification.

Caitlyn blinked but didn't move a single muscle to turn and look at her or express surprise.

Mel hesitated for a moment on the word 'was' then answered him with a nod. "Yes."

Feeling Mel's nails dig slightly into her shoulder, Caitlyn thought she understood why. Mel must've had lied on the paperwork. Jayce and Mel had been engaged, promised to each other, but Mel must have wanted to be certain she would have the rights over Jayce's remains.

Marcus nodded as he remained standing, slowly walking around the table. "Well, close enough," he muttered.

Caitlyn could feel Mel's hand tighten on her shoulder. Sliding her hand up to her shoulder, Caitlyn took Mel's hand and squeezed it. She could feel Mel squeeze back.

"Your brother," Marcus continued, now addressing Caitlyn, narrowing his eyes on her, "was angry you danced with a white girl at the mixer, last night."

It was a statement, not a question.

Caitlyn swallowed, shaking her head. "No, I don't think so."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You don't think the girl you danced with was white? Or you don't think Jayce was angry?"

Caitlyn folded her hands on the table, staring forward. "I wouldn't dance with a white girl."

Marcus frowned. "Yeah? I heard you came with a date, some Puerto Rican boy, goes by the street name…" he looked once more in his notes, squinting. "Viktor."

He watched her closely, but Caitlyn didn't react.

"Word is Viktor's got a gun," he said.

Caitlyn continued to stare straight at the wall across the table, even though her insides twisted in confused and frightened knots.

Then Marcus looked to Mel, who was staring at him, stricken. He said to her, "That's what the word is, anyway."

Pursing her lips, Mel turned and went to her sewing machine. A place of solace for her.

With her feet pumping the treadle, blindly running fabric through the feed dog. Marcus followed Mel to the archway of the sewing room, raising his voice to speak over the machine's clatter.

"He's armed and hunting for this white stranger, who she danced with –"

He pointed at Caitlyn with his notebook. Mel worked the treadle harder, increasing the racket. Undeterred, Marcus shouted louder at her.

"– who we think killed your boyfriend!"

Mel stopped the machine. She gave him a cursory glance at him from under her eyelashes.

"Is there anything else you want to add?" he asked, holding out his notepad, returning his voice to normal.

Caitlyn held her breath. She didn't dare move from her chair but watched as Mel silently threaded the machine.

Mel minutely narrowed her eyes at the man, flipping a switch on her sewing machine.

"Jayce told me about you," she said, quietly.

Marcus huffed a little, sarcastically, "I'm flattered."

Mel flipped the threader back down, sharply. "The way you talked to him."

Sensing her pain and anger rising, Caitlyn stood up, coming to stand by Mel. "Viktor is gentle. He doesn't have a gun," she said calmly, deliberately to Marcus.

"Apparently, now he does," Marcus replied.

Mel fired up the machine again, running a new row of stitches.

Thinking quickly, Caitlyn put a hand to her head, wincing slightly. "I have…" she turned to Mel, speaking in Spanish, "¿Como se dice migraña?"

"A headache?" Marcus said with a flat look like he didn't believe her.

Mel nodded to Caitlyn, giving the man a sneer. "She has her monthly. You know –"

Marcus waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah. I get the picture."

Caitlyn squeezed Mel's hand, continuing in broken English, "I need for this… um, medicine? Mel, she can go for me?"

Mel eyed her, a flash of alarm and focused attention for understanding Caitlyn's ruse in her eyes.

Before Marcus could answer, Caitlyn turned to Mel, explaining in Spanish, "Mamita, ve a Doc's y dile a Babette –"

"In English," Marcus warned.

Ignoring the bead of sweat pooling at her hairline, Caitlyn forced a little smile at him. "Sí, sí, English, is hard to, to –"

Getting impatient and suspicious, Marcus scowled. "Yeah, I bet it is." He turned to Mel and leaned over her shoulder, speaking for Caitlyn, "She wants you to go to Doc's drugstore, ask Babette for –"

Mel's hands clenched her fabric pieces and the seam she just made. It was crooked, thrown off course by him speaking. Distracting her.

Astounded and insulted at him cutting over Caitlyn, in her own house, with the love of her life dead – Mel barely restrained her anger by cutting him off with taking the pieces she'd stitched together and ripping them apart, popping the seam to start it over.

In the silence of the tearing, Mel's body was rigid.

Backing off slightly, Marcus suggested, "Hot tea is how my wife handles it."

Putting her hand on top of Mel's, Caitlyn bent her head closer to her. "Y dile a Babette que –"

"What did I say?" Marcus warned, more gently this time.

Caitlyn spoke slowly, choosing her words as casually as possible, "Tell Babette, I hope her cousin arrived safe. From Santurce."

She met Mel's eyes as she helped raise her to stand, walking with her to the kitchen.

"And I'm sorry I can't be there to meet her like I promised."

Marcus held out his hands, exclaiming, "And all of a sudden, fluency!"

Kicking herself, Caitlyn quickly added to Mel, "Dile que ya voy." Then she turned to Marcus, trying to look apologetic. "That means I'll come as soon as I can."

Shaking off her nerves, Mel moved to get her purse and her shawl. She looked at Marcus, blankly.

"I can go?" she asked.

Marcus looked between the two of them and shrugged. "You're not his widow or anything. I'm done with you."

Mel steeled herself against his words, then headed for the door. Marcus opened the door for her, and she exited.

…

Alone in the stairwell, Mel's composure started to give way. She leaned against the banister, breathing shakily. The spiral of the stairwell swirled slightly. Her eyes were wide with the enormity of the task ahead of her.

Find Vi. Find Babette. Tell her Caitlyn was coming. Hide it from everyone else.

Mel gathered herself, clutching her scarf, her purse, and the banister railing, tightly. Hoping she wouldn't run into anyone, she headed down the stairs, alone.

…

Back in the apartment, Marcus gestured for Caitlyn to sit. Then he pulled another chair back to sit with her at the kitchen table.

"Must be tough, losing a brother," he said, with almost a hint of sincerity.

Caitlyn didn't answer, folding her hands on the table, staring forward. Giving a silent prayer.

Marcus flipped through his notebook, clicking a pen. "So. Let's start from the beginning."

/

"¿Como se dice migraña?"

"How do you say migraine?"

"Mamita, ve a Doc's y dile a Babette –"

"Mommy, go to Doc's and tell Babette –" [Not literally her mom, used as a term of endearment.]

"Y dile a Babette que –"

"And tell Babette to –"

"Dile que ya voy."

"Tell her I'm coming."

/