Famepunk: Part 2: Middlemarch

By Liz Mackie

A multi-volume historical fantasy novel chronicling the romantic life of a Brooklyn-born tennis prodigy, FAMEPUNK is a story of love and competition, lesbians and the closet, children and parents, nature and art, the Cold War and its aftermath, money, globalism, technology, women's bodies in the marketplace and in the home, privacy and secrecy, hypocrisy, perversion, addiction, truth-telling—and tennis. This is a fan's novel, grounded in its author’s love for the sport and its real-life players.

Part 2 reunites the charismatic international cast of US OPEN 1987 for a follow-up year of historic action at the highest levels of the women’s game. As Emma Jasohn, the Grand Slams’ newest superstar, trades in the shopping malls of Long Island for the clay courts of the American South, she finds herself on a collision course with ghosts, curses, Gold Coast retirees, Yugoslavian goblin children, crazed evangelical pastors, witches and soft-core pornographers, bigots and brand names, bad pie and weed shortages, law enforcement, propriety, poisonous wildlife, a bad losing streak and chronically empty pockets. But her backers at the Moscow Talent School face the biggest complication yet, when Emma’s unexpected friendship with German teen head case and Wimbledon champion Vivienne Helm takes a dangerous plunge into passionate romance. Through it all, the irrepressible former unknown remains determined to defend her US Open title—and to finish reading MIDDLEMARCH, George Eliot’s masterpiece...soon.

It’s very long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Mackie
• Release date: Apr 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301826261

Liz Mackie

With LAMENT: A SOVIET WOMAN AND HER TRUE STORY, author Liz Mackie launched Nostalgistudio, an independent publishing company for high-quality American writing. Three volumes deep into FAMEPUNK, her picaresque historical-fantasy novel set in the world of women’s tennis, she's also published a poetry collection (DUG FOR VICTORY: POEMS FROM RIP-TV), a travel novella called THE HAPPY VALLEY, and the on-line writings collected at www.liz-mackie.com. A long-ago graduate of Swarthmore College, she lives and works in New York City, and has climbed Breakneck Ridge with the kind help of friends.

Book preview

FAMEPUNK

PART 2: Middlemarch

A Novel By

Liz Mackie

Published by Nostalgistudio at Smashwords

Copyrighted Material by Elizabeth Mackie

1st Nostalgistudio Edition, Summer 2019.

Previous Smashwords Editions published in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2016.

© Copyright 2012, 2019 by Elizabeth Mackie.

Cover image: Library of Congress, Geography & Map Division; Grand Canyon National Park, 1926.

This book is a work of fiction filled with fictional coincidence.

Smashwords Edition | License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

FAMEPUNK

Selected Cast of Characters

Emma Jasohn, tennis player

Doctor Sy Morgenstern, her coach

Vivienne Helm, tennis player

Maria, Fred, and Erich Helm, her parents and brother

Freya (The Great), Amanda Man McKinley, and Lala, tennis players, champions

Mary-Ellen Tishy Tishop, Aimee Doe, tennis nemeses

Cookie Toms, retired tennis player

Shanaya Greene, pre-medical student

Eugene Till Greene, her brother, an adolescent

Theodosia Z, Floridian child

Brava, founder & head, Moscow Talent School

Lidia, her niece

Ilya Kasimov, security specialist & talent scout

Gretchèn Kasimov, his wife

Nelya, lower housekeep, Moscow Talent School

Semyon, driver, Moscow Talent School

Boris, tennis player

Arg Argyll, tennis journalist & broadcaster

Ellen Nagoya, writer, narrator

A player who plays for the joy of the game wins the crowd the first time he steps on the court. All the world loves an optimist.

William Tatem Tilden,

The Art of Lawn Tennis

CHAPTERS

Chapter 1 / An Unexpected Guest

Chapter 2 / Worse Than Russia

Chapter 3 / Deer

Chapter 4 / Flight

Chapter 5 / Clay

Chapter 6 / Flamingo World

Chapter 7 / Specimens

Chapter 8 / Barry Rogers

Chapter 9 / Bus Stop

Chapter 19 / The Sneaker Cobbler

Chapter 11 / Rita

Chapter 12 / Los Fantas

Chapter 13 / The Most Beautiful Part of the Desert

Chapter 14 / Hinge

Chapter 15 / The Ladies

Chapter 16 / Trajectory

Chapter 17 / On Helm’s Rock

Chapter 18 / The Aztec Witch

Chapter 19 / Party Rules

Chapter 20 / Shower

Chapter 21 / Hardships to Stars

Chapter 22 / Flip Book

Other books from Nostalgistudio

Chapter 1 / An Unexpected Guest

One morning in November 1987, Emma Jasohn climbed the hill to the Mansion in search of a meat second breakfast. She walked through the back door and hallway and into the kitchen to find Freya standing there in a really nice bathrobe. She hadn’t seen Freya since defeating her in the final of the US Open some two months before.

What the hell is that? she barked.

Macrobiotic, said Freya. There was a heap of indescribable stuff on the countertop which she was either adding to or removing from a food processor: what would it matter?

I’m not eating that, said Emma.

You should.

Freya knew everything. Emma gave a little eye roll as she walked over to the meat refrigerator. It was padlocked. Again. Aw! Jeez! The screws were in there really tightly this time. Emma spun around as the inner door swung to, admitting the niece in a spectacular bathrobe. Lidia! C’mon!

Lidia gave a short cry of wearied disgust at finding Emma Jasohn in the kitchen. No, she added.

Emma was incensed. I need meat!

Not at every meal, said Freya.

What! Emma stumbled in Freya’s direction. Why? Why are you here? Why is this happening? All I want is like, half a pound of sausage and instead I get the world expert of everything telling me to eat. She stared again at the apparent foodstuff on the counter. I dunno, what is that? A new artwork or something. Emma shook her head, entirely unable to identify it. Then she looked up at Lidia. Where’s Semyon? I need him to drive me tah IHOP.

You can’t. The niece loved refusing her things, it was awful. He’s busy today.

Oh yeah? Doing what?

When is this your business?

Well who else can drive me?

No one.

Gawddamnit. She was beaten.

She couldn’t drive herself. You can’t drive? Freya asked, just to be sure.

Whatever. No. Lidia explained to Freya that Emma could never be allowed to drive because of her idiocy. I know what that means, Lidia, she rejoined. And I’m not. I mean. They’d let her on the road a few times, beginner’s practice; they’d considered it a failed experiment: why? Maybe I wouldn’t be the world’s best driver. But I could do it. Definitely.

Lidia scoffed as Freya said, Of course you could.

I know! Emma eyed her more closely. Freya looked good—lean, fit, rested. Cut in a long becoming bob, her heavy ruler-straight bleached hair had attained the ideal shade of antique silver with its carapace of golden breath. So yeah, what’re you doing here, Freya? What brings you to Long Island? It’s good to see you.

Likewise, she said. I’m here as a student, actually. I’m taking a course in eye work. But this isn’t—

Eye work? But how’re you gonna do eye work with the—huh. Eye work with the glasses, aviator-style and tinted: Emma could see lots of possibilities. She nodded. Cool.

Emma, said Freya. This is not to be for public consumption, please.

You’re talking to me about consumption? Emma looked again at the ghastliness upon the countertop and groaned. Please!

I’m serious, said Freya. Lidia made a low emphatic noise; it was serious.

What? That the great Freya is a secret student at the Moscow Talent School, I’m not supposed to tell anyone—fine, whatever. She was still brooding over her appetite. So. Lidia. Gimme the key. She cocked a thumb over her shoulder: the meat refrigerator. Gimme the key and I won’t tell.

Lidia burst out laughing. She loved it when Emma resorted to blackmail. Just then, Semyon the driver walked in from the back hallway. Lidia told him Emma had just resorted to blackmail again and he burst out laughing, too.

Hey! Emma barked in his direction. What are you so busy with today?

Shopping. Islanders game. He kept active.

Gawddamnit!

Lidia cried out at all the koshkas in the room now, they’d trailed Emma to the kitchen door. Freya insisted, no cats on the counter. Her next look was scornful. IHOP? Do you know how much insects they’ve found in the food in those places?

Yeah, but if you find one first they let you eat for free.

No IHOP, said Freya. Sit.

Emma Jasohn was at loose ends. After winning her country’s foremost women’s tennis title in early September, she hadn’t gone to Swarthmore College and she hadn’t joined The Tour and she hadn’t been given enough cash to Do Anything. So she did nothing, Lidia explained.

I do stuff!

She opened shopping malls, around Long Island, speaking at shopping mall opening ceremonies; Freya had heard about this, yes. She practiced. A disappointing baseball season was over so that was always sort of a down time anyway. She read a lot. And when Brava and the Kasimovs were there, they always had a lot of tasks and errands and stuff for her to do. But that week they were away: the married couple Emma lived with in the little guest house at the bottom of the hill had escorted the leading lady of the Mansion, Brava, on a trip to Saratoga Springs—a trip Emma had paid for: A present from me. Brava loved spa waters, Ilya loved tourist towns.

That was nice of you, said Freya.

Yeah, well, I don’t mind the extra privacy. Although she wasn’t accomplishing much with it, Emma admitted to herself. Unlike the niece, who was cooking with gas; obviously. Emma didn’t want to know. They’ll be back in a few days. They’d needed a break from her, too.

So you gave a nice gift, you can’t say you don’t have enough money to do anything.

Not what I want, though.

Which is?

Watching Freya added another handful to the grinder, Emma sniffed. The room smelled like dirt. She didn’t want to get into this. Nothing. Forget it. Heaving gunk: the view made her sulky and vocal. I wanna go to Paris, okay? And maybe live there awhile and just walk around and eat French food and meet people and look at stuff—I know I can’t, Lidia, so put a sock in it, wouldja?

Europe, Asia, Australia: the professional women’s tennis players of The Tour would be competing all over the surface of the planet in the coming weeks. Emma Jasohn wouldn’t be competing with them. The reason? It had been a mystery. She’d told the press, she’d announced that it was because she had problems—problems, okay? Having just learned, from Lidia, at an earlier hour, the truth, Freya agreed about that.

For one thing, Emma didn’t have a passport. It helped that she’d never had one: they were giving Emma to under-stand that there were many difficulties now. In fact, there were a few. Reinstating her mother’s legal death through the same incompetent bureaucracy they’d originally paid to erase it, for instance, was proving no picnic. Helene Jasohn, dead by her own hand nearly five years before, would be officially defunct quite soon, however; probably around Thanksgiving, when Emma turned eighteen. Gone then would be the risk of custody demands from Israel, where the lunatic father still kept silence (the little sister kept in touch). In truth, Emma Jasohn could be holding her first passport by Christmastime.

But they wouldn’t let her have one. They—Brava, Lidia, Kasimovs, eleven year-old Eugene Greene, everyone in Emma’s life—opposed letting Emma have a passport now. Why? Because of this. Her Idea, they called it. Just to be one hundred percent certain, Freya felt she had to ask: You mean, you don’t think about playing professional tennis?

Not right away, no. First I wanna go to Paris! Yes: Freya nodded as Lidia raised a perfect eyebrow: Had she told her? She had, this came as no surprise. It was still shocking, though. Emma pulled her right ankle up around her shoulder and continued: I mean eventually, sure. Tennis is great. I’ll still play tennis. Probably.

And they were right, it was true. No chaperone alive could prevail against the massed totality of unexposed French film which would press upon this famous pretty girl at every corner of Paris. That she might really want to idle around Paris in romantic solitude, was touching; Freya’s heart was touched if Emma actually imagined herself being able to draw free breath in Paris after having said, for publication, that she hoped and planned to start making extra money soon by doing nudity in Europe where it’s not so crappy. Eugene was right, she was being undisresponsible. No doubt about it: once in Paris, the defending US Open champion would allow herself to be seized and thrust, straight from the first café table she sat down at, into the cast of a star-studded sex farce premiering at Cannes; she’d be gone.

And Lidia was right, Emma was no innocent: Freya had faced her, she knew. This was Emma’s plan and it made a certain hard sense. She wanted money, she’d promised a lot to make her friend the great Shanaya Greene a doctor. If she could make some millions now for being a famous naked girl, she would. Then she’d be free. And she’d have been to Paris: always with Emma Her Dream, they called it. Freya saw the logic of both plan and dream, she understood completely, and she agreed with the assessment of the Moscow Talent School: this girl was not allowed to have a passport; no. Not yet. Not before she’d learned to earn her millions honestly, like other people: no shortcuts. This was Freya’s own position.

You’re a really good tennis player, she told her, employing professional understatement. You should play tennis.

Yeah, well, I got no choice now, do I? Emma snatched up a tuft of alfalfa and tossed it back down in distaste. Trapped in America.

So you’ll go to Paris in May, for Roland Garros. You’ll have a passport by then, right? Freya knew this was the plan; in the meantime Emma would be booked to play the entire United States winter clay and hard court season. Freya looked forward to the crowds she’d draw, no question. But now the girl was heaving an enormous sigh:

But it won’t be the same, you know, with all the distractions.

You mean the tournament—the French Open will distract you from your enjoyment of Paris.

Yeah, probably. This sigh was even more obnoxious. I just think I’d be better off going to Paris like, right now, you know?

No, said Freya. It was incredible: this girl would actually prefer to lie around letting people look at her with her clothes off, rather than work. I don’t.

Whatevuh, said Emma. It was an argument Brava had already won. Who needed Freya? What the hell is this stuff supposed to be, anyway?

Macrobiotic, said Freya. Drink. It was disgusting; Lidia thought so, too, Emma could tell.

Freya felt sorry for both of them. The diet here was unbelievable. Lidia’s beauty amazed her, the Georgian woman stirred Freya. Emma Jasohn, by contrast, struck her as being lonely, bored, lost, orphaned, and slightly overweight. I’ll give you a driving lesson, she told her. If you like. While I’m here.

Emma brightened. Sure.

Oy! This was Lidia.

Emma cried at her: Drink! Freya watched them duel to the dregs, impressed. It had by no means been her best batch ever.

In Saratoga Springs, Brava took her first steam of the day. She hadn’t been on a vacation in years, she was enjoying this one immensely. Lidia reported from the Mansion: all good. Lidia didn’t tell everything, Brava knew. But she didn’t interfere with Lidia’s business. It was separate.

Brava ran the Moscow Talent School not solely as a paying concern. That it remained, to some degree, a money-laundering operation for Brava’s former Soviet investors was similarly beside the point. Brava’s purpose in life, as the head of her school and as a human, was to create stars. Out of Emma Jasohn she was making what might become her greatest star of all; and there had been greats, back in Moscow. But this one was still being created—Brava wasn’t finished.

Emma needed work.

Winning the US Open had tested and shaken her nerves; they were loosened, this was clear. Every day at dawn, in all weathers, alone, she practiced for an hour. Otherwise she demonstrated no interest in tennis at all. Her only inclinations appeared to be to take naps, read books, wander about, gain weight, engage in snappish arguments, incite public disorder, smoke marijuana, dally with girls, listen to loud music, and brood. This collapse after a great triumph—how well Brava recognized! It was a dangerous time for a young star.

For instance: this. Emma’s Idea. Back in Moscow they’d had a specialized curriculum, and a room, for students too weak to resist the enticingly easy rewards of paid nudity. Which was allowed: but not before specialized study and not without a careful bidding process: Emma was too young and untrained to pose naked for pictures of any sort, even in Europe. Brava had explained this to her, several times. Repeatedly, as well, Brava had refused to give her naked training until she was fully grown, probably around the time she turned twenty-two. Now Emma sulked and refused all training. This was what they’d used the room in Moscow for—sofa, bookshelf, one wall of mirrors, window view of the airshaft—the perfect setting for a brief better-fallow-than-otherwise period in a young star’s life. Brava had to improvise when it came to finding a locked room to fit Emma. She settled finally on the North American continent.

Brava wanted her star pupil to keep playing tennis; everyone did. She provided marvelous entertainment on a tennis court. Of course the principles of Brava’s pedagogy forbade her to insist that Emma perform as a tennis player: stars made their own paths. Brava’s role was to develop and guide. Yet to guide very firmly in proper directions towards the greatest profit for the greatest number: this was Brava’s duty, her burden. On Emma’s behalf, she had refused The Tour’s numerous request to join its ranks, and had turned away all endorsement offers from clothing and equipment concerns—sponsorships were inartistic. At the same time, she had accepted bookings for Emma across the American winter women’s tennis season. All over America, the public was eager to see its new champion play tennis. And it would; but this would have to be Emma’s choice. Brava knew all about the great Freya’s eye work studies at the Mansion and she approved whole-heartedly. Nothing restored a wayward star’s course faster than the presence of a rival in the house.

The way Freya figured it, she could have had a brand-new economy car for what she was paying to study eye work at the Moscow Talent School. However, Freya didn’t need an economy car; already she owned a trio of cars manufactured by Mercedes-Benz, all very nice ones, which she maintained herself. Freya was by no measure profligate, she was careful with her money, she was attracted to quality for the investment, the longevity, not the name. But sometimes, she would take a little risk. The stock market interested her, technology interested Freya, very much; at this time, having largely sidestepped the latest crash, she had a sizeable chunk of her assets tied up in the future of personal home computing; she believed it was going to be big. Likewise, and a bargain by comparison, she was springing for eye work studies—although only the introductory course, the faculty emphasized this. Freya would see. She asked many detailed questions and was confident that she could push through to advanced level knowledge by continuing to do so. She was writing down lots of notes. It was Theory in the first morning session, Applied Theory in the second, a long break with lunch, and Practice in the third and open-ended session—a three-day, intensive, cross-disciplinary course on taking your eye off the ball to use as a weapon. Freya had been victimized and impressed by Emma’s eye work in their US Open final. She wanted that skill.

Tennis with Emma Jasohn wasn’t included in Freya’s tuition; they’d offered, for an extra fee, but Freya had demur-red. She didn’t believe it would be necessary to pay. At first, she’d expressed shock that Emma would charge her. Lidia had laughed: Emma getting paid! No; this fee was no concern of Emma’s. Maybe fifty dollars they’d have given her, which she would give to a waitress. Lidia encouraged Freya to try and get the slothful girl to play tennis but she held out little hope. Emma’s sloth was too deep, like lotus she had eaten.

The four nights with Lidia were a huge bonus benefit to this program of studies, in Freya’s opinion. At the mid-morning break, mentally stimulated and still brimming with physical well-being, Freya followed directions to Brava’s study, a shabbily opulent room where she found Emma stretched out full-length on a sofa with a fat Stephen King novel. She was dressed in sloppy jeans, thick house socks and a decrepit wool sweater. Freya asked, What are you doing?

Reading Ulysses.

No you aren’t.

Yeah I am. She picked up a thick paperback off the floor and waved it at Freya: it was the novel by James Joyce, all right. Ulysses. I’m just taking a break.

Freya could see a strip of cheap ticket booth tickets sticking out of an early section. Is that only how far you’ve gotten?

Emma looked and said Huh. She didn’t think she’d gotten that far. She put down The Stand, which she was re-reading, opened Ulysses and said Crap. Now she’d lost her place in both.

Freya was admiring the Kandinsky oil on the wall behind the desk. She’d found Ulysses unreadable in Czech translation and original. She sat down on the arm of the sofa over the girl’s feet. You should read Middlemarch, she told her.

Huh?

Middlemarch. A great English novel written in the last century by a woman using a man’s name. George Eliot.

Oh. Yeah. Emma wasn’t very familiar with unpopular novels.

You must have heard of Middlemarch.

Yeah. Didn’t Freya know that she was missing college?

You should read it.

Um. Okay. How long are you staying, Freya? When are you leaving?

Just a few days. Freya laughed. You want me to leave already?

You’re so bossy.

I’m not so bad, said Freya.

Emma shrugged. Her plan, after surviving the pretty much extinction of the human race from flu plague, was to make her way to Alaska, hop the Bering Strait in a little boat, and cut across Russia—to Paris. She didn’t like the way Freya was looking at the Kandinsky; indeed, here came a remark:

I don’t usually like Kandinsky. But that is a spectacular painting.

Emma’s nose wrinkled at the broken bump. It was still a joke around the place that she wanted the Kandinsky for herself. For present company, she thought she’d try to keep this aspect of the artwork under wraps. Competitive and generally good at winning, Freya with or without bathrobe also looked to have the Mansion’s inside track: triple trouble. A pointing finger feinted. What’s that thing you got? It looks like the Goodyear Bible.

The. Freya wouldn’t be drawn in. It’s my Filofax.

Filo-wuh?

My organizer. You should get one.

Emma frowned, her lips pursed in thought. She was stumped: To do what? With?

This is what you do? Freya inquired, looking down at the girl’s supine form. You just hang around? Why don’t you do something constructive, if you’re not going to play tennis, why don’t you take classes, go to Manhattan, do something cultural.

Oh, Manhattan—I dunno! the girl interrupted in a despairing tone. "I mean it was great when I could just walk around and fuck with people, you know—or be nice, whatever. But now it’s like I go these places and people act like I’m showing off just by being there where they are. Like I’m rubbing it in their faces or something, that I got famous for doing something—like these people, I dunno, someone gave me tickets for this horrible musical play version of Les Misérables cause they heard it was my favorite book which they didn’t even do the book, Freya! Where’s Little Gervaise, where’s his coin, where’s Waterloo, where’s the little brothers and the swan—I mean Eponine? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Everywhere that shocking things were routinely reported, Emma Jasohn’s critical take on Les Miz—a show which Freya rather loved and had been moved by—was still making waves.

Eponine gets like nine numbers! What a travesty. And then these people are like, you know, who am I to express an opinion just because I think I’m famous or something, that I have to show off in front of your mink—cause no madame! No madame! This has nothing to do with who’s famous, this play is just crap, cause I read the book over ten times and I know. And then I’m like, yeah, go ahead and be a philistine, I don’t care how you live your life—make your choices, be a philistine, whatever, fine, but don’t come by me and complain when it’s pointed out that you are one! I mean don’t ask for everything. This was my position—and she came after me first, by the way, I was totally innocent.

I believe you, said Freya. Coinciding in most of its particulars with other first-hand accounts of the riot’s early stages which had made their way into the press, this summary sufficed for Freya. It’s an upsetting show.

Yeah and you know what would be even more upsetting was if Sir Victor Hugo ever came back and saw that play because. She smiled at an inner scene of devastation and smiting, carnage, human arms used as clubs, the whole bit. And they think they had a problem with me! I’m serious, Broadway’s gotta go. Forget it. Then! Adjusting the cushion under her neck, Emma picked up the thread of her narrative. Then. Manhattan, yeah, because Gawd forbid I’m not doing something cultural, right? So like two weeks ago I’m at my favorite Museum of Modern Art to see my favorite picture which is not even there cause it’s on loan elsewhere—

Which is? Freya said. The—picture?

Oh it’s this big thing called Woman. Woman Number something.

Ah. De Kooning. That figures.

Yeah it’s—wait how come? What’s your favorite?

Three Musicians, Picasso, she said instantly. It revolutionized art.

Oh. Yeah. That one had always been a little beyond Emma, maybe; she found it totally dull. Definitely. Hers, on the other hand, with its bursting bosom: she laughed and her eyes lit up. Mine is just funny, though! Oh, man—and the colors are so numerous, Freya, I mean by comparison—but anyway it wasn’t there, right? She leapt off the moving subject and returned to her tale.

So I’m there, you know, I go right to that room, I see this little sign and the wrong painting on the wall and I go up to the room guard and say hey, what’s the story, and he says it’s coming back, it’s on loan, not to worry, so whatever I hand him a ten. Right? No big deal—I mean I’ve been going to this place for years, I’ve never had a problem doing that, if the guard is keeping a nice room, good circulation and quiet and I’m feeling respect for the work, I’m gonna reward superior service, why not? That’s what cash is for, Freya! The long arms gestured, shook.

I’m not disagreeing with you, Freya said. Was this when you attacked unions—your anti-union day? Is that what this story is?

This is—listen, it started because for some reason I don’t have rights anymore to act like a private citizen, this is the point. I mean the guy’s got no problem taking a tip but suddenly I get this other asshole running up to me all like how he’s the union boss of the museum guards and I’m undermining the union position by leaving a tip. Which I’m gonna know from how many times I got five dollah bills handed back to me in that building outta like fifty times—which is zero! Zero times. I been tipping there since I went with my mother a million billion years ago. She scowled. And I’m looking at this fat jerk-off and I say, you know, I’m asking how is it possible these guards gotta union here when they don’t even have chairs? I mean, they’re standing, right? They’re standing. If they can’t sit down then at least let the people tip if they wanna—it should be either or, not neither, I mean what the fuck kinda union leadership is this that they get no concessions? And I mean, I don’t mind making up for your failings by leaving a tip on my own, like, recognizance, but don’t give me shit about it if you’re the problem, man—you know? Freya just sat there.

So now here comes this guy’s whole autobiography, the girl continued, which is not what I came in there to experience, at all, so I’m happy to stand corrected now just shut the hell up and lemme go look at the water lilies or something, this is what I tell him cause he’s like, yelling his brains out, but by this time a buncha other museum guards have come up and oh moy Gawd, Freya, you’ll never believe cause it’s so incredible, they want chairs. So suddenly I’m inciting, that’s inciting. Because no one in life ever mentioned chairs in fronta them before. So now we get the walkie-talkies and the suits in the nice suits and I just wanna get outta there, you know? But here come the police. Which is a whole other kettle of wax.

Ke—kettle of fish. Not kettle—what wax?

The, um, the wax. The boiling wax to dip the women in—what fish? Why would you dip a fish in wax, Freya? That’s horrible.

So, said Freya. The police arrive.

Yeah a couple march in and then they’re gonna start marching me out which is fine, I’m leaving. But they love me so much, they’d rather stand around listing top problems with nineteen eighty-seven that they blame on my personality, personally, even more than how much they enjoy to paint their ammo with AIDS blood and kick the shit out of black guys holding weed, they would pick me—I mean, it’s that special to them, our relationship. They vocalize around me. It’s a scene. Pop go the cameras, you know? Manhattan, she concluded with bitterness.

But, how. Freya couldn’t see how this sadly familiar refrain of Emma Jasohn’s helped advance her present narrative. I don’t understand how it got to be that you called for the abolition of public employee unions.

Starting with the police, yeah, I said the police was the worst cause they’re armed—and losers. That’s just fact, Freya.

Yes, she observed. You’re consistent.

And I didn’t say all at once, I said over time but it’s true. Brava says. Government unions are completely a Soviet system. It’s just trapping democracy.

Freya blinked. That’s not true.

Yeah it is. They’re public employees, how come they need a union for? They work for the public, they should be united with the public. Who are they united against with their unions? Brava says all bureaucracies are the same from the tsars, they’re like termites—they devour the public wealth and produce nothing of value. Giving them job security just makes it worse, they multiply and eat faster. Brava says the tsars would still be doing fine if they hadn’t handed out so many lifetime appointments.

Listen to me, said Freya. I lived under a Soviet system and I’m telling you, American government bears no resemblance whatsoever—

So did Brava and she’s got fifty years on you, Freya. I mean, did you know Stalin? Did Joseph Stalin try to grab your tits, Freya?

Stalin’s not the point. A fond thought of a lean and elderly relative came to Freya’s mind, with the memory of the way he’d roll his eyes at recollections of the Russians in his life. Every one of them met Stalin. And they’ll all tell you about it. Listen. Patiently, overriding further words in a patient way, Freya explained that here in the United States of America, public unions protected government employees from the vagaries of election. Whole departments of people couldn’t be tossed out of their jobs every time elective offices changed hands, as had happened in the past. Which wouldn’t be better for anyone to switch jobs around more, no, because secure, unionized public employees not only concentrated better on making impartial decisions at work; they could also look to their personal future life inside the middle class with confidence enough to buy houses, start families, save for college, all these things the economy needed. And no, if fewer not less people could afford housing and higher education and babies, the prices wouldn’t come down. They’d become more unaffordable for more people—namely, for huge numbers of public workers without job security who could easily spend half their careers on the dole. Meaning welfare. Which while posing the strongest of disincentives towards public service for the honest hard-working sorts that government needed, would actually attract people whose enthusiasms ran hotter towards scheming, fund skimming, false filings, cronyism and lassitude.

So—what? They’d be even worse if you could fire them? I dunno, Freya.

You’re missing the point again.

Emma cast a slightly longing look at The Stand. Whatevuh. Anyway, I like it here, I like it better hanging out here. And Ilya doesn’t wanna come with me anymore to the City—that was a mess. I could only get him to go to the museum that day cause they were showing Mean Streets in this screening theater they got there, cause it’s screening, you know, you’re not just showing a fucking movie, whatever, but then cause everything got so audible he came up and got me and we left. And walked into a buncha reporters—I mean I don’t see fitting this stuff in an organizer, Freya, I just don’t.

You. Freya adjusted her glasses. Could try. It’s a good habit to get into.

But Emma was preoccupied. She had attained an insight. Yeah. Freya watched her nod her pillowed head. I shoulda gone to Mean Streets. Emma looked up at her. Freya nodded.

Yes, that’s clearly the lesson to be drawn from this.

Yeah. Always go to the movie.

Freya went for the Filofax. Listen, I want to pencil you in. Let’s play some tennis while I’m here.

Oh. Jeez. No. I dunno. No.

Why not?

I don’t wanna.

What’s wrong with you?

Did you pay now? Cause I asked this morning and they told me I wasn’t included, you didn’t pay extra.

What do you care if I paid when you wouldn’t be getting the money?

Yeah I would! They said five hundred dollars.

They were only going to give you fifty.

What! Aw. Jeez. She’d known it. Gawddamnit.

Play tennis with me while I’m here, Emma.

Okay but not right now.

Okay. I’ll pencil you in. Now let’s look at some times.

"Aargh!" Emma writhed in mental agony and fell off the sofa in a long heap on top of Ulysses. Freya ignored this. They don’t plan to give you that Kandinsky, either, she added.

Lunch the macrobiotic way was a debacle. Emma didn’t appear for dinner. She stomped through to the Mansion’s front door and back out again with a large anchovy pizza via delivery; it smelled amazing. By 10pm, Chaka Khan was blasting from the guest house windows, which blazed with wasted electricity. Freya went down.

She could smell the sharp salt breath of the Sound and the softer breath of the drowsing pine trees. The little house was dangerously close to the waterline. There was a small iron ring knocker but Freya had to pound on the wooden door. At last it flew open, releasing a synthesized wail, a wedge of yellow light, one cat, and a cloud of marijuana smoke.

Are you kidding me? said the great Freya to the American champion who stood there, completely asinine, in the doorway.

Emma couldn’t believe it. Yes, she could. She laughed. C’mon in, Freya. She stepped aside and Freya entered, crossed to the portable radio-tape player, lowered the volume and turned off the machine; Ilya’s. Then Freya turned to ask:

What the hell is wrong with you?

Emma closed the front door with reluctance and offered a glass of water or something which Freya declined. I’d offer you weed but you don’t seem conducive.

I’m not. Freya glared at her. Same sweater, now splashed with tomato sauce; drawstring pajama pants, ripped at key seams; hair in tufts; eyes bloodshot and glassy. I wish you could see yourself.

Oh yeah? Do I get a wish, too, Freya? Cause I wish for privacy!

By now Freya had figured out the seating arrangements in the tiny, cozy, rather charming room. She pointed at the weaker chair. Sit, she ordered. Sit down. I want to talk to you.

Emma sat, it was her usual chair. Freya sat in Ilya’s. Emma didn’t want to hear a lecture, she stated this plainly, she was doing nothing wrong, she didn’t see what the big deal was, it wasn’t as if she were competing and needed to test clean. You think, Freya said, that’s the only reason not to do drugs?

Um. Emma thought about it, lengthily. But I mean, is weed even a drug?

Freya sighed. Her seat had the view of the girl with the trophy on the New York Post’s front page, framed under glass. Some superstar, she thought. But she spoke honestly. I’m sorry you’re not competing next week.

That’s okay. Emma shrugged. I didn’t wanna compete next week.

Ranked number one in both draws, as usual, Freya was in New York for the year-ending championship that gathered The Tour’s top eight singles and doubles players for a week-long round robin event at Madison Square Garden. Always a hot ticket, it would have been hotter, at least in the opinion of Madison Square Garden, with Emma Jasohn in the draw. She’d won the US Open, she was local, she was sexy, people wanted to see her: was this brain surgery, rocket science, what? But The Tour wouldn’t add her to the draw. She still hadn’t joined The Tour and didn’t have a ranking as a consequence; she’d only played one professional tournament in her whole life—so she’d won the US Open. Did that put her automatically in the top eight? No. It did not. The Tour put its foot down.

Then five and seven both pulled out with lingering year-end injuries. What would happen? The sporting press became interested; Madison Square Garden was already interested. Who’d fill the empty niches in the draw? Would it be nine and ten? Or nine and Emma Jasohn—please? The Tour hesitated to decide now. The girl’s crazy people still hadn’t issued a press statement; silence could mean anything. Fearing the worst, The Tour tossed this latest hot potato into the lap of the Players’ Council for those ladies’ recommendation. Which was never in doubt: nine and ten, girls they all knew, girls who’d worked harder all year, should get both spots. The Tour had pronounced the question decided—and how. The press statement from Long Island had come.

Maybe you were right, said Freya. Maybe it was a pusillanimous decision.

Yeah. Whatevuh. Who cares.

Freya smiled. The only Players’ Council vote to let her play had come from Vivvy Helm. Everyone was surprised—Helm never opened her mouth at meetings, as a rule. They all rather hoped she’d go back to that. She’d called them cowards. Then she’d sulked, just like this one. What a pair, thought Freya. Personally, she explained, I think the system for the event needs to be changed to admit a wildcard entry. But top eight means top eight and meanwhile we’re bound to honor that.

Fine, said Emma. I don’t care. I really don’t care!

Next year. You’ll play next year.

I don’t wanna play next year! Freya—I don’t wanna play with you women. Your stupid Tour, your stupid shoe contracts, your stupid food phase craze fads you just inflict on people, for no reason. I mean, what kinda—didn’t you even care that you were gonna look like a buncha pussies not wanting to face me in the Garden? The Garden is pissed at you guys, by the way, they been calling here a lot. So, you know, mazltof with that—but you might wanna bring your own towels. Spread the word.

It’s okay, Freya told her, to be angry.

I’m not angry!

Vivvy Helm wanted you to play.

Huh?

Detecting radiant heat, Freya glanced at the fireplace which was empty, swept clean. She’d just made a mistake. It was the smoke. That’s confidential, I shouldn’t have—

Helm? Did?

She wants a rematch, that’s all.

Oh. Emma looked a little crushed. Freya was glad, because any interest Emma had in Vivienne Helm should be crushed. Vivvy had problems. Issues. She had big issues. Now Emma brightened. What about Lala?

Freya smiled. She wanted you to come and watch. I think, she added.

Yeah, she always sees me there at the Garden, too—we been going every year. Me and Shanaya, I mean. Another deep sigh. And now the whole thing is messed up. I could get really good seats, for free! And I can’t even go cause it might start a fan riot against the number tenth player. I mean, what the fuck? You know? She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time in her life. I think I’m gonna show up anyway.

No, said Freya.

She wanted to see Helm. I’m serious.

I know. No. Bad idea. Reconsider. Freya thought quickly and spoke from Ilya’s chair. No one will thank you if someone gets hurt.

Emma slumped under the tones of authority. Yeah. I guess. Whatevuh.

So how is Shanaya Greene? Is she speaking to you again yet?

No. This feud was public.

She’s still mad at being outed on national television?

I never even said she was gay! In fact I never said anything, it was all that asshole gossip trannie Arg.

Tell me about it. Freya didn’t believe Arg was doing anybody any good right now.

Emma scowled at the unfairness of trannies, women and life. And all I said was she’d gotten with that Asian chick insteada me. Scooter—who she’s back with, Eugene says.

Freya chose: Whom.

Eugene.

Not for the first time, Freya marveled that Emma Jasohn had overcome so many handicaps to take away her title. Now, close on the heels of the blank look, came the giggle. Which Freya didn’t find so hair-raising as some people made literal claims to; the giggle was not her favorite thing in life, either. I mean, Shanaya, she heard next. Pathetic; it was pathetic.

But Freya, who liked her as a person, did not feel sorry for this girl, so crippled by fatuity and famously death-stained and now best-friendless, at all. She had learned that lesson—the hard way: So has she even played yet? For Stanford?

No! Emma burst out laughing and tumbled onto the floor, rolling with laughter in a small space. She still on the tennis team with full scholarship but she hasn’t played yet! And, man. She sat up, wiping her eyes. Good luck to them with that. Cause Shanaya doesn’t do what Shanaya doesn’t want to do. She just—doesn’t. For instance, Shanaya didn’t want to live in a dormitory so Emma was paying for her off-campus housing; Freya knew this. She thought it was admirable. Emma wasn’t all bad.

You know, Freya said, I think you’re to be commended for saying you’re gay in every interview.

Oh. Well. You know. You do.

No, Freya corrected her. I say I’m a lesbian. That’s what this is. You should say you’re a lesbian, not gay.

Emma’s big mouth dropped open and her widening eyes filled with gold lamplight and reprehensible notions. That’s what whaddis, Freya?

Are you listening to me?

Huh? Emma was blushing. I’m—what? I’m gay.

No. You’re a lesbian.

Say what? Emma’s tone was one of disbelief as she sat up cross-legged to offer a ripped seam peep show. You want me to say that? I’m not saying that, Freya—even gays don’t like lesbians!

Freya stood up to leave. Get some sleep, she told the troubled teen. Then she remembered she also had a message to deliver from Lidia: Emma’s stereo equipment store opening tomorrow on Oyster Bay had been cancelled.

Oh that’s too bad, it’s pretty out there, you coulda come. Hey, how’s the eye work?

It’s hard! It was.

You’ll get it. You’re smart. And I’m really gonna think about what you said, you know to say, too. Insteada gay. I’m serious. Emma was holding the door for her. You think we can get a couple sausages with breakfast, Freya?

Get some sleep.

The cool sea air felt wonderful. Now Freya could hear the busy stream running down the rocks behind the little house. She walked up the hill to the Mansion through a November night luminous with low cloud cover. Lidia waited on the terrace, naked in a long fur coat. Freya embraced her.

Chapter 2 / Worse Than Russia

Freya lay back and listened to the girl at her dawn practice. She was hitting serves, hard ones, grunting with effort at each delivery. The extra weight might be making her serve even heavier, harder to handle. Freya looked forward to finding out for herself. But dawn wasn’t a good time to leave Lidia.

Breakfast: What’s that?

Protein.

Huh?

You need it.

Is this the stuff made outta humans?

No. That doesn’t exist, Freya added.

Lidia laughed but she was tense. The workmen were coming today. The workmen—this was always an event. They came when they felt like it.

Worse than Russia! Emma mocked. Worse than Russia!

You are here why? Lidia demanded. You have house—own? You have food?

Yeah but not food like this! Emma could see that Lidia was hiding half of hers under applesauce and the corner of a cloth napkin.

They were putting in a sauna: Emma’s money, not her idea. Freya thought they could have used a weight room, first. I lift stuff, said Emma, who helped the gardeners quite a lot. She wanted a boxing gym.

Why this always—who will box you?

"You, Lidia! You!

The Georgian woman with the slight limp silenced her impatiently. She liked a sauna bath, so did Brava, and the rather aged faculty whose van devoured gasoline couldn’t keep driving to Port Chester for theirs.

Yeah, well that’s what they get for getting banned local!

Freya wanted to see the sauna plans, the physical layout; she met the workmen, she suggested improvements, efficiencies, and three vastly preferable materials. Did they think she was crazy? Not after about one minute—then they started to listen. They listened to everything until they got it. Emma was impressed. Freya hurried off to class and Lidia remained facing the workmen in the ground floor room filled with building materials. She leaned on her ebony cane but used her looks, having heightened a natural pallor with skill. Her deep red hair reached very high today.

So. She addressed the leader. More. How much?

He looked around, then looked at his notepad and flipped a page. Figuring the savings built into the great Freya’s improvements against the cost of the three better materials—because some of this shit they couldn’t even return, there was no way—he came up with about five grand extra. Everyone doubled this in their minds as a matter of course. Then everyone looked at the recent Grand Slam champion. They all knew it was her money; although that was a laugh. There was in fact some smothered laughter in a corner of the room. Emma flicked her eyes that way and it stilled.

Pay, you, said Lidia. This is insult to Freya not to pay.

Emma frowned. What was the big deal with saunas, anyhow? She didn’t get it. She thought they were scary—what if you got locked in there? A terrible thought; plus—heat? If you want heat, put on a sweater, have sex, or drink a cup of coffee. This was her opinion about saunas. She wanted more coffee, Freya hadn’t allowed her thirds: Okay, she said. Fine. I’ll pay.

It’ll be worth it, the head workman assured her. Lidia assured him that it had better be.

At lunch, an excellent chicken dumpling soup, Lidia came back to the table from a phone call. Good news: Emma had work. There was an opening at a mall in Syosset in one hour.

An outburst: C’mon! I thought I was gonna get a day off. The response mingled scornful disbelief and silence in unequal proportions, as Lidia finally spoke:

Five days almost you have off.

Fine—but what’s the deal? Why the short notice?

Lidia returned her napkin to her lap. Monkey cancel.

Again? Aw, jeez, that poor little guy, this is like the third time, there must be something really wrong with him.

No, said Lidia. He is double-booking. Everyone knows. She squinted critically and told the girl to go and change, waving her away from the table. Wear Romania, she ordered.

Outraged flashed from the yellow eyes. "Ramones!" The girl snatched up another bread roll and left them.

Everything was publicized in advance, Lidia explained, but telling Emma at the last moment made better practice. She invited Freya to come along, for experience. She could fit it in before her afternoon eye work practicum; Freya agreed.

The limousine of antique make was actually a Russian military staff car of the Second World War era, probably in its original form splendid enough but since falling into private hands augmented with new splendors of chrome, rare wood veneering and shock absorption. It ran without fail in all weathers, it hated unleaded, and a flat was a big deal, replacements being far from commercially available. Semyon the driver, who’d also made the soup, kept a patching station in the corner of the big garage, where Freya’s first silver SLC (the one she kept garaged in Queens) was parked alongside Ilya’s empty space. His El Dorado was in Saratoga Springs, Brava having elected not to bring her ironwood wheelchair to the spa. They’d have chairs at the spa; also, Brava could walk. Lidia of course had spoken with her, they were all having marvelous time.

Emma was glad to hear it but her tone was sour. A late fall view of russet oaks and emerald-lawned upper middle class affluence drained past the limousine windows. They were making her sit facing the back, even though she was the only person there working.

Semyon working! Lower housekeep, who knelt on the seat next to Emma with her hind end taking up half the compartment, had maintained a steady stream of Russian conversation with her man behind the wheel until this moment.

Was I even talking to you, Nelya?

Don’t lie.

Fine. Semyon is working. You are not.

I with Semyon!

Since Emma never won arguments, Nelya returned to her tête-à-tête without delay, a quick shake of her buttocks indicating the final score in full. The tight tomato-red track suit of velour, pink high heels and delicate gold anklet chains were for casual shopping—this at Syosset wasn’t a top place.

Freya moved her eyes back to Emma, slouched and glum in tight faded blue jeans, motorcycle boots, and a Ramones t-shirt of black cotton, full of holes. You consider this work? she asked.

Well, sure.

Opening shopping malls? Stores?

Yeah. I mean it’s not my choice, it’s not what I’d rather be doing, it’s not my hobby or something, my passion, like I’d be doing it for free. It’s work! I don’t even like to shop out here—they got so much better stuff in Manhattan.

Low cries rose at this evocation of Emma, spending money and Manhattan in conjunction. What this idiot had spent on a single t-shirt at Barneys—never again. But tennis, Freya said. You’re still passionate for tennis.

I dunno. She shrugged, for an emphasis quite unnecessary. It was clear she didn’t know. There’s other stuff I kinda wanna do, too.

Like what?

Emma frowned as Lidia quoted her verbatim: "All I vanna do iss be ah six symbol! All I vanna do iss make some mahney! Vy iss zis so rrrr-rong!"

You’re an asshole—you know that?

Hey! Freya objected. Everyone else was laughing over the sex symbol speech again; it had something inexhaustible. Emma rolled her eyes and leaned around Nelya from the waist:

But why is it wrong, Freya—why?

Because it is! By way of explanation, Freya added, Jesus!

Yeah, well I still don’t get it.

All the more reason why you should be prevented from doing. But here Freya had to pause. Doing what? She thought anything, really. Maybe they could keep her in a cell; she’d gone to Catholic school, maybe they could put her in a convent.

I want my freedom! she was stating. I want my personal independence.

You’re talking to me about wanting personal independence—are you kidding me or something?

But I’m from here, Freya! I’m not like you, I didn’t escape from underneath the Iron Curtain, I’m already here from when I was born. I’m supposed to get freedom—is your yagoditsy in my face enough, Nelya? Is it? Listen, if I play tennis, I wanna play because it’s my own free choice. Not because a buncha other people need my money!

Freya wanted to smack her and Lidia, who could tell this, delivered encouragement with an elbow and her perfect chin, tipping it. But Freya didn’t smack. She regretted the boxing gym, though; she really did. You don’t think every player on The Tour isn’t wishing the same thing? Be serious! Even when their governments aren’t taking everything they earn, they’re still supporting parents, siblings, maybe spouses, paying coaches—look at me, I’m paying a nine-person team now. And yeah, yeah Emma, they need my money.

Emma shrugged. So the whole thing stinks.

This was easy to ignore: What stinks, Freya continued, is your asshole conception of freedom.

Hey!

Likewise: That you picture this freedom of yours as a birthright, but yet at the same time you’re ready to sell yourself as a sex object in order to purchase the maximum amount. I mean make up your mind, please! Either your freedom is free or it’s not. But I don’t believe you even want freedom. All you want is luxury.

At the sound of a woman with a nine-person team talking to her about that, Emma’s head rocked on her neck; but before she could speak, Lidia offered a correction: No. She has not for luxury good taste. She is lazy.

Pravda! This from Chekhov in the front seat; a fore-most interpreter and teacher of the doctor-playwright’s art, he possessed honors and always rode shotgun. Nelya swung a hip into her seatmate’s shoulder and translated: Hello!

Whatever. Emma sank into a glum, cross-armed silence. She’d thought pravda meant hello up until about a year ago; her usage had always amused the Mansion. But who calls a national newspaper Truth—who would believe that? It was ballsy, she supposed. Freya was talking again: Huh?

Is that it? You’re too lazy to play professional tennis?

I’m too—I dunno. Maybe. Emma tried to explain how she sometimes saw it: I mean I already beat you, Freya. Do I gotta beat you twice?

Now Freya leaned in: "You’ve gotta give me a chance to beat you."

Hello! Chekhov again.

The mall in Syosset was already open; what Emma would be opening was a store inside the mall. It was a comedown from the first sunny late-summer days of this sideline career—really a sideline of Lidia’s—when they’d pull up to find plastic pennants fluttering above scenes thick with humanity, balloons, amplifiers, food stands, festive rock anthems, sets of giant scissors. Emma still drew a crowd, though. The public really went for her opening act. She kept getting hired as a draw; she brought bodies into shopping centers. But the store owners were holding their noses because a lot of undesirables would show up, too.

Some of these regulars were on hand today: the sad punks; the more cheerful punks; the couple with the Silence Godless Atheists banner; the band of inseparable bridesmaids who used these events as an occasion to party extremely; the men who considered suicide; the shy bookish schoolgirl friends; the heartsick wives; the gray leftists, gathering signatures for another petition. There were plenty of young boys and elderly faces, as well: a good turnout, Lidia was pleased. Even if that bitch in heat lawyer’s daughter had to be lurking some-where—her car was out front, occupying a handicapped space as usual.

Semyon returned alone to the limousine, where Emma and Freya were still waiting, and told them Lidia had said they should enter now. Emma cocked her head at the wealthiest woman in sport and asked him:

Is she getting paid, too?

He shrugged. She didn’t ask Freya.

They walked through the parking lot towards the main entrance. So what do you say at these things? Freya asked. She’d heard, but she was curious.

Well what I originally said was—

What she always says! A young guy folding baby strollers into his car trunk leapt out at them to tell the story. Oh, hey Freya.

Hey, she said.

"When she says it the first time, cause I was there, she gets up, this is after all this fanfare and local champion and blah blah, she gets up and she goes, Wow—just what we needed, another mall on Long Island! The whole place goes dead."

It did, Emma vouched for this. Dead like protein.

Dead like dead! You couldn’t hear nothing. Like, seagulls you could hear, I correct myself. Then, all of a sudden—

The passenger door of the battered Bonneville flew open and a woman emerged shouting, Are you getting in this car? She paused for a single look and then barreled forward: That’s Emma Jasohn—the hell you think you’re doing with my husband?

We’re talking, jeez!

Deb you remember this, I’m telling—hey say hi to Freya.

Deb said, Pleasure.

Likewise, said Freya. Neither woman meant it.

Hon I’m just telling that story when she opened that mall by Babylon.

You don’t know how to tell stories.

Emma didn’t agree. He was doing fine. This provoked hostility.

How come you even said that? Who do you think you are anyway? We do need more malls on Long Island—we do!

Why? So you don’t have to drive more than half a mile between them? C’mon!

Listen Miss High and Mighty—

See, the young husband told Freya, as the other pair carried on this way a bit. You’re getting here a glimpse of what happened on that occasion. Except times it like six hundred.

Yikes.

Yeah, he agreed.

Deb snapped gum and concluded her arguments: Get a life! Emma gave an eye roll.

Whatevuh. You two not coming to this today?

No, we gotta go pick up his sister, she’s getting out of rehab. Again! This was obviously a sore subject.

Emma looked at the guy: Jeez, man, you gotta rough gig.

He laughed: Hey, it beats working! He was seeking permanent psychiatric stress disability from the Long Island Railroad; once the full payments came through, they’d be living in clover. And he’d find a nice girlfriend at that time. You gonna be in Merrick next week, right?

I dunno. I never know. This was true.

Yeah well I heard you was gonna be. We’ll definitely be coming to that—you gonna be in Merrick too, Freya?

No, this is a one-time appearance only.

A cameo, explained Emma.

A key-meo, Deb mocked. Get over yourself why don’t you. She gestured at Freya, Her I can understand but you only won one lousy thing your whole life!

Hey, you stick with me, Deb, I got more to show you!

Not opening shopping malls you don’t—okay? This last being traditionally a parting word on Long Island, Emma nodded farewell as Deb got back in the car, from which now came louder infant squalling, possibly a quartet. Get in Tommy!

I gotta go. He parted from them.

The players moved on. I begin to see, Freya remarked. You make sure to bite the hand that feeds you.

Oh c’mon, the girl replied. Lookit this place.

Freya did. These malls, she remembered, had so amazed her at one time; for a year or two after her defection, her friends had been hard pressed to drag her out of them. In every store had been things she’d never seen before, things that she’d wanted; in every place that served food, something delicious—and so many choices. She’d always been violently sick afterwards. Now, Freya didn’t know about malls. They were convenient; the ones in LA were amazing. The thrill was gone, though, and she was left a little with the sick. When she thought about malls, that is, which wasn’t often. These days Freya used mail order catalogues, mostly; the cost was less and the service was better. This mall was just