Excerpt: Nia With A Reverse Ring

(From the Act I/Act II act break interlude.)

She stops, staring off into the smoky air, and I wonder for a moment if she’s forgotten I’m there. I can almost see the mental gears turning as she wanders back through those memories, the other things she thought were worthy of her time in those days.

"Do you know," she says to me, "I think I was right. Back then. There were lots of other things more worth spending my time on. I didn’t know it, but then you never really realize that kind of thing until it’s too late." She slips a new cigarette out of the pack and lights it from the end of the old one before twisting the butt out in the sea of ashes that occupies the ashtray.

Or that’s what I expect to happen, anyway. The ashtray is empty, except for the butt Nia has just put into it. She sees me looking and nods. "Yeah. It’s not all bad, see. Good luck trying to catch her at it. She doesn’t just magic it away or anything, as far as I’ve been able to tell. Always waits until I’m not looking, though." She inhales thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think she feels sorry for me. Sometimes I think she just likes to mix it up. Sometimes I wonder what I’d see, if I caught her."

I nod, unable to think of a better response. I wonder what I would have seen, too. Mama always said I had an overactive imagination, and it makes itself known now. I picture everything from an unnaturally intelligent terrier to a grossly misshapen little hunchback covered in warts and green skin. I know none of it is right, because how could it be?

"So did you ever find Betsy?" I ask when Nia doesn’t volunteer anything else.

She gives me a sharp look. "Right. That’s a good one. Find Betsy." She laughs a little, but it’s a brittle sort of laugh with no humor at all in it. "Do I look like I’ve found Betsy? You’ve got a career as a comedian in front of you, kid." I am confused. What did I say? Wasn’t that the right question to ask? When you’re interviewing, aren’t you supposed to follow up on what your subject has said? I think for a moment, wracking my brain for what I learned in high school. I can’t remember.

Nia’s mood changes again. Quicksilver, they call that, don’t they? She slumps back against her chair. I wince, afraid the insubstantial back is going to give way. Nia is not heavy -- not thin either, but not fat -- but the chair looks like it’s barely up to the task of bearing human weight. "Sorry, kid," she said. "You see why I don’t do this much? It’s hard. It’s hard to remember there’s another way. Six years feels like forever. I mean, look at me." She waves her free hand around while the other brings the cigarette back to her lips.

I look at the boxes. They look like normal moving boxes, to me. There’s one labeled "kick-knacks", one that says "winter clothes" that I think she’ll be needing soon, one that says "movies", and several that say "books". They’ve been recycled from a number of other purposes; once they held things like computers, frozen French fries in fast-food-chain quantities, booze. I even spot one that looks like it originally contained a baby stroller. They’re just boxes, with the usual big black letters on the side, with packing tape sometimes several layers thick.

"Some of that stuff," she tells me, "has been packed up for a good five years. That was when I stopped unpacking the books. I got tired of moving bookcases, you know, and I figured I could dig through the boxes anytime." She sits forward again, the chair creaking under her. "This time all I unpacked was what I needed to wear, to sleep on, to eat with. I ask you, what kind of a person does that?"

I fumble for an answer. "A... person who moves a lot, I guess?" I’m still lost. I don’t know what it is she’s getting at. "But why move? Is it because of Katie? You’re afraid people will find out about her?"

Nia snorts. "Child, if I were afraid people would find out about her, I’d hardly be talking to you now. I would’ve told you to back off instead of inviting you to come back and hear the story. You aren’t the first one to ask. I’m not some kind of fucking Ancient Mariner here; I don’t have to tell you anything."

She takes another drag, lets the smoke seep out around her words. It’s kind of disgusting, really, the way it winds its way out of her mouth and down to table level. "We move because she causes trouble. Because she is trouble." There’s another clatter from the kitchen. "You are!" she calls out, and then: "I suppose I thought I could get away from her, too, at first. I’ve given up on that. She causes trouble, and we have to leave but quick." She looks out the window, or would if the blinds weren’t in the way. "People don’t much like to be social when things start breaking. It’s one thing when she does it to me. It’s another when she does it to someone else." A wry smile crosses her face briefly. "Can’t blame them, I guess."

She looks back at me. "Mostly, they don’t even want to know, not really. I’m doing a lot of talking here. How’s about you take a turn? What makes you so interested in this?"

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She’s not supposed to ask me questions. I’m supposed to pump her for information, and maybe she’s supposed to resist giving it, but she’s not supposed to turn the tables on me. I falter. My mouth goes dry. "I. Um."

She dismisses me with a gesture. "Never mind. Silly question. You want to know for the same reason I wanted to know what happened to Betsy. You want to know because you smell tragedy all over this apartment, and injustice and maybe even a hint of abuse, and you can’t help following that smell. You want to know because you don’t know any better." She considers me for a moment with those piercing blue eyes. "Fuck you, anyway. It’s tragedy and it’s injustice, but it’s not abuse. Not anymore. Not the way you mean. And it’s none of your business." Then she sighs and rolls her eyes resignedly to the ceiling. "But that sounds like it is, doesn’t it? And you can’t know until I tell you, can you." The words make a question, but she’s not asking me anything.