Another middle-aged man-boy steps forward, and I brace for conversation, imagining a cue card printed across his chest. He seems to be wearing a subtle costume which registers as a vague misunderstanding of how clothes should work in the world, particularly with his body type. He resembles a pear atop a pumpkin. I smile to put him at ease, but he’s not nervous. He’s paid decent money for this Horrorfest encounter: $50 for the personalized photo, $20 per additional item signed. He leans in close, the transactional nature breaking normal bounds. His complexion is cratered around the cheekbones, and I picture the moon in a fedora. He has a leather sheath strapped to his thigh, and I assume a plastic machete is tucked inside, though the handle has the matte finish of real metal. “Hello there,” I say as though there is his name.

“Really cool to meet you,” he says, nodding, “really cool, oh yeah, wow.”

His voice surprises me. It is false yet effective, its smooth tone reminding me of late-night DJs listened through clock radios: me a teenager in bed, constructing saviors in my head, soft and sympathetic, unlike this face before me, which is waxing gibbous with unkempt sideburns. For some reason I expect he can play the harmonica.

“Nice to meet you too,” I say.

I already have the Sharpie dangling over my chest, waiting.

“I was 10 when I first saw Night’s Scream,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

They almost always tell me their age, particularly when their age was young, as though this indicates precociousness rather than lax parenting. A few had seen the movie in an actual theater, usually with an older brother, or snuck in with friends, or simply strolled in, since this was the mid-1970s and whatever was happening on the streets was probably worse. But most had caught me through the years on cable, or on VHS and then DVD, or now streamed on demand, so they watched me while sitting in living rooms or finished basements, puddled in beanbags, draped across chairs. They convened in pubescent groups. Sleepover scares. Occasionally girls joined in because they had been dared and being frightened with boys was the gateway to being a woman. Or the girls saved me for their own intimate affairs, after years of being tempted by soft-core chills—tonight, they would go all-in; tonight, they would see all that blood. Those girls have the best screams. The horror seems almost joyous for finally being public and permissible. But there are few girls in line here.

“I watched with my dad,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?” I say, Sharpie still dangling over my chest, still waiting.

“Because I used to be scared of moths,” he says, “a total fraidy-cat.”

“Well, moths can be scary,” I say, which I believe is true. 

“But I’m not scared of them anymore,” he says. 

I conjure piranha-like moths swarming his head, but all I say is “That’s great.” 

“I became scared of other things, worse things,” he says. 

“It’s a scary world,” I say. 

The others are better at this than I am. Certainly more experienced. Charlie Mooks begins by asking their names so he can start the signing and the handing back and the moving along process, formal yet friendly. But Charlie has the longest line and the most committed fan base. As tribute, some wear cheap donkey masks. The more extreme do the prosthetic makeup underneath, with the eyes and the teeth and the drool—they seem to really love the drool. These people also visit my line and greet their first victim by braying, and I pretend-gasp like these are the neighborhood kids on Halloween. I try thinking nice thoughts, like look how creative they are, how passionate, but in the end they’re all my murderers. I make a point of writing their names over my poking nipples—Stanley, Frankie, Miguel—constructing a bra from black felt. And my old ridiculous stage name takes care of the panties and the conspicuous darkling V-shaped mound. When I dot the i in my belly button I think of Tania, roughly this size, resting in there. Then I hand the photograph back, having dressed myself in their desire. I’ve noticed Amy and Beth and Laura and Kim gauging the number of people in my line, ordering themselves after my early iconic death. I’m especially popular because this is my first convention. Even Karen seems to keep track, Karen who was the only survivor, who had the career before and after, until getting older took her life. These conventions are her main occupation. Plus she sells vitamins on Facebook. She also dabbles in real estate. She’s the kind of person who calls herself an entrepreneur, who has this printed on business cards: Karen Locke, Entrepreneur. In the green room she greeted me like we were reunited best friends, and I had one of those moments where I had to find the person I once knew within the fright of aging. I tried keeping my expression neutral; I even said “You look wonderful” with stubborn conviction, like the situation was touch and go and she needed my support. But I understood the sentiment was contagious, Karen regarding me under the same grim prognosis. We were old. And we would soon watch ourselves during the special 40th anniversary screening, would hear the audience laugh and cheer every outrageous kill, recite particular lines of dialogue, while we slunk lower in our designated row, feeling the loss beyond the blood. Even when flayed, our skin was glorious. 

"I didn’t want you to die,” he tells me.

“You were watching the wrong movie then,” I say.

“But my dad knew you were going to get it,” he says.

“Dads,” I say.

“I’ve come from Topeka,” he says.

“That’s a long trip,” I say.

“But I don’t live in Topeka,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

“I just flew from there,” he says.

“Right,” I say.

“To be here,” he says.

“Oh, well, welcome,” I say as though I represent the chamber of commerce and I hope he will enjoy his stay in our fair city. I don’t live here myself. Not anymore. Not since my downtown days when things were fun and strange, when being irresponsible had this varnish of liberation. I was braver back then. I recall being fierce and for the most part lucky. I ran in circles that ran in circles with semi-famous people—Patti Smith, Willem Dafoe, David Byrne—until their centrifugal force threw me into more obscure corners. I also burned some bridges. This is standard-issue nostalgia, while in front of me looms someone who seems congested with an undiagnosed dairy allergy. I notice his breath. It smells of feet. Like his tongue is barefoot in his sneaker mouth. “So what’s your name?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment, then he says, “Bob.”

“Bob?”

“Yes,” Bob says, “Bob.”

“Okay, Bob it is.” I orient the photo against my looming Sharpie. The organizers came up with these publicity stills, which are retrofitted for the cause since Night’s Scream had neither the budget nor the prestige to warrant an on-set photographer. And certainly nobody asked my permission, or my opinion, on the particular image used. I had signed away my rights for $500 and was frankly amused by the opportunity, having already debased myself multiple times for free. So there I am, drunk and fritzed on Quaaludes since this is late May in Maine and Terry Lester has pumped me with whatever might keep me pliable. But I’m messing up my entrance via freezing water, like the Lady of the Lake’s slutty sister, which Terry is treating as the most important shot in his dumb movie—me trying again and again in sheer panties and child-sized T-shirt, Terry screaming, me on the verge of hypothermia though the crew has diagnosed my distress as spoiled-bitch syndrome. Only Charlie Mooks cares. Between takes he warms me in his meaty, mole-flecked arms, his pulsing midsection giving me the dick version of CPR. “There, there,” he says, as he rubs my back. He’s stoned and has been offering me mushrooms whenever we’re alone. But the truth is, I have never looked as good as I look in this photo. It’s undeniable. I can see the longing in my eyes and, buried deep, the electric rage that tightens the focus into the brutalized woman the world wants me to be. I’m staring at the assholes on the shore, all of them amateur sadists. I am alone, and I am dying, and I am beautiful. Plus my body is perfect. Like absurdly perfect. I’m also four weeks from learning I’m pregnant. Maybe this is why I’m glowing. Or maybe I’m investing myself with meaning. Searching for signs and symbols. Tania inside me holding on for dear life. Oh sweetie, I think, for her and for me, as I land the Sharpie on my forehead and write For and inscribe Bob across my breasts. I add below, Don’t come inside me, okay? Which is cribbed from my last line of dialogue. That always gets them grinning. Then I finish with the flourish of Zoe Palindromos. This handle was foisted on me during my days in the art-slash-club scene, when queer men threatened pretty girls with stardom. Their homosexuality stood in for integrity. Eventually they fed us to photographers.

“Here you go”—I pause so I can land his name—“Bob.”

In many ways I am still an actress.

Bob admires the photo. “You’re my favorite here,” he tells me.

“Oh, thanks,” I say.

“I really hate when you die,” Bob says.

“Yeah,” I say, “but here I am.”

Then Bob half-whispers, “I know your real name.”

“Do you?” I say.

He nods. “Zoe Akeldama, from Massapequa, Long Island.”

I remain cool and say, “Ding ding ding.”

“And then you were Zoe Lobeki, and then Zoe Marston, and now Zoe Newhart who lives in Dos Rios Triangle, Sacramento.” Bob says this like he’s in on the joke even though there’s no identifiable joke. And while I know I exist on Wikipedia, on IMDb, on Fangoria and other websites dedicated to the horror genre, I have no idea how deep I might sink in the internet, how far this Bob character can reach into me. Political donations? Real estate transactions? Lawsuits filed? Has he hacked my Facebook page? My Instagram? Does he know that my irises are blooming?

“Well,” I say, “thanks for coming,” and I straighten up and regard the people waiting behind him, hoping they might provide relief. But they are more of the same. The zombie. The space alien. The amputee turning his loss into kicky special effect. The people in normal clothes appear even more sinister. I notice the rare young woman dressed in denim shorts and tank top—the kind of outfit I wore the night I was slaughtered. Who knows how this particular girl will be savaged? By spear? By pitchfork? By blunt force trauma via rock or log or whatever else is handy and vicious? If she is me, she can expect the kitchen knife across her throat while she’s on top of her jock boyfriend—really fucking him good, as Terry commanded, like the best fuck of his life. It was night and we were in the woods, on a mattress hidden by ferns, and I remember the crew on the other side, their shabby voyeurism like the atmospheric disturbance before lightning—charged and obscurely dangerous yet impossible to really fear. Brad was beneath me, sweet Brad, who died of AIDS in the early 1990s. He was so nervous. And I wanted to make our moment seem real, wanted those pricks watching us to feel our brief humanity, so I improvised and told Brad not to come inside me, in order to ground things, to express our authenticity, while Charlie Mooks approached from behind, his massive blur stepping into donkey-masked distinction. The rest is well-known: Charlie grabs my chin and slits my throat. Blood pours down my chest, over my bare breasts—like tainted milk, as the script described. And then Charlie pushes me on top of Brad and turns us into his macabre bucking bronco—hee-haw, hee-haw—until Brad comes despite the awfulness from above. My postmortem is his postcoital. Brad would get his later, when he rushed and attacked Charlie with an ax. Lord, what fools these mortals be.

Bob reaches into his canvas satchel.

“I have something else for you,” he says.

I’m expecting the Night’s Scream poster, or the VHS tape, or even the Playboy from after the movie was released. Those photos predate my cinematic debut, taken under the guise of the anti-artistic artistic nude, meaning raw and ordinary, meaning Harry Englander appreciated my unshaved armpits and my knees casually spread apart. I have signed all varieties of myself today. I have been a good sport, I think.

“Okay,” I say.

But instead of these things, Bob places in front of me a yearbook. The cover is white with a series of curved strata, red and orange and yellow, bulging from a rounded core, like the geological representation of an eyeball. After a moment I realize what this is—the Sachem from 1972—and I gasp loud enough for Charlie Mooks to glance over.

Bob is pleased. “I collect them,” he says, “yearbooks of famous people.”

I smile and tell Bob I’m hardly famous. I open the yearbook near the middle and am immediately greeted by era-specific hair. Us girls have long feathery manes, parted in the middle, framing faces beaming and wide. Our heads seem to tilt under the uniform weight. I had forgotten about this trend, or rather, had forgotten about the ubiquity of this trend. It’s staggering. I can practically smell the Prell. The boys have a bit more variation. There are a few short-haired Republican types—hello, Ryan Nellows—but even they are weedy around the edges, while the rest fall within the shoulder-length dude category. I’m struck by my instant familiarity with names and associated personalities. Kirsten Lee. Veronica Lemon. Anthony Looper. Every photo is like a paused frame of film. I can see Anthony’s dimples deepen, Kirsten twirling her hair. “This is amazing,” I say.

Bob reaches forward and turns a few pages. “There,” he says.

I look for me but I am not there.

Then Bob points to a picture, bottom right.

I see a boy with a toothy smile and bushy black hair, like a mink hat with ear flaps.

“Jerry Seinfeld,” Bob says.

Of course. Jerome Seinfeld. Right near Barbara Schein and Amy Schmidt. Jerry whom I hardly knew, yet I catch his smile corkscrewing into a smirk. There is post 1972 writing nearby—To Bob, Thanks for the blast from the past, Jerry Seinfeld—which streaks across Barbara and Amy like bratty graffiti.

“I got him to sign this a few years ago,” Bob says.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“He got a real kick out of it,” Bob says.

“I bet,” I say.

“Do you know him?” Bob asks.

“Not really,” I say. “It was a big school.”

Bob then flips toward the beginning of the senior pictures and finds me nestled between Linda Abate and Roger Aledort. I am a cataract of pure blonde hair though I lack the easy smile of my classmates and instead edge toward mystery. But I was legend at Massapequa High. Jerome Seinfeld would’ve remembered me—they all would’ve remembered Zoe Akeldama. But I was too aloof to be popular, confusing beauty with maturity, and when I was done with the school, I was done with these people. But seeing this picture is like seeing a missing person posted on a milk carton or a post office bulletin board, flashed on the six o’clock news, like something awful has happened and this is evidence of more innocent days. And it isn’t just me. All the boys seem killed in Vietnam, all the girls murdered in the woods. The class of 1972 might as well be decomposing under groovy hair.

“There I am,” I say.

I think of Tania, how she might see herself in my skeptical eyes, my dubious grin.

“You were a happy accident,” Bob tells me. “I was going through the yearbook, just looking at the pictures, when I came across yours, and I was like, I think I know her, and then I was like, it’s the girl from Night’s Scream. I’ve seen the movie like a thousand times.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“And I thought, how cool to have both your autographs,” Bob says.

“Sure,” I say.

I’m holding the Sharpie over myself, wondering where to sign and what to write, when a thought comes to mind: Maybe I could keep the yearbook for the rest of the day; maybe over dinner I could show Tania this teenage glimpse of myself; maybe we could squeeze in an early laugh and this would loosen things up between us. She might even regard me with more humanity and less suspicion. Look, I could say, I was young once. I was not born your mother. So I ask Bob if there’s any chance he might lend me the Sachem, just for the night, and afterward I could leave the yearbook with the front desk of my hotel. “My daughter would really get a kick out of this,” I tell him.

Bob’s face practically contorts in pain.

“Um,” he says.

“I promise I’ll leave it there.”

“It’s just——”

“I can give you my phone number, just in case,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Sure,” I say, and I grab the already signed photo of myself and write on the back the name of my hotel and my phone number. I realize how this must look, and so I glance up and smile, but Bob seems to be checking the numbers against the numbers he already has scratched in his head. I notice Charlie Mooks’s continued sideways curiosity. I wonder if he still thinks of me, if he envisions this Bob character strung up by the legs, a chain saw ready to split him in half.

“Thanks so much,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”

Bob takes the photo and reinspects the information. “You promise?” he asks.

“I promise,” I say.

He slips the photograph back into his satchel. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

“Bye,” he says.

“Bye,” I say.

Bob turns and heads back into the crowd, his hand resting on the hilt of his machete, as though he might need to cut his way through these other versions of himself.

---

Throughout the afternoon my phone buzzes with texts from Bob reconfirming the address of the hotel, the time of pickup tomorrow, or maybe tonight, buzz, buzz, buzz, and I text back my assurances in as few words as possible. But I’m amused. By five o’clock the cast of Night’s Scream is done with our commitments, and we gather back in the green room to collect our belongings. The performance of the last five hours has left me gutted, as well as embarrassed for myself. All that smiling. The fake pleasant words. The put-on enthusiasm. I feel even more distant from myself than normal, like my head is floating on a string. But the others seem invigorated by the residual fame. I do my best to linger and participate in their small talk, but the purpose of our being together fast evaporates and I get clammy in their company. I need fresh air. I need escape. I have no bygone fondness for these people. I’m like a pair of scissors saying good-bye.

Charlie Mooks insists on a hug. I can smell his deodorant fighting against the odor of wet leaves, and I think of myself rotting inside his massive bag of flesh. He squeezes me tight. I can sense his hard-on underneath—or the memory of his hard-on. “We’re so glad you came,” he says as he presses into my dead self.

“Me too,” I lie.

“Hope to see you at one of these things again,” he says.

“Yes,” I say, knowing I will never do this again.

Charlie releases me, and I grab my things and wave a final good-bye. The rest of the gang are going for a drink, maybe multiple drinks, ha-ha-ha. Once I’m gone I know they will anatomize me, will compare me to the person I was back in Maine. How I paraded about. How I suffered. How I was the victim long before any blade crossed my throat. I can already hear them taking me apart. Dragging me to the ground. But at least I know I hated them first. Amy in her ridiculous red hat. Laura in her tacky vintage dress. Karen with her résumé on parade, how her life has never been better, how blessed she is, in her cheap Talbots blouse, the underarms pitted through.

---

Back in my hotel room I freshen up and then head uptown for dinner with Tania. There have been no new texts from Bob since the initial volley. In the taxi I send him a single period, imagining his reaction. Mistake or meaning? A pip of dust on the screen? But there is no reply, no indecisive ellipsis. Nothing. And I’m briefly worried for Bob. Is he doing all right in the big city? I arrive at the restaurant early. It’s near Tania’s apartment. I had hoped she was going to invite me over beforehand so I could get a glimpse of her life, but she had insisted on just meeting here—so here I am, drinking sparkling water when what I want is vodka. The restaurant seems to cater to the solo diner. Framed museum posters cover the walls. Sheets of white paper stand in for tablecloths. Having a reservation feels somewhat humiliating. This is hardly the special night I had imagined. Plus I’m a picky eater.

For distraction, I take the Sachem from my shoulder bag. The inside cover tells me the yearbook belonged to Paul Fatone. I have no recollection of Paul Fatone. His photograph sparks nothing but another assault of hairstyle molded against white suburban face. But Paul Fatone must have been popular. There are scrawls everywhere from fellow seniors, the innocuous words of teenagers using the lingo of the day. They inscribe their parting gibes as though on a piece of novelty tombstone, the earth beneath forever summer. I search for a few old flames. Nathan Lobo. Bill Ferguson. Toby Stankowski. None of them lasted for more than a month before they disappointed me, and while I gave myself easily—Ryan Feller took my virginity in ninth grade—I departed just as easily and enjoyed the notion of their pining, even enjoyed the gossip afterward. I liked being talked about even if every word stung. And I would give my own details to the girls, how the boys’ dicks were small and their performance sweaty and quick, how the only good part was when they let me harvest the pimples on their backs. And then I would go and screw another boy to further remove meaning. It was free love but with a nihilistic stain. On page 75 I come across my only close girlfriend, Sally Gimble. By graduation she was no longer speaking to me, which was fine since I knew from the beginning we had an expiration date. A few years ago I searched for her on Facebook. She still lives in Massapequa and is married with two sons. I didn’t bother with the friend request. Her boys looked like rapists.

The front door of the restaurant opens and I see Tania—my Tania, my baby girl, right there. The sight of her fills me to the tips of my fingers and toes. It’s like I have ballast again. I straighten and lift my chin toward the light of our reunion. She must see me—I can see her, but first she says hello to the maître d’, this French crone, the two of them exchanging a European-style kiss. I wonder how often Tania eats here. Does she have her normal spot at the bar, where Jules or Maurice or Emile serves her too sweet white wine? Tania and the crone laugh, Tania with her hand on the crone’s shoulder. I want to wave but I won’t. I’ll let her have this moment. Tania looks the same and yet different since I saw her five years ago: the Christmas visit before she went to San Francisco for New Year’s. Just two days with me during which half the time she was sleeping. And I gave her wonderful gifts. She gave me a scarf. Tania seems more middle-aged now. Rounder. Her hair has remained short but is dyed a brighter lollipop red. She looks like her father if her father was transitioning to a woman. Her fashion sense appears based on taking long flights—loose-fitting clothes, sandals, a backpack. A walk through a security checkpoint seems implied. There are probably two paperbacks in that backpack. And a Playbill for a matinee. And some sort of sour candy loose from its wrapper, shedding its dust. And a gratitude journal where she keeps track of what she’s thankful for, from friends to foods to television shows to masturbating in the bathtub. There’s no Mom in there—oh, and catalogs of dreams, conscious and unconscious, described over endless pages. I almost feel sorry for her. She’s probably speaking bad French right now.

Tania finally breaks free from the front of the restaurant and comes toward me. Her smile tightens, withholding the fullness of expression, no doubt because I am her mother, and so I offer her the same expression in return. I remain seated and formal. Like a great-aunt. Because this is what she wants. I notice her quick examination of my face—the wrinkles and age spots, the blondish scars on my nose and forehead from the basal cell carcinoma. I feel tattooed by those eyes. She still refuses to pluck those black hairs from that mole on her chin. I have tweezers in my bag, but I’ll refrain from saying anything.

“Mom,” she says, spreading her arms, “you’re here!” She was once a child actress.

“Hello, sweetheart,” I say.

“Back in the big city,” she says as she takes her seat.

“Well, first time I’ve been invited,” I say.

Tania does that Tania thing with her lips. “How was the event?” she asks.

“It was a convention,” I say.

“Right, horror movie stuff,” she says.

“Well, yes, all sorts of cinema really, and people were very excited we were there. It really was something. You should’ve come. A bigger crowd than I imagined. Lines and lines of people. My hand is wrecked from signing things,” I tell her, showing her my hand.

“Very cool,” Tania says. “And was it fun seeing everyone from the cast again?”

“Not really,” I say. “Charlie Mooks sells insurance.”

“Who’s he again?” Tania asks.

“The killer,” I say.

“Right right right,” Tania says.

“He’s even more disgusting today,” I say.

“Oh,” Tania says.

“And everyone just seems so old,” I say, “including myself.”

“Please,” Tania says, who seems almost older than me.

“And even worse,” I tell her, “we had to watch ourselves during the screening, up there on the big screen, when we were all so young and beautiful and worthy enough to be slaughtered by a madman.”

Tania grins.

“What?” I ask.

“That’s funny,” she says.

“Maybe you can’t understand,” I say.

Tania sits back in her chair. “Yeah, maybe,” she says.

“It’s just strange,” I say, “seeing ourselves all fresh-faced and pert. It’s like watching an old home movie but with horrible graphic violence.”

“Uh-huh,” Tania says.

“Anyway, it was a long hellish day. Literally. Like I saw visions from hell.” I glance around the restaurant and cannot help the next line—it’s practically dictated by inevitable forces. “Speaking of hell, do you enjoy this neighborhood? Because when I lived in the city it was all about downtown. SoHo. East Village. The Upper West Side was considered, I don’t know, sleepy and dull,” I say.

Tania readjusts her napkin. “Don’t think that’s changed much,” she says.

“I remember——”

The waiter shows up. He places his hand on Tania’s shoulder and Tania beams.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says.

“Bonsoir, George,” Tania says.

I’m almost embarrassed for her.

“Where have you been hiding, my lovely?” George asks. He must be in his late 50s and he’s attractive in the way waiters can sometimes be attractive: attentive and clean and conscious of posture and purpose. He has a mustache, which I normally hate, except on the rare occasion when they transcend my bias and become mysteriously powerful. George has such a mustache.

“Traveling,” Tania tells him.

“To exotic lands?” George asks.

“Buffalo,” Tania says.

I smile at Tania; I smile at George; I smile at Tania and George.

“I hear it’s magical this time of year,” George says.

“I did see Niagara Falls,” Tania says.

“And?” George asks.

“Pretty great. Went on the Maid of the Mist,” Tania says.

I keep smiling, at Tania, at George, at Tania and George.

“Is there a better name?” George says. “Maid of the Mist,” he repeats with a flourish.

“It was beyond,” Tania says. “The sound. The power. Like a glacier but all movement.”

“A glacier moves,” George says.

“But very slowly,” Tania says.

“Until all at once,” George says, making a calving gesture with his hands.

Finally Tania notices me, or remembers I’m in this scene as well.

“George,” she says, “this is my mother.”

George turns to me. “Hello, Tania’s mother,” he says.

“Zoe,” I say.

George’s mustache arches like an eyebrow. “Ah, Greek for life,” he says.

“Yes,” I say, though I never trust when service people know these kinds of things, or I find the idea of their deeper knowledge somewhat unsettling. It’s like seeing someone handsome who works on a road crew—it does not jibe with my worldview. “So what are the specials, George?” I ask, sticking to the menu.

“The specials?” George asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Everything is special,” George says with inclusive gusto.

“Okay, great, but what are the specials really?” I ask again.

“Just what’s on the menu,” George says. “The lamb is very good.”

Tania blushes. I’m guessing she’s a regular consumer of the lamb.

“I’ll have the lamb then,” I say, handing back the menu.

Tania looks surprised. “We’re doing this already?” she asks.

“Why not?” I say. “George is here, and he seems ready and capable and even eager, and it’s been a long day, and I’m hungry, and I hear the lamb is very good, and that’s just fine by me. Oh, and I’ll have another sparkling water as well and maybe some bread.”

“Okay,” George says. “And you, Tania?”

“Um, I guess I’ll have the chicken paillard,” she says. “And I’ll stick with regular water.”

“Excellent,” George says, and he executes a shallow bow before leaving.

There’s a moment of post-ordering silence before I say, “He seems nice.”

“Uh-huh,” Tania says.

“You come here often?” I ask.

“Enough,” Tania says.

“Is he maybe your boyfriend?” I ask, which I know is a supremely foolish thing to ask, and yet the words are released before I can do anything, spoken from this voice within my voice, like a stage prompt from the wings.

Tania tilts her head. “What?” she asks.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I repeat because I’m stubborn with the newfound attention.

“Um, no,” Tania says, “he’s not my boyfriend.”

“It’s just, he’s cute,” I say.

“Stop,” Tania says.

“I thought you two had some repartee,” I say.

“Can we change the subject?” Tania asks.

“You obviously get along.”

“Stop,” Tania says.

“Okay,” I say as though uncertain of the ground rules. “So, Niagara Falls.…”

“And not that either,” Tania says.

And so begins the back-and-forth of mothers and daughters immemorial. Everything I ask is too personal; everything I say is too banal to warrant a proper response. And Tania gives me the minimum, mostly yeses and nos and a few spare details—her job, her friends, her rescue dog—which hardly defrays the general sense of sadness and loneliness I imagine from her life. The poor girl. She speaks as if she has a lawyer present, glancing to the side when I pose basic questions, seeking, it seems, counsel from David Hockney at MoMA. And she can barely muster any curiosity about my own day-to-day existence and instead seeks confirmation of the same old, same old, as though I’m not real, as though I am merely someone in prosthetics acting as her mother. And she once adored me. Would practically dress up as me. I flatten in the chair. Whatever misguided enthusiasm is leaking away, moldering and stale, like my love is just the reek of my own breath.

“Have you seen your father?” I ask, raising the stakes, but I need fuller consideration.

“Of course not,” Tania says.

“I was just wondering,” I say, “since you’re both in the city.”

“Why would I see him?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Don’t blame me for that,” I say.

“I don’t want to see him,” Tania says. “At all. Like never.”

“Okay,” I say.

At some point George appears with the food.

“Here’s the lamb. And the chicken,” he says.

I look up at him and say, “I’m curious, George, are you married?”

Tania tightens from across the table.

“No,” George says.

“Never?” I ask.

Tania leans forward. I am finally fully present in her eyes.

“I’m a widower,” George says.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. When did your wife die?” I ask.

“Um, Mom,” Tania says.

George smiles despite himself. “About three years ago,” he says.

“And how did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?” I ask.

“Mom,” Tania says again.

George nods like a boat on waves. “Cancer,” he says, “Mom,” Tania says, “stop.”

“There’s no shame in this,” I say to her. “Just an honest and open conversation, right, George? I myself am a survivor. Basal cell carcinoma.” I point to the various divots on my face. “And a nasty squamous cell carcinoma on my back. Fair skin and a love of bikinis, not a good combination. Certainly not the same, of course, not by a long shot, but still gets you thinking. I also had a thyroid scare last year. I don’t know if I told you that, Tania.”

“Enough,” Tania says.

“It was in her brain,” George says. “Or started there.”

“How horrible for you,” I say.

“Yes, well, mostly horrible for her,” George says, his head back on the shore.

“I can’t imagine,” I say, though I can.

“Anyway,” George says, “bon appétit,” which rings hollow yet true.

“Yes, thank you, George,” I say. “Looks delicious. Thank you.”

I regard the lamb in front of me. I hate lamb.

In five minutes, maybe six, Tania will get up and leave. I know this like I know she can sometimes cry so hard that she’ll vomit. Like I know she can hold her breath almost to the point of fainting. Like I know she can stay locked in the bathroom until the fire department has to be called. Her face is reddening now. Blotches appear on her neck and chest, like her skin is litmus paper and I am the test. She never could hide anything from me. She holds her knife and fork like handlebars and she’s speeding downhill, reckless and strong-willed, running away from home again. I notice the votive candle on the table flickering. George has forgotten the bread. I start in on the lamb, cutting and then inspecting the meat. It’s like I’m performing an autopsy. I realize there’s a specific word for what the flame is doing, which suddenly seems important to remember. Flicker, flutter, shiver, shudder. I keep my eyes focused on the plate, on the growing pile of excised meat. All of the restaurant seems constituted around our silence and the predestined end of our silence. We are the main event. Twinkle, sparkle, glimmer. I sound like a witch in my head. If only Tania knew how much I loved her. Gutter—the flame is guttering. That’s when I look up and give Tania a satisfied smile. I never even had the chance to mention the yearbook.

---

The bar at the hotel is hardly full, which is both a relief and a disappointment, and yet the bartender lingers on the opposite end, chatting with others while I embarrass myself with a series of meaningful glances. Perhaps he’s trying to instill some dismissive cool onto the place. Because otherwise this could be a New York–themed restaurant in Des Moines. And the lighting is beyond hideous. My pores seem possessed by lampreys, angry and alive, sucking up the fluorescence. I’m sure everyone can hear my skin scream. But nobody turns toward me, not even the nearby older gentleman in his dated pinstripe suit. He’s around my age. His hair is thinning and slicked back, his scalp vaguely corpse-like. Forty years ago his attention would’ve angled toward me in a near instant. Shoulders followed by head followed by eyes. The testing of the space between us. The unavoidable hello. But he’s only interested in his phone, and I’m still waiting for the bartender. Billy Joel plays on the stereo. Then the Ramones. It’s as though the playlist has been created by a schizophrenic New Yorker.

I take a deep breath, which spurs an extravagant yawn.

I imagine a pair of clear blue eyes peering from my throat.

“Fuck,” I say as I finish the yawn.

The older gentleman looks at me.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” I say.

He extends me a thumbs-up and returns to his phone.

Once again I glance down the bar.

Does the bartender think I already have a drink?

I reach into my bag and grab the Sachem—the goddamn Sachem, and I find myself sort of laughing, because it’s been a long and impossible day and here I am in this hotel bar listening to “I Wanna Be Sedated” and as far as I can tell I barely exist in this world. I open the yearbook and find Zoe Akeldama. I should sign the thing already. For Bob. Dear Bob. Sweet Bob. And though I have a pen in my bag, I think about asking the older gentleman for one, just to confirm my reality. Oh, excuse me, sir. My mother once told me she would have named me Athena if she had known just how beautiful I would become. So typical that she had gotten the goddess wrong. But her life was so meager. The dental hygienist. The first-generation American. The paltry success story. Zoe Akeldama would have gotten a drink here no problem. And whatever drug she wanted. And a weekend trip to someplace warm. And a stupid role in a stupid movie, which was always the stupid dream. I carefully rip the page from the yearbook, like removing a check from a checkbook. The older gentleman looks at me again. I smile and ball the piece of paper and toss it in the direction of the bartender. It hardly causes a stir.

“That was me,” I tell the older gentleman.

His extends me another thumbs-up and returns to his phone.

This is New York, I think. This is me in New York. This is me sitting here in New York.

I look at my hands. Always a mistake.

I’m tempted to grab my tweezers and work on random knuckle hairs but instead I pick up my phone.

No new texts; no new e-mails.

Nothing.

Four middle-aged women enter the bar, probably 20 years younger than me. They seem to be celebrating something, their festivity instantly grating. They semaphore whooping with their arms. No doubt they will all order cosmopolitans and be further transformed.

I think about Bob. I think about Bob roaming the streets in his fedora and faux machete, playing the character he always wanted to be, but the tall buildings are almost overwhelming, the crowds and the lights, the sudden sounds, all the fears greater than any moth streaking toward him in the moonlight. And yet Bob persists, Bob does the sights, Bob eats a pretzel and a hot dog, Bob goes into Madame Tussauds and poses next to Freddy Krueger and Frank Sinatra, Bob navigates these mysterious scenes and wonders where all these people live and how they live and what they do for a living, Bob assuming he’s the only stranger here, the only audience member to this curious show. Then he gets three texts in quick succession. Like whispers through a crannied hole.

“Come to Room 2024.”

“Come right now.”

“I have what you want.”