I do not think that they will sing to me.
—T. S. Eliot
Stella
Seeing Elias, my shrink, is reality therapy for me. He thinks I'm hallucinating my relationship with a dead Thirties movie celebrity called Jessica Skye, and perhaps I am.
I did get hung up on alcohol and was arrested and charged with a DUI but I can’t be doing too bad—it’s been a year since my boozy relapse, and I’m sober.
I’ve got to admit I’m doing a good job at fooling some people, but as Lincoln said, you can’t fool all the people all the time.
Elias would smile at that, but generally he’s pretty grim—and maybe that explains why every time I see Elias, it rains.
We always run through the de rigeur therapy session—the game of chess, as I call it, where I make moves and he counters—but today he looks out the window and remarks on the weather and cuts the session short because of rain.
O thank you, rain gods, I muse under my breath and take the reprieve.
When I get home, Stella’s Mercedes is parked on the circular drive—she ‘s inside making herself comfortable. She has a key—I know—bad idea, but these things I do.
I shake the rain off my hoodie, toss it on the deacon’s chair and sit opposite her in the front room.
Why am I fascinated by Sirens?
She’s sitting in my love chair—rather ironically named if I might say, but she’s struck a pose, legs demurely slanted to one side, balancing a ridiculously gaudy, fragile china teacup and saucer on her lap. Of course, it draws my attention to her lap, which she intended, so all her modelling of temperance virtues is somewhat belied by her rather intemperate attempts at seduction.
The rain is beating at the windows, a migraine is beating at my head, and the heart of a tigress is beating in Stella’s breast.
She comes right to the point. “I want you to come with me to Hart House Theatre tonight, Theo. It’ll do you good to get out.”
I wince, partly at the thought of doing anything to encourage her romantic notions, but mostly because my head hurts so much I’m seeing stars.
She sees the reluctant look in my eyes.
“C’mon, don’t frown. You love theatre, Theo—come with me and see a performance. It’s Aristopahanes—and you dote on the ancient Greeks.”
I knew there had to be an agenda—she’s stuck having to appease a client, probably by appearing ‘artsy’ as she puts it. Stella can be a chameleon at times, and dragging me along will kill two birds with one stone. She’ll get to schmooze her way into a multi-million dollar deal, and possibly seduce me as a nightcap.
“What’s the play called? Aristophanes wrote several ‘opera’, as you know.”
“Opera? I didn’t think it was a musical,” she frowns.
She’s no student of classical languages, this girl.
“I used the term as the plural of opus,” I smile, “he wrote more than one work of art, Stella.”
“I know that,” she pouts. “I think Lex called it The Frogs.”
“Appropriate on a rainy night,” I tease, “ but I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh come on, Theo—it’ll be fun. A trip to the Underworld where the hero brings back a soul from the Land of the Dead—kind of right up your alley, I’d say.”
Again, I wince, this time at her allusion.
It pains me to think lovely Jessica Skye is moldering in a crypt in the Mount Pleasant cemetery, and not vivacious and alluring as I last saw her in my frenzied state.
But then, I’m no oracle, and I'll inevitably end up chasing the tail of my own mind when I try to figure out who’s the ghost—the long-dead Thirties screen Siren, or mere me—this pathetically weak and alcoholically impaired time traveler from the future?
How this turns out remains to be seen.
Thank you!