Winter 2014

“Fly Me to the Moo —but America Will D

by Christopher Thornton One day last week I was driving on a desert road and Hatta, a pocket-sized village tucked in the fol Mountains, a craggy range that divides the United from Oman. All was well. It was bright afternoon. In every direction stretched unbroken desert interrupted by only the occasional thicket of acacia trees. Far ahead was the gnarled mountain ridge. I slid a CD into the dashboard player. Soon enough the mellow chords of “Old Blue Eyes” himself, Frank Sinatra, filled the silence: “When you’re smiling, When you’re smiling, The whole world smiles With yooou...”

The voice was soothing and reassuring, the lyrics simple and playful. The song could have even been called seductive, but after a few minutes something felt horribly wrong. Not with the car—the tires whirred along the pavement cheerfully and the engine hummed almost in sync with the soundtrack. Nor the driving conditions— wisps of sand were blowing across the road, but that is normal in the desert almost any time of year. Still, there was an uneasy sensory disconnect, and as the miles sped by, and the CD player changed tracks, it only became worse. I turned Frank off. Within minutes, calm returned.

The problem was obvious. It was the music. Out of the speakers came tunes that were uncompromisingly upbeat and bouncy, with lyrics to match: “Grab your coat and get your hat, Leave your worries on the doorstep.

Life can be so sweet On the sunny side of the street…”

True, there was ample sun, yet the expanse of desert between Dubai and Hatta conveyed none of Frank’s chirpiness. Like many stretches of the American landscape, it swept away untracked and seemingly limitless, but in contrast to the deserts of the American West, it appeared stark, austere, and unyielding. Instead of being washed in crisp sunlight, its outlines were muted by the veil of dust that rose from the desert floor. It conveyed no image of abundance and the possibilities of even greater promise over the horizon but rather never-ending hardship and struggle. For centuries, that was reality for the people who inhabited it, not only here but in many parts of the world. The sounds that came out of the CD player could not have been more out of tune.

This started a train of thought about America’s once unrivaled popularity in the world, the stages that nations go through as they grow and mature, and the waning prestige of America around the globe.

First, a few thoughts about nationhood itself. Every nation embodies certain principles that are usually reflected in its manner of governance and sets of values that its people aspire to uphold, in their laws, perspectives they take on issues, and even daily behavior.

(Can we forget “Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!”?). Whether or not the nation lives up to these ideals is another question. They will still be seen as not only representing the nation as a concept or political creation but the people who comprise it because in the end, nations are nothing without their citizens. In fact, nations are their citizens, and so the values and characteristics associated with a nation will naturally be seen as standing for the people themselves. There are exceptions: totalitarian states that rule without the will of their 4

eople and therefore can’t be seen as representing the values or ven the identity of their people in any way.

It is also a generally accepted fact that a nation’s culture is a eflection of its people. One might even say that its art, music, and terature is its people—their identity, values, and very soul manifest aural, visual, and tangible forms. This is one of the most important ays in which a nation communicates with the world, expresses self to the world. Therefore it is one of the most important ways in hich a nation is viewed by others.

With this in mind it should come as no surprise that in the late 1940s and ’50s, the golden era of the popular American song, the appeal of America around the world would hit its zenith, and it made crooners like Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Perry Como, and Eddie Fisher heralds of American culture. It is easy to imagine how such voices, expressing such positive messages, would be hard to resist, because social-political realities made it all possible. The “good fight” had been won. Fascism in Europe had been defeated (with the exception of Franco-controlled Spain), and while Europe was rebuilding from the most devastating destruction the world had ever seen, the American economy was booming. The land between the two great oceans radiated unending optimism. There were the pesky Soviets to worry about, but from American eyes the future never looked brighter. Suburbia was expanding. Spacious, middle-class homes could be fitted with a Maytag. Ike could play any second round on the golf course.

But why such global appeal? The answer, I think, is simple: We all love youth. We may envy it and become frustrated with it and at times even hate it for its ignorance and misguided sense of privilege and naïveté, but for all its faults it still dangles its allure, and through its popular songs America defined itself as a perennially youthful society, embodying the most bewitching qualities of youth— optimism and energy, freshness, vigor, and innocence, endless opportunity, and, of course, always the promise of new beginnings.

We have to admit that America has had a little help along the way.

Its geography has played a significant role in its ability to preserve its almost impregnable sense of innocence. The two great oceans protected it from the horrors of World War II (and World War I, but only after the second war did it emerge as a preeminent global power), and so while Europe was rebuilding bomb-battered cities America was still able to sing of itself: “Blue skies, smiling at me Nothing but blue skies, do I see, Never saw the sun shinin' so bright Never saw things goin' so right...”

The seeds of this sunny image of life in America had been planted a few decades earlier through the songs of Irving Berlin and Cole Porter. Then America was at the forefront of a cultural movement breaking down the restrictive social codes of the previous century: “In olden days, a glimpse of stocking Was looked on as something shocking.

But now, God knows, Anything goes...”

But following the carnage of World War II, the contrast between mindset on the American landscape and elsewhere could not have been more striking. Where else but in America could one contemplate thumbing their nose at adversity, pulling up stakes, and starting anew: “Let’s take a boat to Bermuda, Let’s take a plane to Saint Paul, Let’s take a kayak To Quincy or Nyack, Let’s get away from it all...

No need to come back at all...”

WINTER 2014

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

The Bread Line

by Linda Boltman een thousands standing in the rain that day. all, they all wore the same look of desperation. I h, exhaled and reluctantly made my way to the y a few turned to look at me as I passed. Most wn, hands clasped in front of them or in their pockets. The rain dripped off their hats.

As I took my place at the end, the elderly woman in front of me turned and smiled.

“Another long line today,” she sighed.

“Yes. It doesn’t pay to arrive late,” I returned. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Oh, I only arrived about ten minutes before you,” she replied.

“But I understand those in the front have been here since very early this morning.”

“Is the line moving?”

“Occasionally we inch forward. I expect we’ll get in late this afternoon.”

“I can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it.” My voice had a tinge of depression.

She turned towards me and held out her hand. “My name is Mary.”

“Isabella,” I replied, shaking her hand.

“That’s a pretty name.”

Warmth emanated from her voice. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with her, a complete stranger, in such a short time.

“I was named after my grandmother,” I volunteered.

“That makes it even better. What was she like?”

“I don’t know. She died before I was born.”

“What a shame.” Mary smiled at me warmly. “She would have liked you.”

“That’s what my mother always said.”

Mary shivered and pulled her coat tightly around her slim frame.

“It’s bad enough that we have to stand in line for hours,” she complained. “But this cold rain makes it even more miserable.”

Fifteen or twenty people had crowded behind me. They pressed forward, as though it might make the line move faster.

“Move up,” a gruff voice bellowed.

“Oh, sorry.” Mary turned and inched forward. The rest of us shuffled behind her.

“Do you have kids?” she inquired.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I averted my gaze off to the side. “I did.”

“I’m sorry. Obviously, I have upset you.”

“No, it’s…” I brusquely wiped away the tears. “It’s not your fault.

You had no way of knowing.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

I hesitated. I had kept the emotions bottled up inside for so long.

Yet, now I felt like sharing the most personal, intimate event of my life with a perfect stranger.

“It’s all right if you’re not comfortable,” Mary said, touching my arm gently. “We can talk about something else.”

Suddenly, the tears came quickly. Mary leaned forward, pulled me close and let me sob into her shoulder. She didn’t say anything. She held me, stroking my hair and murmuring softly into my ear, allowing me to release the long, pent-up emotions.

At last the sobs subsided. I pulled away awkwardly from the security of her welcoming shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I hiccoughed. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine, dear.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my wet sleeve. “I don’t know what came over me.”

VOL 9, ISSUE 1

She patted my arm and smiled. “Everyone needs a shoulder to cry on sometimes.”

“Can we move up now?” the gruff voice behind me bellowed.

Mary and I inched forward.

I don’t know if it was the situation or the rain, but suddenly, the memories flooded back and the words came easily. “When we were first married, things were wonderful,” I began. “Jack had a promising job with a successful firm and we were making good money. I couldn’t have been happier.” Mary nodded. I felt she understood.

“We fell in love with an older house and began restoration. Shortly thereafter, our son, Arthur, was born.” I emitted a long, deep sigh.

“It sounds perfect,” Mary said quietly.

“It was.”

“And then everything changed,” she stated as if she knew.

I nodded. I felt the emotions well up again and struggled for words.

“We had no warning.”

“None of us did,” the gruff voice mumbled.

Startled, I turned towards the man. I had no idea our conversation had been overheard. His eyes appeared moist.

“I was a stockbroker - I’ve lost everything,” he explained, shaking his head slowly. “My house, my job, my wife…all gone. Even so, I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m still here. So many of my friends and fellow employees are not.”

His words stabbed me like a knife. I struggled to speak. “My husband was a stockbroker,” I managed to choke out.

He looked at me intently. “What was his name?”

“Jack Wilson.”

His eyes softened. “You must be Isabella.” I nodded. “I’m William. I worked with Jack. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“It must have been difficult for you,” he continued.

“It was…it is.” I shook my head. “Like you, I’ve lost everything…Jack, Arthur, the house. My whole life as I knew it is gone. Jack’s elderly parents took me in, otherwise, I’d be on the streets. They’re not well and have become even more frail after losing their son.”

“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry,” Mary said, grasping my hand in hers.

“The day the stock market crashed,” I began, “Jack tried calling me for over an hour. When he was finally able to get through, he was desperate, crying and rambling. I’d never heard him sound like that.”

“It was chaos in the office,” William explained. “You can’t imagine.

Everyone was in disbelief. One of my best friends went to the window and…” his voice choked with emotion. He paused and looked off into the distance, his face reflecting his pain. He inhaled deeply and looked back at me, trying to pull himself together. “It was almost impossible to get through the switchboard. I’m surprised Jack was able to reach you.”

There was an awkward moment of silence as we both struggled with our memories. I’d pushed that day from my thoughts, hoping the heartache would go away. Now I realized I needed to face my demons, but struggled to utter the very words that might free me.

I finally found the courage to begin. “Jack wasn’t himself. I should have known.”

“Known what, dear?” Mary asked tenderly.

“Jack picked Arthur up after school every day.” I went on, almost as though I was speaking to myself. “I could have done it, that’s my job as a mother, but Jack insisted. He said it was his special time with his son. He adored that boy.” My voice trailed off.

The line moved and we inched forward. I looked up at the dark, storm clouds above us. The rain was letting up. Intermittent droplets hit my cheeks and rolled down my face. Even God is crying. I could see the concern and care in the eyes of the two strangers next to me.

I took a deep breath and continued.

“When he called me that day, he was so despondent. In a heartbeat, we’d lost everything. Investment clients and co-workers,

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11

What is Real?

by Caitlin E. Falconer round me and continue to patronize me with ns. It had only been twelve hours since I ended up ns ranged from, “What had happened?” to “Where een hundred hours?” answering them. The room I was in had white cement brick walls. The floor was tiled; a table and two chairs rested upon it. I was slouched in one of those chairs and the man who was blabbering on sat in the other. All I wanted to do was go back home to my darling eight-year-old daughter. God, what was taking so long?

My auburn flat-ironed hair brushed against my newly pressed blouse.

“Ma’am, you need to do a DNA sample for me,” the man across from me huffed. He had on a nicely pressed suit and loafers. His eyes found mine as I was scrutinizing his outfit.

“Here Charlie, she’s a tough one to deal with.” A male nurse came in; he had a needle in his left hand and a piece of gauze in the other.

He knelt down in front of me and started to find a vein. I looked away as he put the butterfly needle in.

A few seconds later, it was done. I pulled back down my sleeve of the cherry blouse. I had thrown on earlier. The nurse was still knelt down, and starred at me. I said something I wish I had not. “If you’re done getting blood, can you leave!” He got up almost instantaneously as if I had offended him.

The investigator who sat across from me still asked me questions.

They were ones I had already verbalized the answers of at least awhile before. I did not understand why he kept asking the same ones. I finally said, “What more do you want from me? Stop this! Can we just end this whole charade, so that I can go to my daughter?”

The man leaned over the table. His breath smelled of an onion bagel.

“The trouble here is, you’re here because she doesn’t exist.” I was now fully aware of my surroundings. I was not in an investigation office. No, this cannot be happening. My daughter was alive; hell, she was in the other room, wasn’t she? I started to scream, and a bunch of doctors brought me into a cell that reeked of sweat. I covered my nose in disgust. The doctors left the dreadful place and shut the heavy metal door. What was this place? Where was my daughter?

I was flipping out. I heard the door open again and there in the frame was a lanky man dressed in a scrub outfit. He had in his hand a bag of some sort. I then recognized it; it was my purse. Why did he have my purse? He shoved it at me and I lamely caught the beat up thing. He smirked at me, shut the door, and locked it.

I got up, put my purse on the metal table, and ran to the door that had bars on it. I banged my now shaking fists on it.

“LET ME OUT!” I shrieked.

No one answered, and I tried once more. Still no one came.

After about ten minutes of pure agonizing defeat between the door and me, I gave up. Nobody was going to break me out of this place. God, I do not have any clue to why I was even here. I sat back down in the rock hard chair where my purse lay next to on the table, and fished through it. I searched frantically, but strangely my wallet, and keys were gone. I found my phone though it was running out of battery. I put my fingers on the small black keys, and trembling, I unlocked it. There on the screen was a picture of my lovely daughter.

She had on a cute dress I picked out for her. I glanced at the date it was taken, October 2, 1998. That was today’s date. If the picture was taken today then my daughter must be alive.

About an hour had passed and I still had my phone in my hands, staring at it, trying to figure out this puzzle. I can still hear Nikki’s voice in the back of my wandering mind, VOL 9, ISSUE 1

“Have a nice day, Mommy! I love you! I want to show you what I made today when I get home, okay?”

Those words sang through me, like a song, I love you… A little tear fell from my face and on to the phone. I wished I had some kind of proof! Something that could prove that she was indeed alive.

The door opened for the third time; however, I expected a different man to appear, but it was the detective. He earlier had been flooding me with random questions.

“My name is Dr. Hughes, ma’am, and I’m with the Indiana SVU unit. It seems to me that you are suffering from Schizophrenia, a disorder in which you see things or people that do not really exist.”

He cautiously put his hand on my shoulder and said that vile word again, Schizophrenia…

I swatted his filthy hand away as fast as he placed it on me. “Stop!

Stop telling me these lies! I do not have that! Now let me see my daughter! Please!” I fell off the chair in to hysteria. I could not tell if I was laughing or sobbing. The assistant to the Detective helped me up. I resisted to my wits’ end, but he prevailed, and forced me up into the chair again. I heard them whisper something. “Sir, bring in the child,” the detective softly said to the assistant. I opened my eyes in shock when he had said the word “child.” I blacked out after that.

About a couple hours had passed since they had told me I had some insane disease. I did not believe them. I just sat in that chair, waiting…but nothing.

Suddenly, I saw her. Nikki my darling daughter walked right through that door.

“Mommy! I missed you!” Nikki shrieked with delight. I never had felt so happy in my entire life.

“Who is hallucinating now? Jerk! I told you she was here!” I snapped at the officer who brought her to me. I got up to a mid stand so I could hug my daughter. She smelt so good. Nikki started to shed a little tear. I did too. We stayed like that for about twenty minutes.

“Ma’am, you were seeing things. I had brought you here because it was too dangerous for you to be wandering on the streets,” the detective told me as he was entering the now solemn room.

“What are you talking about? What street?” I cocked my head to one side like a dog.

“You had taken some drugs that made you out of sorts,” he confessed. I stared at him blankly. My daughter was on my lap, and her hands were wrapped around my midsection.

“I just don’t understand here. What the heck is happening?” I demanded once more. None of those idiots were paying any attention to me. Suddenly, I found myself raising out of my chair, and going up to the detective. He looked at my hand that was now clenched around his collar. I forcefully backed him up against the white wall. The other man saw me, and shouted, “You are crazy!

John, grab her now!” John took his hand, and tore my hand off the detective’s collar. I was about to punch him in the face when…. I woke up.

It had all been a nightmare. I turned over to my side, and flicked on the light placed on my nightstand. I glanced at the clock. It read 7:30a.m, and I sighed. The room smelt of lavender. The smell revived through me like the air on a nice spring day. The door was opened a crack, and it was enough to see a lock of bleached blonde hair flutter past.

“Mommy, Mommy, wake up! I need you to bring me to school!” shouted Nikki. She ran into my room wearing only her nightgown and bunny slippers, yet still not quite awake. She climbed up onto my huge king sized bed, and hugged me. I squeezed her tight, and kissed her cheek. She giggled.

“Don’t ever leave me, Mommy. I love you too much for you to leave me.” She sounded so serious when she said that. I hugged her once more, and whispered in her little ear, “I’m not going anywhere.

I promise you that.” She then nodded.

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13

Spaces

by Susan Nagelsen ed ten by twelve feet and was situated in the lefthouse, with windows facing the street and a yard. On gentle days, the windows would be , admitting the sounds of the neighborhood louvered shutters that covered the lower half of the windows. The brass curtain rod with pinecone-shaped finials held striped, café-length curtains that floated in the breeze. I would often hear Mr. Williams, our next-door neighbor, outside feeding the birds, gently talking to them as they sat on his hand nibbling his offerings.

The door to the room was a louvered bi-fold that offered little if any privacy, even when closed, which wasn’t allowed. The bright red carpet felt like a thick pad under my feet and extended to pale pink walls. French Provincial furniture was white with gold piping around the edges, including an eight-drawer dresser and a mounted mirror.

The two beds had matching headboards, each with a bedside table with a small, shaded reading lamp. A desk and a chair, along with another reading lamp, completed the ensemble My sister and I shared this room, or I should say that I was allowed to take up space in that room. Debbie was the alpha female in that den, and I can’t remember it being a cozy, warm space shared by two loving sisters. In fact, on most days, that room was filled with tension, and when I close my eyes, I can clearly picture Debbie standing in front of the mirror with one hand on her hips and the other threatening me with a hair brush. I can hear her angry voice, “No, I won’t let you borrow that shirt. What are you, crazy? The last time I loaned you something you left it in a heap on the desk chair, and it will never look the same.” I was the pain-in-the-ass little sister; something I couldn’t do anything about. Thinking back now, I probably didn't want to do anything about it.

There was a time, however, when the room I shared with my sister came as close as it could to being mine. We were teenagers in the Sixties, and we convinced my mother that we should be able to decorate our own room. We were tired of the pink and red, a “little girl's” decor. We each had jobs, so we teamed up to talk Mom into a change by offering to do the work and pay for some of the things we wanted. It was one of the few times we were united.

Mom agreed to provide the paint, the carpet, and the window treatments if we would take on the rest. We happily agreed and painted the room a soft green to complement a dark green shag carpet. All the doors in the room came off, replaced with beads; it was, after all, the Age of Aquarius. We arranged our beds in the shape of an L, mine under the last window, with the foot in the center of the room. My sister's was just to the left of the doorjamb, with the foot of her bed meeting mine. In the space created by the arrangement of the beds sat a white Bahamas Box, eight feet long, six feet wide, and four feet deep, holding spare pillows, blankets, yearbooks and things that had been collected here and there throughout our brief lives.

We pooled our money and bought a rattan swing that hung from the ceiling to the left of the window that looked out toward the side yard. When the last beaded door covering was in place, when the final touches had been rendered, the room was less my mother’s and more of an exercise in compromise. I loved our finished room; it was the first time we had ever been allowed true ownership for anything, and it felt marvelous. It was more our bedroom than it had been but remained less mine than I wanted it to be.

A few months later, I was sitting on my bed watching Debbie as she stood in her closet marking off the days before she left for college, the beads parted to give her room to maneuver. I was counting the 18

days as well. For the first time in my life, I was going to have a room that was mine, just mine. Her voice came from the closet, muffled because she was standing close to the wall, “I can’t wait to be out of this house. Mom is driving me crazy.”

I had heard this a thousand times, but for some reason I really heard her this time. I had this odd sensation emanating from my center and rippling out to my toes and my fingertips. Fear?

Excitement?

I wanted to be leaving. I wanted to be eighteen instead of sixteen. I realized I was jealous, very jealous. Not that this was a novel reaction for me. I was used to being jealous of my sister. After all, Debbie was perfect with long, straight, blonde hair, and she was six inches taller.

She had the long legs and a flat stomach of a homecoming queen, which she was. I, on the other hand, missed being five feet by an inch, and the beauty parlor ladies sighed when my mother brought me in to see if they could “do anything with that awful hair.” They couldn't.

I tried to imagine my life in this room without my sister. I imagined going to sleep without the light on or the sewing machine humming with starts and stops. There would be no one there to ask, “What are you going to do if Mom finds out?” as I was sneaking out of the house at 3:00 in the morning to meet my boyfriend. I smiled with the thought.

I really am going to be alone in this room.

I watched as Debbie turned to face me, still in the closet with her hands raised to shoulder height and palms gripping the doorframe.

She was doing modified push-ups as she talked to me. “Just remember that even though I'm leaving for school in just three days, this room is still half mine. I don’t want to come home and find you've messed it all up. Leave everything the way it is, got it? Oh, and one other thing.” Her voice softened a little. “I guess you can wear whatever clothes I don’t take, but please take good care of them.

OK?” That caught me off guard, and for once I was at a loss for words.

I came home late in the afternoon that first day after she had left. I had been working since early morning, and I was tired. I wanted a shower, and I was happy that I would have the bathroom all to myself.

I walked into the room that looked almost the same. There were a few gaps where things had been, but considering the chaos that had been a part of the move to college, I was happy for the gaps. I wandered around the room looking at what was now my space. I sat in the swing and surveyed my kingdom. It was quiet. “I think I'm going to like this,” I said out loud. “Yes, I think this will do just fine.”

But the room was never really mine. My mother had very particular rules about how the room should be kept. The beds had to be made, the clothes had to be put away, and as always, the door had to be open. Even though I was alone in the room, it still wasn’t mine.

Soon, it was also time for me to leave the nest, to head out on my own to college. My American Tourister luggage was open on the bed, and I threw clothes into it with wild abandon. I really hadn’t thought much about what I would need; all I cared about was leaving home and being on my own. I couldn’t pack fast enough.

My new room was on the first floor. Since the dorm sat on a hill, there were two floors below mine. The brick building had been built in 1922, and each room was identical to the next. They measured ten by ten feet, about the size of a prison cell, and held two beds, two dressers, two desks, and, of course, two people. There were two closets to accommodate the clothes of two teenagers. A radiator sat under the only window.

I arrived ahead of my roommate, and I sat alone in the room an hour after my mother had left. Contrary to the expected euphoria, I was overcome by sadness. “I’m not ready,” I heard my voice echo in the space. I was caught between the desire to be on my own and the

WINTER 2014

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

Princess

by Patricia Hubschman be any worse? She just got laid off from her job r life dumped her. She wanted to run away from appeared. Janie’s friend, Margo, told her that the e worked for was looking for a production assistant. “It’s an easy job,” Margo said. “All you have to do is be willing to work long hours, never question anything they say and take instructions and do it pronto.” Janie could do that. She applied for the job and got it.

The crew was going on location to a small country near England called Lenise. They’d be away for two months. She rushed back to her apartment to pack her things and give the keys to her landlord, asking if he could sublet the place. She needed somewhere to come back to, since there was nowhere or no one else to stay with. She had no family. Since age six, she had been in the foster care system.

Her mother had been killed in a car accident and there was no father listed on her birth certificate.

Two days later, the crew boarded a chartered plane and was on their way to Europe. Lenise was beautiful and scenic. Since the country wasn’t very known, it wasn’t much of a tourist trap, which was good for Star Movies.

Now it was time to work. Her instructions were to move this prop an inch to the right, so she did that, or move it a bit back to the left, slightly forward or back. By the end of the first week, her arms and back hurt, she was exhausted and nothing seemed to be accomplished. Everybody needed a break.

Thankfully, their executive producer had the answer. Everyone gathered around him when he waved his arms in the air. “Because you’ve all worked so hard this past week...” he began. Janie rolled her eyes. “And in gratitude of our hosts for picking Lenise to film our new movie, we’ve all been invited to a small gathering Sunday at Prince Martin’s palace.” He held his arms higher to ward off the ooh’s and ahh’s. “Now, please, present yourselves in the dignity of Star Movies and citizens of the United States of America.”

“What are you going to wear Sunday?” Margo asked Janie excitedly, sidling up to her as they moved away from the producer.

Janie was nervous and thrilled too. “Oh gee, I have to check my wardrobe to see which outfit I brought would be the most appropriate - jeans, t-shirts, shorts,” she teased.

Margo giggled. “I guess I have the same problem, but we can go shopping tomorrow,” Morgan added. Janie’s eyes widened. She wondered if there were clothing stores and malls around here or if they would have to go into England. Margo read her mind. “Yes, people buy clothes around here.” She giggled. “Did you bring your American Express card?”

Janie nodded. “Of course, I don’t have any money, cash, I mean.”

So the next day, they went shopping, to a boutique, in Lenise.

Neither had a clue how much they charged on their credit cards.

They’d worry about that later. This was an important event and they had to be at their best, and relax and have fun too.

Four jeeps were sent to pick up the movie crew. Margo was furious. “I’m dressed in my finest and I have to crawl into that military-looking thing?” Janie had to fight to keep from bursting into laughter at her friend’s chagrin.

“Maybe this is the best they can do,” Janie surmised. “I’m sure Lenise isn’t a rich country.” She got in to the vehicle. The interior was immaculate. “See, that wasn’t too bad,” Janie said when they reached the palace forty-five minutes later. She got out and smoothed down her skirt. “Barely a wrinkle on me.”

20

Margo giggled. “Let’s join the party,” she said excitedly, pointing to a huge gathering of nicely dressed people milling on the lawn.

Tuxedoed waiters were walking around with platters of food and drinks. Colorful umbrella-shaded tables were set up everywhere.

There was a live band playing. Janie and Margo had to restrain themselves from racing over to the gala.

They joined a table with a few other Star crew members who were drinking iced tea and eating delicious canopies. Everyone was enjoying themselves. Standing not far away and looking at Janie, was a tall, drop-dead gorgeous man. “Who is that?” Margo asked to nobody in particular, nudging Janie. Margo noticed the man looking at Janie too.

Janie didn’t know, but Carol, an older woman who did makeup, hair, and wardrobe for the cast, spoke up. “That’s Prince Gregory, Prince Martin’s middle son. There are three boys and one girl.

Camille’s the beautiful young woman over there,” Carol said, pointing.

Margo squinted suspiciously at Carol. “How do you know so much about the royal family here?”

Carol smiled. “MY husband, Michael, does business with this country.” No spouses were allowed to come along on Star’s budget, but Michael was here on his own company’s tab. “There he is now.”

Carol jumped to her feet. “Got to run.”

Margo rose too. “I think I want to mingle. You coming?” she asked.

Janie shook her head. “Miss out on all the fun then,” Margo teased, moving off.

Janie stared after her, lost in thought. “Can I join you?” came a man’s voice. Janie immediately snapped back to attention. It was him, Prince Gregory. Without waiting for Janie to respond, he pulled out a chair and sat down. It was just the two of them. “I’m Gregory,” he introduced himself.

She swallowed hard. “I’m Janie, this is a lovely party.” To her own ears, that sounded weak, but what else could she say?

He gave her a winning smile. His blue eyes twinkled. Janie’s heart was jumping wildly. She wanted to kick herself under the table but didn’t. What if her foot missed and she kicked him? “It’s run of the mill, if you ask me.” He sounded bored about it. “Have you met my parents?” She shook her head. She couldn’t just walk up to the reigning heads of this country and say hello. “Come on,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising. “I’ll introduce you. Mom and dad are great people.” He had her arm and was pulling her up. But wait, she wanted to scream. How was she supposed to handle this? What was she supposed to say? She didn’t even know his mother’s first name or their’ last name., “Mom, dad,” Gregory said when they stood beside his parents table. “This is Jane Taylor from Star Movies,” He said with a flourish and such dignity that Janie had to fight to keep from looking over her shoulder to see who he was talking about. “Janie, meet my parents’, Martin and Lisa Kingston.” The names were so American, Janie nearly giggled. Her next thought was - how Should she address them?

Should she call them Your Majesty’s, Mister and Missus? Should she bow or curtsy? She didn’t know.

“It’s very lovely to meet you, Miss Taylor,” his mother said, winking her eye. Janie was confused. Had she missed something here? Was she the brunt of a joke or secret? Well, whatever, his mother just gave her the opening cue.

“It’s very nice to meet you too and thank you so much for inviting us here today. It’s an honor.” She said it all in one breath, but she’d done it and hadn’t fainted. His parents didn’t think she was a total louse either.

“Are you going to be joining us for dinner later?” Prince Martin asked Janie. “Or do the two of you have other plans?”

Janie’s eyes bounced up to Gregory. Now she was certain she was missing something.

WINTER 2014

IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE

“Dinner here, of course, Dad,” Gregory said, excusing them and leading Janie away.

“What was that all about?” she pressed. He chuckled.

“They think you’re my girlfriend.”

Her mouth dropped open. “But we only just met,” she protested.

Gregory shrugged. “And another thing...” She wagged her finger.

“Who’s going to be hungry enough to eat dinner after this extravaganza?” She waved her hand around. “I don’t know how you people dress for dinner. I also came here in one of your father’s jeeps. I have no way of returning to the hotel if I stay here after my crew leaves.”

“Dinner’s not till nine. You’re dressed fine. Most nights we go casual around here, but because of this tea thing today, dress attire is acceptable.” Janie rolled her eyes. “And I’ll drive you back to your Star bungalow afterwards.” His arrogance infuriated her, but she didn’t say anything. She was having fun and making friends, even with the royal family.

“I want to know everything,” Margo said when Janie came into their room at midnight. She was sitting up in bed. Janie didn’t feel like talking. She was too tired and if she didn’t get some sleep, she’d never be able to get up at six a.m. to be on the set by seven. Margo was still talking. “Did you have a nice time with the Prince? Does he like you?” she answered her own question. “Of course, he likes you.

You were with him since two this afternoon. Are you going to see him again?” Margo crossed her arms over her chest and gazed dreamy-eyed the ceiling. “You’re going to fall in love and become a princess?”

Janie rolled her eyes. She was putting on her pajamas. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow,” Janie said, climbing in to bed.

But Margo wasn’t ready to give up. “At least tell me if you’re going to see him again. Give me something to dream of.”

Janie turned onto her side to face Margo who looked at her pleadingly. “Yes, he’s picking me up tomorrow after we’re finished on the set.” He had asked and Janie thought it silly. She had no idea what time they would be rounding up for the day, but Gregory said he’d wait for her. “He’s taking me out to dinner.” With that she rolled over to face the wall. She didn’t say another word. A few minutes later she heard a sigh of resignation from Margo, then complete silence. Margo was asleep. Janie could relax now and get some rest herself. Only, as she discovered, she was unable to fall asleep.

Gregory arrived on the set the next day at five. They weren’t even close to finished, but Janie saw the producer signal to the director to round things up quickly, which he did. Over the next few weeks, Janie and Gregory spent a lot of time together. He took her to parties, they went for strolls on the beach and drives up the coast.

He wanted to show her the sights and share his home with her. It was all so beautiful. She had countless dinners at the palace.

Sometimes Margo came along and never stopped talking about it afterwards.

“You fit in so well with the Prince’s bunch,” Margo said. Janie knew that wasn’t true.

“We’re just friends, that’s all,” Janie insisted, to Margo and to everyone else, including herself. She couldn’t let it be more than that with Gregory, couldn’t risk another broken heart. Eventually, they’d finish filming the movie and she’d return to the States with the rest of the crew. That was the original game plan and still was.

But she knew she was becoming much too attached to Prince Gregory. She enjoyed every minute they shared together and sensed he did too. It was downright scary, but hard as she tried to figure out what to do to protect herself, she couldn’t come up with anything.

She didn’t want to be hurt, but she didn’t want to lose out on being with him.

The time in Lenise seemed to fly by much too fast, though the shooting was wrapped up right on schedule. That last evening, she VOL 9, ISSUE 1

and Gregory sat at their favorite outdoor café, a plate of shrimp between them. Neither was hungry nor knew how to proceed with the conversation nor whether to keep it light or serious.

He spoke first. “My parents like you a lot.”

Janie smiled. “I like them too. They’re wonderful people, really down-to-earth.” She lowered her head and giggled. “I would have thought royal families were stuffy.” She blushed.

He chuckled. “There are a lot of things about my family that would surprise you.”

Janie didn’t doubt that. “How did you know my last name was Taylor?” she asked. He looked at her quizzically,. “That first time, at your parents garden party, you introduced me to them as Jane Taylor, I never told you my last name.”

He leaned his head back and laughed heartily. “I’d like to say that I have access to all sorts of information and can find out anything I want to, wherever or whoever it’s about, kind of like your FBI.” Janie giggled. Gregory shrugged. “But, to make things easier all around, I asked your producer – who is that pretty lady over there?” Gregory made a disdainful face. “Unfortunately, his taste in women differs from mine greatly and he didn’t know which lady I was asking about.” Janie burst into a fit of giggles. Gregory picked up a piece of shrimp and turned it over. “It cost me twenty bucks American money to pry the right information out of him.”

She smacked him with her hand. “I’m worth far more than that and you know it.”

Janie wished she could take those words back because they had an effect on him, one she was trying to avoid. Suddenly, his face grew serious. I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said softly. Janie’s head popped up, she stared at him with wide-eyes, waiting, hoping. “The past couple of months have been the greatest,” he went on. Her heart was pounding wildly “But I can’t ask you to stay, it wouldn’t be right.” Janie’s heart dropped, so did her mouth. “That decision has to be yours.” She wanted to kick him. Why didn’t he just ask her to stay, if that’s what he wanted, then she’d make the decision? “You have your life there,” he added.

And you have yours here, she finished silently, tears welling up in her eyes. She lowered her head, so he wouldn’t see them. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Sure,” she whispered, not certain what she meant with that one word.

He lifted her chin with his fingertips. “Don’t look so sad, Princess.

We can still talk to each other on the phone, email, and I’ll come visit you?

Big whoop, she thought, friends forever. Well, that’s what she had wanted all along. “I have to get up early to catch the flight home with the crew.”And she did.

She sat in the window seat… not looking out, not speaking to anyone, just sulking. Nobody interrupted her. They could see the mood she was in and could guess what it was about.

When she got back to her building, Janie went directly to her landlord’s apartment to get her keys. “I did what you asked, Miss Taylor,” Mr. Jarvis said proudly. “I let my nephew stay in your apartment to keep an eye on things while you were gone.” Janie was please and relieved. Mr. Jarvis went on. “I charged him half the rent you were paying.” He paused. “So you owe the other half, which would be equal to one month’s rent.”

Janie’s heart dropped. She hadn’t expected this, but, at least, half was better than having to pay all. “I don’t have it right now,” she said easily. “Can I owe it to you till I get my next paycheck?” He agreed.

She turned to head up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor.

Mr. Jarvis continued speaking. “Oh, one more thing I have to tell you before you go up there.” Janie stopped abruptly on the third step and turned back to him. Her heart was thumping too quickly.

“My nephew kind of left a little mess in there. I hadn’t had the time to clean it. Hope that’s okay.”

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