Sounds Like Crazy (19 page)

“I get to stand by while that fat little saint walks right over my back, crushing me with her enormous bulk, and reaches out to accept
my award
,” thundered Betty Jane.

“Uh, well.” I glanced over at Ruffles. My heart beat against what felt like hollow logs in my chest. “I mean it was technically Ruffles’s award too,” I whispered. I didn’t want to remind her that if the judges had gone by the edited version of the episode Walter had sent, it was all Harriet and no Violet, meaning the award was for Ruffles’s work.And the judges who awarded my work had no idea how much Ruffles had earned it. No one else would ever be able to turn in award-winning performance after award-winning performance under the same noisy circumstances.

Across the Committee’s living room, Ruffles closed her eyes and inhaled. Her face rippled with the strain of managing Betty Jane’s constant haranguing over the last year and a half since she’d started doing the voice of Harriet.

“Let me tell you,” said Betty Jane.

I refocused on her.The Silent One sat on the floor between her and Ruffles.
Where is Sarge? He should be here.

“Let me tell you.” Betty Jane turned toward me. “The foundation for our cushy life and
your
trim figure rests solely on my shoulders. If it weren’t for me, you’d be a fat waitress eating all the cake you encounter during the week. Oh, I know you think your figure is because of Sarge. He believes in following the rules. All those years in the military made him the disciplined one. But that is a lie. All action and nonaction are because of me. Me. Not Sarge, not Ruffles, not that stupid Boy who spends all his day under furniture, only coming out if dragged by that frankincense-smelling,
meditating
thing
over there.” She jabbed a red nail in the direction of the Silent One, but her face was inches from mine.

“You,” she hissed. I pressed my body against the wall behind me and she leaned in.“You would say it is everyone’s efforts, and out of altruism, I have let you live in your little bubble of delusion. And how do you thank me for all that I have done?” Her nose almost touched mine. I wanted to push her away but I was too scared to move.“You thank me by backing her.” She pointed at Ruffles. “Supporting her. All of you support her.”

I heard the front door open. Betty Jane turned and I tried to shift away. Her arm shot out and blocked me. Sarge paused in the doorframe, shielding the Boy behind him.

“Well . . .” I hung my head. She backed off.

“I have managed all five of you in
addition
to putting in a full day’s work and bringing home the money. After all, I am the one they always want.” She paused to inspect her manicure while I alternated between trying to find the best way out of this escalating rant and the mounting anger I was trying to hold back. “For all my efforts, what thanks did I get? My fat little saint wanted to start saving. She wanted to cut the bare necessities that I must have to survive, like my car service, my clothing allowance, my Charmin toilet paper.When I asked her why she was not cutting down on the Ruffles she ingests morning, noon, and night, I received no answer other than, ‘Look at the credit card balances.’ What do I care about credit card balances? I win awards.”

The best way out prevailed and I said, “Yes, you win awards. And I agreed, no cheap one-ply toilet paper. I—”

“My work won that award, Holly,” said Ruffles. Her words felt like a slap. She didn’t need to be difficult at this moment.

I tried to convey alliance with my eyes while I said,“I know, uh, but as Betty Jane said, all of this is because of her efforts.” I needed Ruffles to acquiesce here. I didn’t want this fight.

“No,” said Ruffles matter-of-factly,“I won that award. I won it on my own, with no thanks to her.”
Oh, God. Oh, God.

Betty Jane turned. Ruffles stood. I moved toward the door.

“Do something!” I screamed at Sarge. He stepped forward.

Betty Jane held up a hand and, without taking her eyes off Ruffles or me, she said,“No. I have had enough of all of you running roughshod over me.You all are ingrates. Especially you,” she sneered at Ruffles.

Ruffles, still bloodied and battered, didn’t flinch. “I won that award,” she repeated. “On my own. No thanks to you.”

“Oh, I see what is going on here now,” said Betty Jane. “You want to test my power.You think I am unaware of the fact that all of you wish me gone?”

“No, there’s no testing. No power,” I said frantically.“Ruffles just wanted to set the record straight.That’s all.You win too.You won too.” I knew I was babbling.

“You always choose wrong, Holly. Always wrong,” said Betty Jane.

Peter had said the same thing to me about my choices when I told him I was taking Sarah to the Emmy awards show. “No matter how many miserable years I’ve stuck by you,” he’d said,“all it takes is one comment by Sarah, and you toss me aside like garbage. You always choose wrong, Holly. Always wrong.”

“Now I am going to make a choice that will give you time to think about your bad choices and how they have resulted in this latest mess,” said Betty Jane.

“What choice? What are you going to do?”

“I am going to leave,” she said.

This brought me up short. “Oh,” I said. Betty Jane was actually going to give me what I had wanted for the last fourteen-plus years. “Well, uh, if that’s what you think is best.”

“You transparent little worm,” said Betty Jane,“I
will
do what I think best. And what I think best is to take them
with me
when I leave.This way you will have plenty of peace and quiet to think about your choices.”

“What . . . what do you mean, take them? You can’t take them,” I pleaded.

“Tut-tut, a bad memory to go with bad choices,” said Betty Jane. “You forget that I control the Committee. Me. Not you.” She pointed at me. “Not you.” She pointed at Sarge. “Not you.” She pointed at Ruffles.

“She didn’t point at you,” I said to the Silent One.“Do something.” He shook his head.“You’re just going to sit there and pray while my life goes down the drain?” My bitter words bounced off the walls of the Committee’s living room. His suffering expression whipped my surging panic into a homicidal rage.“What good are you anyway? You let her go crazy.You won’t make her behave? You’re useless. Useless. All you do is sit there and pray. You don’t help when I need something. I hate you. I hate you. You’re useless!” I screamed. He sat quietly on his cushion with sad eyes. I wanted to beat that anguish right off his face.“At least bow your fucking head!” I yelled. Grief pulsed at his temples.

“Holly,” cooed Betty Jane, “how many times have I told you never to trust a man who does not speak or wear cologne? It does not matter. He cannot make me do anything. I rule the Committee. I decide.”

“But Milton said—”

“Milton. Where is your precious Milton? On vacation.” She laughed. “Under a tree in France somewhere. I am the only one who cares, and you turn on me again and again and again.”

“Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything you ask.You can have anything. I’m sorry.”

“Holly,” screamed Ruffles, “what are you saying?”

“No,” I yelled at her. Then to Betty Jane, “I’m sorry. Please don’t do this. Please,” I begged.

“For one minute,” she said, “I considered it, but your fat friend changed my mind.”

“Ruffles, do something,” I pleaded. She shook her head.

“Too late,” said Betty Jane. She snapped her fingers. They were gone.

“No!”
I screamed.

Oh, God. Oh, God
. My breath came fast. I threw myself on Ruffles’s pillow. The pain of their departure tore me in half. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to run at the walls.Anything to get the pain away. I got up on my knees and slammed my shoulder against the wall. Ruffles’s bag of chips crumpled noisily beneath me like a collision of foil and flesh. I beat at my head with my fists.“No.” I didn’t want to see that. I hit harder against the wall, screaming, “
No!
” I punched the wall again, screaming “
No
,” until all the heat left my body and it started to shake uncontrollably.“No.” I hit my forehead against the wall in even-note syncopation.“Come back; please come back.”

“Holly.” I heard my name from a distance.

“Holly.”

I opened my eyes. Blood ran down my forehead.

“Holly, my God, I was about to call 911,” cried Sarah.

“Come back,” I kept repeating. Sarah’s face bounced with my chattering teeth.

She put her arms around me like a straitjacket.“Holly, you’re scaring me.” Then she took my hand and said, “Come here. You’re cold as ice.”

Sarah draped a blanket over my shoulders and held on again. “What happened?” she whispered.

The shaking in my body subsided and I said, “They’re gone,
Sarah. Betty Jane has taken them.They’re gone.” I sat on the bed and pulled my thighs close to my chest, trying to stanch the bleeding darkness inside my body.

Sarah sat next to me and put her arm across my shoulders. She brushed back my hair and said, “But she’s done that before, Holly. She’ll come back. She always does.”

Sarah’s resigned acceptance sparked enough hope in me to prevent me from saying Ruffles had turned on me, and Betty Jane had never before left with the rest of the Committee. Anguish pulsed like a million tiny heartbeats behind my eyes. Sarah was right. She was always right. Betty Jane would come back. She’d come back with the Committee and everything would be fine. I just had to wait.

I just had to wait.

I
never knew when to stop trying, turn back, or at least go in another direction. I mean, why do something new when the familiar was so familiar you no longer noticed the bruises and you had scars on your scars? So, the morning after the Emmy awards show, when I awoke to the Committee’s empty house inside my head, I told myself what everyone does when faced with a hopeless situation and an awareness complete with bold letters and lights flashing,
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
I told myself, “This time will be different.”Then I twisted myself into the proverbial pretzel of hope and waited.

When the a.m. news shows replayed the video of me clocking myself with an Emmy statuette, calling it a clever comedy, skilled acting, I dug deeper into my conviction that all would be well and maintained the image of Betty Jane and the Committee returning to my open arms. I know Sarah wavered between flying home with me to make sure I held it together, and getting away from me and my missing multiple personalities and back to her male alphabet,
Volvo, and sanity. The latter prevailed when I offered her an out in the form of a weak promise that I’d be fine. How hard could it be to deplane, grab my bags, and find the car waiting to deliver me safely to my apartment? Harder than I thought.

I don’t remember much of the flight except the effort it took to focus on trying not to run screaming from anyone who approached, brushed past, jostled, or otherwise invaded the invisible circle I’d drawn around myself. I always found comfort in flaky new-age theories, like “Draw a protective circle around you,” when I was in a crisis. But, just like religion, the theory when applied to reality generally turned out to be utter crap.

Halfway through the flight home, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find an orange BITES sticker next to my seat number, just like the one my vet posted on Cat Two’s file to warn others before approaching.

 

I arrived home Monday evening to a doorstep empty of the envelope with the work for the following day and a distressing voice mail. The video of me doing my version of a Saint Vitus’ dance and then knocking myself out on national television had exploded across every available media outlet. I knew Walter was going to require an act of contrition that would strain my ability to project patience for Betty Jane. I told myself I should start repenting by arriving at work early Tuesday morning. But the truth was, I wanted to arrive early because the studio was one of the few places where I felt a little bit safe, and, more important, I was banking on work to bring the bolting Betty Jane and the kidnapped Committee back to me and my open arms.

When I reached the recording room at eight forty-five in the morning, there were only two engineers at the console.“Where’s Mike?” The expected churlishness was unintended this time.

The engineers’ faces carried smirks instead of their usual beaten-down bearing, and small beads of sweat broke out on my forehead.

“Uh . . . he’s . . .”

“Are we recording today?” I said. “There wasn’t anything waiting for me when I got back last night.” Neither of them answered me. Inside I felt that creeping feeling that comes when you know you should know what’s going on, because it seems clear that everyone else knows. But you haven’t the first clue. Instead all you have is the anxiety gnawing at your insides. In the face of this, I did the only thing I could do.

I left the room.

I heard voices in the hallway. I stopped, stood out of sight, and listened.

“Walter, I don’t want to agree to this,” said Mike.

“I don’t give a damn,” said Walter. “I’ve had it. And in Walt’s World that means something.”

“Let’s just put this behind us, Walt, move on,” said Mike sternly.Walter opened his mouth to speak. Mike held up his hand. “It’s my show.”

“You said that in May,” said Walter.“I went along with it then. Not now.”

“She’s been fine for the last several months.”

“Did you happen to catch the Emmys?” said Walter.

I turned and walked away from them.

Now what?

I went out to the back alley and lit a cigarette.

 

“Betty Jane, please,” I whispered. I knew Sarah said Betty Jane always returned, but now she’d been gone two hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty-two seconds longer than previous absences.
“Can you please . . .” My voice trailed off. “Please . . .”
I think Sarah was wrong this time.