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"I was thinking," said Mary Beth sadly, "why should we go?" It was early Saturday morning. She and Linda Kate had just enjoyed a continental breakfast at their Beverly Hills hotel. Now they were getting ready to drive down to the southside of LA and stand in line for bleacher seats at the Shrine Auditorium.

"We were never coming just to see Stannie," said Linda Kate in a cool voice.

"We weren't?"

"No."

"I think I was."

"Well maybe you were. I wasn't."

"What did you come for?"

"I wanted a fun road trip."

Mary Beth reflected for a second and decided that the road trip hadn't been that fun. She thought of their afternoon at the world's largest cowboy supply store in Houston, looking for Arabian riding boots to match the rest of Linda Kate's designer tack (Linda didn't even ride—just collected). Afterwards, Linda refused to eat barbecue even though it was Mary Beth's favorite and she'd been so patient with the boot shopping and hadn't even complained about doing all the driving. Her neck and shoulders ached from day after day at the wheel of the minivan. But would Linda Kate give her even a tiny backrub? No. She said she thought it was gross to touch other women, even her own sister.

"Stay here if you want," said Linda. "It doesn't matter."

"Aren't you worried about Stannie?" Mary Beth's voice trembled a little. "What if he's hurt somewhere?"

"Or dead."

"Oh God! I hope not!"

Linda Kate turned down the corners of her mouth. "Surely you've considered the possibility."

"I wouldn't let myself."

"Don't start crying, Mary Beth. He's probably not dead."

"But what if he is?"

"No. He'll show up. I feel it."

"You think?"

"Yes. But you should stay here if you want. Maybe it's better."

"But maybe I'll go. I want to see Benjamin Bratt. And Brett Bordley-Young. Even if she was bad to Stannie."

"I want to see her gown," said Linda in a bored voice. "I read in People it's a Roberto Napoli."

Mary Beth let out a little gasp. "Oh, I know it's beautiful." She paused. "Maybe she's sorry now."

"Who?"

"Brett. For being bad to him."

Linda Kate sat quietly for a moment, and then gave a long, long sigh.

"You don't like Stannie anymore," said Mary Beth.

"Why should I? Has he ever said anything nice to me, my whole life?"

"He lets us hang around him."

"You're pathetic."

"What if he doesn't come back? Won't you be sorry?"

"He's just laughing at us somewhere."

"I don't understand what makes you angry all the time, Linda. Why do you stay so mad at everybody?"

Linda Kate looked up at her sister, amazed. "Aren't you mad?"

"No." She smiled blankly. "What's to be mad about?"

Linda Kate looked furious. "Everything! Everybody! I hate everybody!"

"Do you hate me?"

"Sometimes."

"I don't hate you," said Mary Beth. "I don't hate anybody." And she really didn't. All that anger, over what? What good did it do? She'd gone out yesterday afternoon to have her hair and nails done and her brows tinted and a facial; now she put on the gorgeous Iulio Andrei black wrap and illusion gown she'd bought for just two thousand dollars (what a steal). She sat down on the side of her bed and decided what she'd bring with her to the Shrine: an energy bar and a bottle of spring water to sustain her until the evening; her mother's diamond tiara in case she worked up the courage to wear it; the video camera from Ed (at least she could make a few memories, even if Stannie didn't show up to take it from her), her beautiful new string purse (just five hundred dollars, and it matched the gown), an autograph book, and a small digital camera of her own. She'd heard there was no guarantee that they'd get a seat: it was first come, first serve in the red carpet bleacher area, and yet so often their famous name helped. In fact, she had no doubt she'd get a seat.

"We're the Colfax sisters," she'd say, and somebody would push them to the front of the line and whisk them in. There'd be a flutter of attention, an effort to find them a comfortable spot. Some reporter from People or Entertainment Weekly would want a photo of the millionaire debutante sisters of columnist Stannie Colfax (not to mention nieces of a famous senator) making a surprise appearance in Los Angeles—sitting, of all the amazing things, just like normal girls, in the bleachers.

She couldn't help but be excited. She loved celebrities, she loved grand occasions and nice clothes. Still, though, she hoped above everything else that Stannie would show up. If he did, she would dare to throw her arms around him and give him a kiss on the cheek. He would make fun of her, but she would do it anyway.

It was ten o'clock now and really time to go—seating stopped at 12:30. Linda Kate had locked herself in the bathroom and was taking forever. Mary Beth listened to hear what she might be doing in there: taking a shower? Using the toilet?

"Linda," said Mary Beth, pressing her mouth to the door, "I really need to sit on the pot. Hurry up. It's getting late."

Linda Kate was staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, wishing she'd had the courage to tell Stannie what she really thought about him, or at least about the way he'd treated her. She did hope he wasn't hurt … but you know what? It was just like him to go and do this, to disappear like this, to get all this easy attention.

"Linda!"

"Oh, take the chill pill," she said coldly.

* * *

"I'm Stan Colfax," said the good-looking young man in the white suit to the receptionist at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. He was clean-shaven but sunburned above his beard line. He leaned over the desk and glanced her up and down.

"How can I help you?" She looked at him suspiciously. His good looks didn't impress her. Everybody in California was good-looking.

"I'm your missing columnist. Or, rather, your missing award presenter. But I'm back."

She stared, and suddenly her face lit up. "Oh! You're all over TV, Mr. Colfax! Everybody's wondering about you. They think you're—"

"Dead. But now you know different, don't you? Would you let somebody know I'm here, please?"

"Definitely." She nodded and picked up the phone quickly.

"You going to the awards?" he said.

She shook her head.

"You want to?"

"Hi, this is Deborah," she said into the phone, ignoring him. "I have Stan Colfax down here. No, really. Can you let them know? Yeah, sounds good. Thank you." She put the phone down. "You're supposed to go to Mr. Samuel's office."

"Did I hear you say your name's Deborah?" He stood up straight and scratched his chin, which itched.

"Yes."

"You're not kidding. It's the busiest day of the year."

"I'm serious about the Awards. You want to come with me tonight?"

She hesitated, and then giggled nervously. "Mr. Colfax, you better go see Mr. Samuel."

"But I'll see you later," he said in a low voice, and strutted back to Mr. Samuel's office to announce that he'd been resurrected from the dead.

"You know what?" said Mr. Samuel, who'd never met Stan Colfax but read his columns in Tops and knew very well that he was dealing with a smart–alecky rich kid from the East Coast. "I knew you were in LA. I got a call from Brett Bordley–Butler."

"Bordley–Young, I think."

"Right. She was complaining about you following her around. I thought you might show up here, if the police didn't pick you up first."

"Did she call them?"

"I don't know. Are you still following her?"

"No. I was just trying to talk to her anyway. I wasn't following her."

"Forget about her."

"I intend to."

We already replaced you, though, in the ceremonies."

"You did?"

"Yeah. We got that guy getting up with her to take your place, that guy from that Catholic TV show. What is it?"

"I have no idea. I don't watch TV."

"No." Samuel smiled approvingly. "You look like an outdoorsy kind of guy. Fish or something? Well, anyway, I'm sorry Stan, that it didn't work out this year. Saint something, that TV show. Where you been, anyway? Everybody's been looking for you."

Stannie frowned. "I had car trouble."

"Car trouble! Hah! OK, good to talk to you, Stan. Best of luck." Mr. Samuel stood up and shook Stannie's hand.

"Do my tickets still work?"

"Huh?"

"My tickets for tonight. I mean my invitation. I have two seats reserved, I think."

"Yeah, your seats are good. Main floor and everything. Enjoy yourself. Kind of a Castaway thing you pulled, wasn't it? You see that movie?"

"Yeah."

"You ever been to the Pacific? I was stationed there, World War II."

"Oh, you're a veteran!"

"Yeah."

"Well, then, thanks so much for your contribution to my freedom."

"Sure thing."

Stannie left, still looking cheerful. He'd forgotten about Deborah the receptionist. He kept his eyes straight ahead and whistled as he went back to the street.

Heading down Wilshire Boulevard in a taxi (to kill time), Stannie had a strange vision. He wondered if his brain was tricking him. He thought he saw Rose, beautiful Rose, standing and talking to a tall blond guy. Who was that guy, and why was she standing so close to him? He rubbed his eyes. Maybe he'd really seen her, or maybe he'd just imagined her there because he wanted to see her. It happened sometimes.

For several days now he hadn't really let himself think about her, but now he could barely contain himself at the thought that she might be here—right here in Los Angeles. He stopped the taxi a block from where he'd seen her and walked quickly back down the street. There were plenty of people around (late lunchtime crowd), but no Rose, and no tall guy with pointy elbows standing close to her. Stannie felt furiously jealous, even though he might have imagined the whole thing. It was like some kind of desert mirage, maybe, and yet it was a sign. He went back to his taxi and headed off to find a place where he could buy a funky, cheap tuxedo.

* * *

Rose and Jim Westford had headed up to the second floor of the Los Angeles FBI building at 11000 Wilshire. They'd sat down with the head of a counter–terrorism unit, who'd already been alerted that a journalist from Washington had traced the Womb Bomber to Southern California. Rose tried to explain in detail for the first time the entire history of Arvin Duckworth, aka Ed Flint, who was probably the Womb Bomber and possibly planning an attack at the Academy Awards that night. They'd left with assurances that security would be very, very tight at the Oscars. No, the Awards couldn't be cancelled (that happened only in times of war or assassination), but all necessary parties would be put on high alert.

They came out and got into Rose's rented car, still uncomfortable with each other, both confused about what to do next.

"Thanks again for coming," said Rose, as she started the car. "But you don't have to stay, you know. I'm sure you have plenty to do back home. With Theresa's case and everything."

"It's no problem," said Jim.

"I don't think there's any danger here. I'm OK by myself."

"All right, I see that."

She wondered what he was thinking.

"Want to get a glass of wine somewhere?" he said. "Just sit and talk for a few minutes?"

"Yes."

They found a restaurant in Hollywood, someplace supposedly frequented by the stars, though today the stars were all at the pre–Oscar luncheon and the only people in the restaurant were rich tourists.

"I'll treat," said Rose.

"Fine." Jim crossed his arms on the table and looked at Rose seriously.

"So now that you've met Theresa, what do you think?"

"What do I think?"

"Yes. Do you think you'd be willing to write about her?"

"Oh, that." Rose shook her head, slowly. "No Jim, I don't think she wants me to write about her."

He nodded. "You're right. So what do I do about that? Do I let her off the hook? Do I pursue this case? Or do I drop it? I feel like I'm torturing her."

"You're the kind of person—" Rose paused. "Actually, I don't know you that well. I mean, I'm getting to know you a lot better. But you seem like a good man with good judgment. I think Theresa's safe with you, whatever you do."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I hope so. For her sake."

"You're both good people. And Jenny, too. I'm glad I met you."

He smiled, looking a little embarrassed.

"I'm curious about something. What do you think about abortion now?"

"Abortion?"

"Yes. Now that you've met Theresa. Have you changed your position?"

Rose thought hard.

"I think," she said honestly, "that abortion is wrong. But I guess I always did. The difference now is that it's personal. But why should ideas be based on feelings? I don't know, it doesn't seem right, but that's how it is. But I don't know how I'll live with that, how I'll make room for it in my life. I'm not sure I could admit it to anyone but you—I mean, I could never admit it to Stannie, even knowing what I know about him. But I think abortion is wrong." She looked up. "Yes, I think it's wrong. I think it's like murder. There ought to be laws against it."

Jim nodded slowly.

She shook her head. "My God. Don't ever tell anyone I said that. It's really so embarrassing."

"It's all about politics," he said with a sigh. "Everything. Everything is about politics."

"I'm not going to join any groups, if that's what you want to hear."

"No," he said. "I didn't want to hear anything in particular. I was just curious. Anyway, there's something I haven't told you yet."

"What?"

"I've asked Theresa to marry me."

Rose sat in shock, and then began to laugh.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing," she said. "Except that I was vain enough to think that you were interested in me. Now I find out it's this nun you like."

He didn't laugh. "Please be our friend," he said, with great seriousness. "We'll need friends."

"That I can be," she said, and raised her glass. "A toast to Theresa. I hope you'll be happy together, against all odds."

"Right," he said, with a small smile. "Against all odds."

* * *

The crowds! The red carpet! The glamour! At the front of the Shrine theater, lifesize models of Oscar flanked five pointed arches. The architecture of the building was Spanish colonial revival. It looked like a Moroccan mosque picked up and set down in South LA. The dusky sky behind could have been a painted backdrop, lit from down low so that a corona of pink shone around the twin domes at the top. The fans rustled and rumbled in the bleachers over the red carpet, snacking on their picnic dinners, going back and forth to visit the bathrooms. Somebody had heard a rumor of a bomb threat, but nobody seemed to think it was anything but a justified risk to stay and watch real, live screen stars glide into the Shrine. Any minute now, the limos would bear them through this rough section of Los Angeles, through these dark, ordinary streets, to this beautiful Moorish castle across from the University of Southern California (did movie stars attend college?).

Stannie was one of the first to cross the red carpet. He stepped from a taxi and came through the police, the agents, the ushers. He walked into the great congregation of fans cheering and clapping for their idols to come. No one knew him by sight, but when the announcer called out his name, a crowd in the nearest bleachers suddenly stood up and yelled for him. "Welcome back, Stan!" It was astounding, gratifying. Cameras flashed all around him. He had really made an impression, this time. He smiled and waved out, his eyes quickly scanning the crowd.

"Stannie!" shouted a voice as the other cheering died down. "It's me! It's us!"

For a second, his mind fooled him again, and he thought, or hoped, it might be Rose. But when he looked toward the voice and searched the faces, what he saw was his younger sister standing and waving at him from the second row. The other sister sat beside her. They were both incredibly overdressed for the bleacher seats. Typical. He walked casually toward them and stepped across a rope. He looked up. Mary Beth hovered above him, smiling with red cheeks. Too much makeup, he thought.

Suddenly she jumped down, dress and all, and threw her arms around him. She kissed him on the cheek. People were clapping now for someone else coming in, so he could hardly hear her shout, "Where have you been? What were you doing?"

"Oh, I had car trouble," he said.

"Linda and I came all this way to see you," Mary Beth said. "Wave to Linda."

He lifted his hand and waved to Linda Kate, who looked down, squinting, and waved back.

"Listen," he said. "I've got two seats in there and no date. You want to come in with me, Mary Beth?"

"Oh sure!" she said happily, and then stopped. "But you should take Linda."

"Why?"

"No reason. Just take her." She shouted up to her sister. "Linda, come here!"

Linda Kate came down in her orange t–neck coral–beaded gown (Faroes Tutweiler, $3000). She looked bored. "What?"

"Stannie wants you to go inside with him. He has one extra ticket."

"I don't want to go in. You go with him."

"No, you're older. You go." Mary Beth smiled and pushed her sister forward. She was feeling so generous today. This was wonderful. "Here, Stannie, take this. You're supposed to take this." She pulled a small video camera out of her string purse and put it into Stannie's hands. He stared at it and then laughed out loud.

"That's from Ed," she said. "You're supposed to take home movies in there."

"I doubt we're allowed to take cameras inside."

He looked up at her. "You keep it, Mary Beth. I better not. Well, better be going." Stannie turned back to the Auditorium, but Mary Beth threw her arms around him and kissed him on the back of the head. He pried her arms away and then turned to look at her, squinting.

"What was that about?" he said.

"She's an idiot," said Linda Kate.

He looked at Mary Beth as he'd never looked at her before. A small smile appeared on his lips. Then he said, "You like me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Why do you like me?"

She laughed.

"There's no reason."

"Here, where's that camera? Is there a tape in that thing?" He took it from her hands, held it up in front of his own face, and pushed the record button. "I'm Stannie Colfax, standing here on Oscar night next to my sisters, Mary Beth Colfax and Linda Kate Colfax, and I'd like Mary Beth to say what she just said to me. He pointed the camera at his sister. Say 'I like Stannie.'"

"I like Stannie," Mary Beth said.

"Say 'Stannie's great.'"

"Stannie's great."

Linda Kate coughed loudly. "Mary Beth, don't be an airhead."

"Say 'I'm glad that Stannie was born.'"

Mary Beth laughed again and brushed her hair back from her tiara. "I'm glad that Stannie was born."

Stannie turned off the camera, pressed the eject button, and handed the cassette to Mary Beth. "Here," he said. "You keep this for posterity." He pushed the camera into his pocket and took his other sister's arm, noticing for the first time how skinny it was. He'd never looked at Linda Kate either. He stared at her for a moment and smiled.

"What are you staring at?" she said, as they walked up the steps and passed between the Oscar statues into the Auditorium.

"Mary Beth likes me," he said, "but you don't, do you?"

"What do you care?"

"So mean. Just answer the question. I deserve an answer, I'm taking you to the Academy Awards."

"I used to worship you," she said in a tight voice. "When I was a little girl. But I'm over that. Now I just tolerate you."

"Good." He seemed not at all disturbed. They walked down to the main floor where nominees and presenters sat and seated themselves on the tenth row. The Auditorium was still mostly empty, but Linda looked around and saw a familiar face fifty feet away.

"Hey!" she said. "There's Brad Pitt!"

Stannie smiled. "I think it's just one of those Oscar statues. So Linda, what do you think of my suit? Think it'll pass?"

"It's very nice."

"But is it as nice as his?" Stannie pointed at Ang Lee, who was being seated ten or fifteen rows away. The auditorium was immense, with much of the seating above them in the balcony.

"Your suit is OK," said Linda Kate.

"Thank you. That'll pass as a compliment." Stannie felt the weight of the camera in his pocket. He imagined Ed watching the ceremonies on TV somewhere. "Hey Linda," he said, "what if a bomb went off in here? What do you think people would do?"

"I don't know."

"No, really, think about it."

"I don't know, I guess they'd be scared. Or they'd die. Or whatever."

"That's brilliant."

"Well I don't know."

"Guess you got the family brains, huh?"

"You know," Linda Kate said quietly. "I was telling Mary Beth today. My whole life, you never said anything nice to me. Never once."

"Not once? Not ever?"

"No."

"And you wish it had been different?"

"I told you, I always looked up to you. You betrayed me, Stannie."

"Well," he said, "you were putting your faith in the wrong place, then."

"That's easy to say. You were my big brother. How could I help it?"

He shook his head. "I guess you couldn't help it, but you were still wrong. Because I'm just an asshole."

Her eyes opened wide. "You're right," she said.

"I'm always right."

"But it's just so—I mean it's so freeing to hear you say it, straight out."

"I'm glad you feel free. So here's my question."

"What?"

"If you could decide about me, whether I should live or die, would you let me live?"

"Oh, come on."

"Really, would you?"

"Obviously."

"Why? Because I'm telling you, the decision is yours. Live or die, Stannie Colfax. Live or die."

She squirmed in her seat. The orchestra was warming up, humming like distant traffic.

"Live or die," he said. "Only theoretically of course. Do you think my existence is beneficial to the world? Decide if I should live or die."

"As far as I'm concerned, live and let live," said Linda. "I'm not that mad at you."

"No, really. You don't like me and I know it. I get in your way, I make you feel bad. That's obvious." He leaned closer to her and she could smell garlic on his breath. She winced.

"Say you're God right now, Linda Kate. The choice is yours. Do I stay or do I go?"

"Go," she said smartly. "I don't give a damn. Oh what am I saying? Don't go anywhere. Stop confusing me. You're so weird."

He sat back, satisfied, and smiled. "Remember you said that."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I have to go find the toilet. I'll be gone awhile. Don't let Brad Pitt steal my seat."

Linda Kate was too angry to answer. She watched him disappear through a side door and wondered how she'd let him do it again.

* * *

An hour later, Rose sat in an FBI van across from the Shrine, looking up and down Jefferson Boulevard. It was getting dark. Suddenly an old man waddled painfully right past the van, from the direction of the USC campus. He had two artificial arms. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and his belly hung over his tight belt. He looked exhausted, as though he could drop on the ground any second. He crossed Jefferson and stopped at the edge of the crowd, near the police barrier.

"That's him," said Rose, leaning back to talk to the agents in the rear of the van.

"You sure?"

"Yes, absolutely."

The agents moved out of the van swiftly, but crossed the street without breaking into a run. Arvin moved his head around and caught sight of the men coming for him. He knew who they were. He hesitated for a moment, then broke foward, running, wheezing, past the crowd. The agents caught up with him easily. In the van, Rose lifted her camera, unable to help herself. The telephoto lens was on. Arvin's hat had fallen off and his mangled, panicked face was clearly visible. She focused and clicked.

Suddenly there was a huge noise, and a rumble. Rose looked up at a cloud of smoke rising from the Auditorium, spreading out on the dim sky. "Oh God," she said, and she looked back at Arvin, who stood still with his artificial hand gripping a pager.

In the men's restroom, Stannie sat in a stall thinking of Rose, imagining her eyes, remembering her voice. Men came and went outside the door but their voices sounded distant and muffled. He thought he heard Stephen Spielberg take a whiz. Really impossible, though, to distinguish one whiz from another. If ever a whiz of a whiz there was. His heart beat furiously. The orchestra drums pounded far away, down the hall and through massive doors.

He wasn't sure he wanted to do this—maybe he'd put the camera in the trash and go back in the Auditorium soon, or walk out the back and throw it away, or maybe go and leave it in the Green Room behind the stage. It seemed so real now, becoming heavier and heavier in his coat pocket. He draped the pocket across his lap and patted the camera. What was in it, anyway? C–4?

It seemed like a long time had passed. Some men came into the bathroom laughing about Brett Bordley–Young's dress.

"I have a bomb in here!" Stannie suddenly shouted. "It could go off any time! Get out, now! Go! Go! Go!"

He stood up with his pants still around his ankles and scrambled to open the locked stall, but kept turning to the right instead of the left. He heard screaming outside and footsteps, then a policeman shouted at him to come out (but he couldn't open the door) and then the world went dark.

But it was all right, he knew (he knew it at the very second he put off his mortal flesh, injuring no one but himself and only destroying a small section of the historically important building). He had at last discovered a reason for his existence, a reason why it was good that Arvin Duckworth had saved him so long ago. The purpose of his life was to love just one person as he died—or maybe two people. Rose and Ernetta fused in his memory in that last moment, and he felt sorry that he'd been such an ass. He had even decided it was better to live, only he couldn't unlock the stall. Figured.

* * *

Epilogue

Jenny sat in Sibyl's living room that same evening with Clara draped across her shoulder, asleep. The lights were dim.

"Jim and I talked about you in Florida, Sibyl. We decided you're probably frustrated with us. You want bigger things from the League."

"I do," said Sibyl, and she pushed her glasses up her nose and made her lips firm. She didn't feel as confident as she looked. She respected Jenny; she loved her brother. She wanted to stay with them, but she couldn't any longer. She felt herself being pulled out of it like a ragged thread. Here she was dangling from the fringe.

"I'm sorry you're unhappy with us," said Jenny.

"We don't seem to get anywhere. We talk and talk and get nowhere."

Jenny laughed. "Oh, Sibyl. I'd like to say I disagree."

"There's a war on, and we're not winning it."

"It does seem that way." Jenny rubbed her forehead. "I'm discouraged, too. It must be catching."

"You and Jim look at this as a popularity contest," Sibyl said. "That's the difference between us. I don't expect to change people's minds. I just want to make them do what's right."

"But how far would you go?" Jenny held Clara tight and looked straight up at Sibyl. Their eyes locked and they sat for a second, wrestling in thought, but saying nothing.

"What do you mean?" asked Sibyl.

"I mean would you hurt anyone?" said Jenny.

"If necessary." Sibyl's lips began to quiver. "If I felt it was justified to save lives."

"But would it change anything? Would it really save lives?"

Sibyl leaned forward. "I don't know. But don't you ever get angry, Jenny? Don't you want to punish them? The murderers? For what they've done to all those millions of people, those millions of children?"

"Yes I do," said Jenny, and she let go of Clara and looked at her own hands, remembering the blood and the smell of antiseptic. Tears came to her eyes. "All the time," she said.

"They're just murderers."

Jenny nodded, thinking of the Holocaust Museum, thinking of the nurse, thinking of so much cruelty everywhere. "We're all murderers," she said, and hugged Clara tight again.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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