To @amtrak12 , who obviously has the patience of a saint, I offer the next part of this @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift. As begun in part 1 and part 2, itâs a vaguely in-universe story in which Myka and Helena are in some fashion being pitted against each other in court.... but that scenario, and everything surrounding it, is of somewhat unclear definition. Why might that be? All will be revealed eventually, I promise, and there are a few hints here in this part. Overall, I hope thereâs at least a little enjoyment in the excruciatingly slow ride.
Court 3
Now Artie is waving folders around: âLegal!â he says, flourishing one in his right hand, and then, as if to distinguish by name the one in his next-raised left, âbriefs!â
With a little look-at-me shimmy, Pete says, âBut what about legal boxers?â Like heâs the first person ever to make such a joke.
âFisticuffs?â Helena asks, a little plaintive.
So, okay, maybe heâs the first ever to make such a joke in front of Helena. who deserves not to be left in the dark, even by a joke that only Pete thinks is funny. âHe meansââ Myka starts, but it occurs to her, just in time, before she fully embarks, that she does not want to talk about distinctions between types of underwear with Helena Wells. Or with H.G. Wells. Or with anybody, really, but in particular not with either of those eminences.
But she likes âfisticuffs.â As a word. So: âNever mind,â she says, following up with, âI like âfisticuffs.ââ To the four surprise-widened pairs of eyes that slew her wayâhallelujah, the distraction workedâshe finishes, âAs a word.â
Artieâs eyes narrow. âHereâs a word: unforgettable. Be that, both of you. On both sides. So nobody questions anybodyâs legitimacy when itâs time to take possession.â
Take possession. Why does everything he says make Myka think inappropriate thoughts?
But also: being unforgettable certainly wonât be a problem for Helena.
âHow could anyone forget Agent Bering?â Helena asks, in unknowing yet ringing counterpoint, with a tone that Myka desperately wants to be correct in hearing as unironic. (Which may or may not stretch fully to âsincere.â)
âYou got that backwards,â Pete tells her. âItâs âhow could Agent Bering forget anyone.â Or anything. And the answer is, she couldnât.â
âCouldnât she,â Helena says, looking at Myka. Looking intently, like Mykaâs leapt a quantum of consequence, and is that good or bad?
Myka doesnât want to find out. Not now. âWe donât need to get into that,â she says.
Helena blinks at her. âWhat do we need to get into?â
It sounds suggestive only because, Myka assures herself, everything Helena says sounds suggestive.
No, wait, thatâs terrible. Try again: only because Helena can make anything sound suggestive.
No, thatâs bad too: it puts the blame on Helena, whose intent canât be assumed.
So, back to the first: everything Helena says sounds suggestive... to Myka. Thatâs at least accurate. Accurate and damning.
And speaking of damning, sheâs let Helenaâs question sit unanswered too long... but, for good or ill, Artie steps into the breach.
âWorking the case,â Artie says, stepping into the breach, and is he saving Myka or damning her further? âThatâs whatâthatâs allâyou need to get into.â
âAll...â Helena echoes, drawing the word out, sinuous syrup in Mykaâs ear. Damning, damning, damning.
âAlso court,â Claudia says, the âtâ an obstructive retort, as if to stop any such flow. âYou need to get into that.â Another shot, for emphasis.
But Claudiaâs plosives wonât be putting up barriers once Myka and Helena do.
****
Steve likes to wander the aisles of the Warehouse. If heâs being honest with himself (although sometimes heâs not honest with himself, if only because he can in fact lie to himself without pain; it gives him a little zing of illicit pleasure, like not quite triggering an allergy) he feels more at home here in this building that should be overwhelming than he does in the B&B. In this building, heâs anonymous; at the B&B, everyone wants to, or feels that they already, know him too wellâtoo well too soon. He hadnât signed up for that.
Not that heâd known in any way whatsoever what he was signing up for.
Not that heâd even affirmatively âsigned upâ for anything.
Should he have seen this life-wrench coming?
On his first day of fifth grade, the teacher, working her way through the alphabet of last names, had asked each student if they had thought about what they wanted to be when they grew up. After praising the ambition of Tony Gentry, who wanted to be the President of the United States and also a rock star, sheâd moved on to Steve. âSteve Jinks? Ideas?â
âAn advice columnist,â heâd answered promptly, with certainty.
His teacher had raised her eyebrows at that and pronounced it âvery interesting,â but she didnât press the point, instead moving on to the next name. âJennifer Josten? Your thoughts?â Jennifer had declared an interest in lepidoptery, which then had to be defined for the class, thus fully washing away Steveâs answer... probably for the best, as heâd thought even in the moment.
When his mother asked how that first day went, he told her what heâd said. Unlike his teacher, she followed up: âWhy an advice columnist?â
So he had to give reasons. His first one: he liked the words. Advice columnist. They were full and fun to say, and they made the job sound full too.
Then he worried that he was being presumptuous (a word heâd recently learned, though less recently than âlepidopteryâ), making like he had some innate (ditto) ability to do such a full job. So he explained that it wasnât that he thought he knew so much about people and their problems. But he liked the idea of having answers, ones that went beyond âlieâ and âtruth.â
His mother agreed that answersânuanced onesâwere good. And thus Steve also learned the word ânuanced.â
In retrospect, he suspects heâd been hoping that becoming an advice columnist meant being gifted with answers (other than âlieâ and âtruthâ), wisdom from some advice-ether to which only such columnists had access.
His eventual Buddhism had, and has, served as the real version of that imagined advice-ether, offering him glimpses, even occasional grasps, of more-nuanced answers.
Itâs possible, though, and maybe even likely, that answers of similarly greater nuance are to be glimpsed, and even occasionally grasped, here in this Warehouse. Steveâs found moments of unexpected peace in its immensity, and unexpected power in the peace.
But today, even more unexpected, he finds, or rather nears, un-peace, an aural variety, its location and source taking a moment to clarify: the container aisle, from which blares Peteâs voice, angry, demanding, and in response, a womanâbut not Myka, not Leena, not Claudia. Not even Mrs. Frederic. An unknown woman in the Warehouse? Arguing with Pete?
Steve is not an advice columnist, which heâs had cause to semi-regret during his brief Warehouse tenure: all these misfit toys (a category from which he doesnât exclude himself) need advice, and heâs totally unqualified to give it. So he does for a moment entertain the idea of turning away from Peteâs ire, avoiding whatever todayâs kerfuffle is.
But he has a job, and while itâs not âadvice columnist,â it often seems to lean toward something like âkerfuffle-handler.â
So he turns in the direction of the noise.
****
Layers, Myka thinks. Helpful in South Dakota. The winters, anyway.
Layers. This over that. This, then that. Again?
Pete sits her down and cues up Witness for the Prosecution.
You made me watch this already. Myka doesnât say this aloud, but itâs... true? He did. Before. Before what? âWhy are you doing this?â is what she does say.
âTo getcha ready,â he enthuses. âFor court. See, whatâs a big deal here is Dietrich.â
âWell, sure,â Myka says, because when wouldnât Dietrich be a big deal?
âNot because of that. I mean, sure, always because of that,â and he is looking at her like he might have just decoded some undercurrenty dit-dot-dash of what she never says aloud, âbut. For right now: her testimony. Unreliable.â
âYou mean like Rashomon.â Which he has also made her watch. Already. Before.
âNope. Thatâs different versions. Everybodyâs got different versions. This is about who to trust.â
He must mean Helena... he must be pushing her to not trust. Must mean, must be. Must must must.
But even as she resists that pressure to not, she canât deny that Helena has an appeal that is by a certain measure Dietrich-esque, and thus what she canât resist a quick riffle-shuffle, just for the thrill... Morocco (white tie and tailcoat...), Shanghai Express (chiaroscuro with Anna May Wong her mirror...), even Touch of Evil (into every life a little Well[e]s must fall...)...
âAre you showing movies to Helena too?â she asks, as much to talk herself down as to really find out. Helena, Pete, movies... would there really be time for that?
But how is there time for this?
âWhy would I?â Pete asks.
âTo get her ready? Too?â
âBut I want you to win,â he says. âWhateverâs happening.â
Whateverâs happening. âWhoâs unreliable?â Myka asks. She wants to know. Whateverâs happening.
She doesnât really expect an answer, and Pete lives down to that: âDonât ask me,â he says, busying himself with the DVD remote.
But whom should Myka ask?
Herself?
****
When Steve rounds the corner, both Pete and the womanâsheâs beautiful, her face a pale marvel, but itâs her hair, a wash of darkest ink, that strikes himâlook his way and immediately clam up.
The sudden silence spooks him. As does the fact that at their feet lies Myka, and sheâs... taking a nap? Sheâs on her side, her head pillowed on her arms, like sheâs illustrating âsleepâ in the dictionary. Itâs more than odd, but then again this is the Warehouse, where stranger naps have no doubt been been taken.
Steve certainly isnât one to begrudge Myka, or anybody else, the rest they need, but...
...the silence continues, as if enforced.
Steve is patient, but uncanniness makes him antsy. So to the woman, who seems nonthreatening (sheâs just standing there, arms crossed), Steve ventures, âHi?â
âHello,â she responds. Her voice, now not angry, is low. Rich.
âRight,â Pete says, a put-upon pout. âI always think everybody knows everything. Steve, H.G. H.G., Steve.â
âDelighted,â says the newly identified H.G. to Steve. âWho are you?â
âSame,â Steve responds. âAnd same?â Thereâs surely something he should be getting, butâ
Pete sighs, still put-upon. âI always think.â To the woman, he says, âHeâs the new guy they brought in to replace Myka, after you made her leave.â Then he turns to Steve. âH.G. Think about it.â Like Steve is a complete idiot.
And he is: immediately, realization. The embarrassment burns him, heating his gut, blooming on his face. âH.G. Wells,â he says, and tries to cover at least a bit of his flush by understating, âClaudia mentioned.â
Claudia has in fact woven tale after tale, all in the service of illustrating what she initially described as âH.G.âs good-guy-to-bad-guy-to-goodish-guy-to-who-knows-what status, with Myka all-in then crushed then mostly just sad and Pete really pissed off about all of it, but anyway we got you out of the deal, Jinksy, and maybe someday weâll get H.G. back for real too, because honestly I miss her basically like Iâd miss air.â
Steve adds to his understatement with, âShe reveres you, by the way.â
âAnd I her,â says H.G., with a weirdly formal head-bow. âNot at all by the way.â
âGood choices all around, it seems like,â Steve says.
H.G. smiles, and he is rewarded.
âMeanwhile, Myka was unconscious!â Pete informs the world, full up again with all that anger Steve had wanted to turn away from.
The way she talks... not trying to compete, but secure in her ability to. Steve feels himself proving his kinship with Claudia. More so than with Pete
âWho cares what you think?â Pete fumes, confirming Steveâs sense. âAnd youâll say anything anyway.â
âSheâs telling the truth though,â Steve says, because she is. âTo me, Myka looks... asleep. Comfortable, even?â
H.G. nods. âThat was my thought whenââ
Pete breaks in, loudly, âAsleep?!? But Iâm yelling!â
âWe know,â Steve says, and he hears H.G. say the same, right in tune, and what is he to do with this instant accord? Is it disturbing? Or... flattering?
âShe never sleeps through me yelling!â Pete yells on.
Myka, for her part, sleeps on.
Steve finds himself hoping that when the yelling stopsâas eventually it must, even with PeteâH.G. will be able to express the as-yet-unarticulated when of her thought about Myka asleep.
He additionally hopes that builds to something like advice.
****
Whoâs unreliable?
Myka, thatâs who. Why else would Artie have sent Pete along with her and Helena on this retrieval, when he has no role to play in court?
Obviously she requires a chaperone.
Tamalpais was so different. Claudia is a lot of things, but âchaperoneâ isnât among them, and anyway she was preoccupied with confronting her own insecurities, leaving Myka generally free to...
... well, to confront her own. While pretending not to, because of the incessant pressured wish to be present for every moment with Helena, whether collegial or clashy or both.
Paradoxically, looking is what Mykaâs viscera remember of all that shared presence: for while their physical interactions made serious impressions, the gazes meant. They signified. They offered up the why of the physical.
And that why is obviously the reason for Peteâs presence. Myka supposes âbackupâ must have been, must be, the ostensible rationale for it, but thatâs almost as troubling. Why wouldnât she and Helena be each otherâs backup? Why would they need more? Itâs not like this is even a conventional, and thus possibly dangerous, retrieval.
Sheâs reminded of that as she stands before the bathroom mirror in a hotel room, dressing for court: buttoning up, smoothing down. This suit has always been what she would wear for such an occasion, this eyeliner and blush always what she would apply. As evidence. Of preparation.
Pete gapes at her when she emerges. âAre you wearing makeup?â
Why is he in her room? âIâm going to court,â Myka says. Did he forget?
âWho? The judge?â
Dangerous, dangerous... she knows who. So she says âWhat?â Playing as dumb as she can.
âAnd youâre supposedly the word nerd...â He shakes his head. Has he bought it? Surely even word nerds are allowed to plead (to feign) ignorance on occasion. âBut seriously, do they judge on hotness now?â
Of course: at that moment, Helena sweeps in, as if doors and locks and privacy are nothing but easily disproved hypotheses. âI certainly hope so,â she says, and she too is buttoned up, smoothed down, yet perfectly so, the strictures fitting simple... also evidence, but of a dream Myka has been waiting till this very moment to dream. She looks Myka over... also not unrelated to several dreams Myka has been waiting, or in fact not waiting, to dream. âAt the very least, I relish the competition.â
âI guess itâs time,â Myka says, hoping to send the idea of that sort of competition on its way. (Not that she knows where âon its wayâ would be. Probably some sort of boomerang trajectory, given everything.) âTime,â she repeats. âFor court.â
âCourt-ing!â Pete yelps, and Myka wants to sink into the hotel-room carpet, never mind what else those abused fibers have absorbed.
Helena takes it in her stride, not even raising an eyebrow. As she would. âYes, it is,â she says, an affirmation of its being time, and/or actual courting being involved, and/or every possible jot of meaning in between.
Affirmation... why not affirm it all? All, all, legal boxers and all, because this is about (a bout?) competition, which Helena has said she relishes. Which Myka is readyâabsolutely readyâto relish too.
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