Chet Williamson: Reign

"You're making him sound like a rotten man, John," Robin said. "He did a lot for the people of this town. Like this community center. There was no profit involved there."

"No," Steinberg agreed. "Just an attempt to make himself more godlike. The Great White Father dispensing blessings on his children, just like he dispensed his little pills and nostrums that would cure everything from hernias to cancer. He was a fraud, pure and simple."

"But he built this place for the people of the town – and the school, and the hospital," Cissy said.

"Showing off, that's all. You think the people who worked in his factories cared whether or not he used Carrara marble here in the lobby? You think they cared that those murals are by Winter? As long as they had a place to see their vaudeville – and later to watch movies – you think they cared? Kirk did it for his rich friends from Philadelphia and environs, to show them how goddamned rich he was. As for the school and hospital, maybe it was his way of buying off his guilt for all the harm he did with his useless potions."

"You know, John," Cissy said, "I like you, but the thing I don't like about you is that you think that anytime anybody does something nice they've got an ulterior motive."

"I believe in the innate selfishness of man, darling. It's that simple."

"What about Gandhi?" Cissy said. "Or someone like that guy in A Tale of Two Cities? Or Jesus, for crissake?"

"To take them in order, I'm sure that Gandhi got a great deal of inner pleasure from the sacrifices he made; Sidney Carton is a fictional character, but I suspect that his real-life counterpart would have been suicidal; and as for Jesus… well, I'm afraid that my own socio-religious background precludes serious consideration of him. However, I'd hazard a guess that a death by crucifixion was precisely what he wanted. It seems to have worked out for all concerned, doesn't it?"

Cissy cast a dry look at Robin. "And Dennis has put up with this guy for twenty years?"

Steinberg leaned forward and kissed Cissy on the cheek. "He pays for my economic savvy, dear, not my spiritual philosophies."

"Thank God," said Robin.

Any further conversation was halted by the little black girl who pushed herself between Steinberg and Robin. "Hello, Aunt Robin. Hi, Uncle John." She looked up at them with bright eyes. Her hair was corn-rowed to perfection, and she wore a spotless yellow dress with red stitching.

"Hey, sweet pea," Steinberg said, hoisting her aloft. "My God, Whitney, you're getting heavier every day. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I was, but I wanted to come to the party so much that Sid brought me down. Just for a while, he said. I haven't seen Grandma yet." The girl looked around cautiously. "Is she here?"

"She's somewhere," Robin said. "And you'd better hope you spot her first, young lady."

Cissy cleared her throat. "I don't think we've been introduced, John."

"Sorry. Cissy, this is Whitney Johnson, Marvella's granddaughter, and Whitney -"

"I know who you are," the girl interrupted. "You're Mona, and you're on Mona and Me. I watch it every week. My grandma made costumes for you once, didn't she?"

Cissy laughed, and shook the girl's hand. "She sure did. A long time ago. But Mona is just a character I play. My real name's Cissy."

Whitney nodded sagely. "I knew that, but I forgot. It says it at the start of the show. In the credits." She seemed proud to know the term.

"So are you visiting with your grandma down here?"

"I'm living with her for a while. My mom and dad are breaking up."

"Well now," Steinberg said gently, "you don't know that for sure. They might get back together."

"Grandma says fat chance." The girl gave an exaggerated sigh. "Grandma's nearly always right."

"What are you doing up?" came a voice from behind Steinberg. They all turned to see Marvella Johnson, all one hundred and sixty pounds of her, glowering in pretended ferocity at her granddaughter. "Didn't I say no party?"

"Sid brought me down," said Whitney, still in Steinberg's arms.

"Maybe I'll have to whup Sid and you both then."

The girl smiled. "You won't whup me, Grandma."

Marvella's huge chuckle sounded like tin cans rattling in a silo. "No, I guess I won't. C'mere, you stinker." She took the girl easily from Steinberg's arms and hugged her. "All right, a half hour. And at eleven o'clock I take your little bones back upstairs." She stifled a yawn. "And maybe I'll go with you. I'm not used to these late nights."

"You still a morning person, Marvella?" Cissy asked. "God, I remember those eight o'clock costume calls. I honestly believe you meant to kill us."

"Lazy show people." Marvella shook her massive head. "Get them up before noon and they're nothing but a pain in the…” She glanced at her granddaughter. “… in the posterior." She gave the little girl a squeeze. "Come on, honey, let's meet some more stars, what do you say? Excuse us?" She sashayed off into the crowd, bearing her granddaughter in one arm as lightly as a purse.

"She's part of your entourage too?" Cissy asked Robin.

"Mmm-hmm. Sort of a permanent wardrobe mistress."

"I thought she retired."

"She did," Steinberg said, "but when Dennis came up with this whole idea and asked her to work with us, she jumped at the chance. Her husband died last year, and I think she realized she would have been bored out of her skull just sitting around the city."

"And she's living here too?"

Robin nodded. "On the fourth floor. We wanted her on the third with the rest of us, but she wanted to be right next to the wardrobe room. Pretty lonely up there, though."

"Oh, she's not all alone," Steinberg said. "She does have Whitney."

"Just until Janice – that's Marvella's daughter – can find a place of her own," said Robin.

"And of course there's always Kitty," Steinberg said dryly.

“Kitty?”

"Our resident pussycat. Or the little bitch, as I like to call her, although her name's Cristina."

"A theatre cat?" Cissy said. "Oh, that's cute."

"You haven't seen her," said Robin. "She likes Abe Kipp, the head custodian, and that's about it. She tolerates me and absolutely hates Dennis."

"The poor man tried to pet her the first time he saw her," Steinberg said. "Bit him right to the bone."

Cissy gave a little snort. "Well, now that I know who all is down here, my next question is what do you do all day. Watch Kirkland Springs flow to the sea?"

"Kirkland Springs," Steinberg said, "dried up back in the late thirties, along with David Kirk's fortune, right around the time the FDA started getting serious about the patent medicine business. But there's plenty to do nevertheless. This was, after all, a community building. In the basement, we have a lovely pool, a small gymnasium -"

"Don't tell me, John," Cissy said. " Show me. If you want my investment, I have to observe the kind of lifestyle that I'll be supporting."

Robin bristled. "The backers will be supporting production costs alone, Cissy, that's all. Dennis bought this building, and he'll donate the space. And his own time." She smiled. "That said, I'd be glad to show you our underground pleasure palace. Shall we?"

"Why not?" said Cissy, mildly drunk. "But could the toady here get me another drink first?"

"The toady," Steinberg said, bowing, "would be honored. Would your highness prefer the usual Ripple on the rocks?"

~* ~

Dennis Hamilton was bored. He had lost count of how many times he had discussed acting styles with Sybil Creed, but knew that the number guaranteed that neither one of them would at this point proselytize the other. Still, he nodded politely at her as they stood together on the mezzanine lobby, looking down through the marble arches at the guests below. He let her words bounce off him, and concentrated instead on the vista behind her.