 
 Actingby Lucia Chambers
 

           "I'm doing 'Camelot' for six weeks at Westbury," George
      said in a staccato voice, "and I don't expect you'll be visiting 
      me during the show?"
           Margot hiccoughed loudly and cackled.  "I'll see if I can 
      squeeze a	performance into my busy schedule." She batted her
      eyelashes at her husband and giggled, but what came out was a
      mean little sound. "So I guess you'll need some spending 
      cash while you're in New York, right?"
           "Don't you patronize me, you drunk," George sneered.  "I
      never needed your money, and I sure as hell don't want your
      time." He stood firm, glared at Margot, and said meaningfully, 
      "I'll be staying... with friends."
           Margot shrieked, "I'm the better actor, you fool!  And
      without me, you'd still be looking for your first script, your
      first part, and a decent agent!" Her voice was hoarse, and her
      glasses had tumbled to the table.  "You'll be staying with
      your latest girlfriend, won't you!" Margot hiccoughed again
      loudly, and her mascara ran down one cheek.  She knelt down
      and patted the floor with one hand, looking for her glasses,
      and wiped her eyes with her other hand.  In the process, she
      spilled her drink straight down the side of her
      slit-to-the-navel red velvet dress, and dribbled bourbon into
      her left heel.  "Damn!" she said, peering at the dark blotch
      on her waist.
           The door slammed, startling her to her feet.  Margot gazed
      into the direction of the door for a moment, and then blindly
      stumbled to the bar, poured herself another drink, and dropped
      into the sofa, thinking.  "He was acting," she announced to
      the room. "He still loves me.... NOT."  Margot burst out
      laughing and then passed out on the couch.
      
                                 * * *
      
           A month later, on a warm Spring-like afternoon, Margot was
      out in the garden when Seth dropped by early to pick up his
      phone messages.  Margot had kindly let him, her oldest friend,
      use the desk and phone in the library while his pockets were
      empty and his phone, disconnected.
          Seth smiled at the slim woman with the huge straw hat, her
      usual stunning array of jewelry only partially obscured by her
      cotton gloves and pinstriped gardening smock.  He approached,
      anticipating his greeting to the small figure knelt to the
      ground with her back turned to him.
           The smile froze on his lips.  He stopped and watched as
      Margot straightened up, stood with her feet flat and apart by
      about twenty inches; then raised her arms, and stretching them
      straight in front of her, gripped a gun firmly with both hands.
      She aimed for two or three seconds and then fired ten shots in
      rapid succession, every one of them dead into the center of a
      target that was swaying from the limb of a large apple tree.
      The target had to be at least fifty yards from where she stood,
      and Seth was positive she'd shot the little red bullseye clean
      off the paper.
           Seth backed away slowly, suddenly feeling like a voyeur.
      He quietly retraced his steps, finally turning in the front door
      of the house.  Then he shakily poured himself a drink, and
      waited.
           Not long after, Margot came swaying into the room, dead
      drunk, her huge red-rimmed glasses askew on her nose.  She tried
      to push them into place using the index finger on her right
      hand, but missed several times and then finally gave up.  "Pour
      me something Darling?" she slurred.
           "What have you been up to, Margot?"
           "The tomatoes are growing so fast, Seth, so fast!  They
      make me dizzy.  I must tie them or something, to keep them in
      bounds."
           "I guess you'll tell me later." Seth watched her move about
      the room.  She didn't quite seem drunk but then she did seem
      drunk, and it was very hard to tell whether or not she was
      acting.  He wondered why anyone would pretend to be drunk - most
      of all Margot, who he was sure had successfully quit drinking.
      He guessed she'd fallen off the wagon or something because
      she was reeling on her heels.
           "Will your Poetry Club be meeting here this evening?  I was
      hoping for a quiet evening, just the two of us?" Seth looked
      hopeful.
           "Poo Poo Poetry," she exclaimed.  "I don't think Eliot is
      funny at all.  Maybe I'll quit the club, it's too stuffy
      anyway." Margot grinned a silly face and then pouted.  "Margot
      needs some icies sweetie." She stuck out her glass a bit
      crazily, and waited.
          "The bar is out of ice." Seth frowned at her. So she *was*
      drinking again!  He took her glass and sauntered into the 
      kitchen, then called back to her, "Play something on the
      piano for me, will you?" Quietly, very quiet like a
      cat, Seth turned around and walked into her bedroom.
           Seth scanned the room for a moment and then strode toward
      the dresser.  Yes.  Top drawer, a gun.  He took it out for a
      moment and held it to the light.  A small revolver, comfortable
      grip, tiny scope.  It had a nice feel to it, and gleamed even
      though some powder had spilled around the barrel, muddying the
      reflective surfaces.  He replaced the gun, then swiftly made his
      way back to the kitchen for some ice.
            "What HAVE you been up to, Margot?" he murmered
      thoughtfully as he listened to Margot laugh while murdering the
      second part of a simple Chopin Waltz.	
      
                                 * * *
      
           "Dead?  He's dead?" her voice rose to a frantic scream.
      "George.  Dead?  My husband?  NO!" Margot sobbed openly and
      stepped back away from the door, away from the Policeman.
           "You'd better ah, sit down, Mrs.  Beckerman.  The officer
      extended his right hand to Margot's elbow, and steered her
      toward a large tapestried chair in the livingroom.  Margot sat
      on the edge of the chair and looked wistfully towards the bar.
      He continued, "Your husband's body was ah, discovered behind the
      Westbury Music Fair, in Westbury Long Island.  He died instantly
      of a bullet through the heart." The officer glanced toward the
      bar, his face absolutely blank.  "We found the gun in a nearby
      dumpster; it's his own gun."
           "George had a gun?" Margot looked up dazedly, rolling her
      eyes just a little too much. "A gun?"
           "Yes.  It's an automatic weapon, and only one bullet was
      missing from the ten-bullet magazine.  The bullet that killed
      him.  Mrs. Beckerman, did your husband fear anyone?  Was he
      depressed?  Has he mentioned any particularly upsetting fan
      mail?"
           "No.  I need to be alone, can you come back later?"
           "Of course.  I'll come back myself to see you're all right.
      All right, Mrs. Beckerman, I'll show myself out.  I'm sorry."
      The officer backed up a few steps.
           "Wait.  Can you first please give me my glasses, I'm blind
      as a bat."  Margot began to fumble with her glass, trying to
      place it on the coffee table in front of her.
           "I don't see them. Are they in your purse?" 
           "Nevermind, Officer, I'll get them myself." Margot reached
      for her purse, began opening it, and then dismissed him with an
      abrupt "Goodbye."
           Officer Barnes turned and left without another word.
      
                                  * * *
      
           "Here, Margot.  Use this." Seth offered her his
      handkerchief and Margot snatched it, dabbed her eyes a few times
      and gave it back.
           "I'm so tired, Seth. I want to go back to bed."
           "All right, sweetie.  Remember: Seth loves you." He smiled
      and looked into her new baby-blue contacts.  "Margot, when this
      is all over, I want you to consider marrying me.  No, this
      shouldn't come as a surprise, you know I have always loved you,
      even when we were children; I loved you then too."
           "Marry?  You?" Margot grinned, sniffled, and then laughed
      out loud.  She laughed deeply and heartily for several minutes.
      "Seth, I can't marry you.  I won't marry you.  We're friends,
      we've always been friends, but I'm not in love with you.  I
      thought we had an understanding?" She smiled warmly until she
      saw Seth's face.  "You're serious?"
           "I don't understand.  I thought you hated George!" he
      shouted.  "And I thought you loved me!" Seth's face was turning
      red.
           "Oh, darling, I never hated George." Margot's hand dabbed
      at one eye as she continued, "I was a boozer, he was a tramp.  If
      anything, we deserved each other." Margot walked over to the
      front window and looked out to the lawn and driveway.  "I miss
      him," she said simply.  She glanced into the hallway mirror
      and quickly pushed her hair away from her face, then puckered 
      her lips, fixing her lipstick. 
           Margot swung on one heel to face Seth and said (sotto
      voce), "I loved him.  He loved me.  You've always been OUR
      friend, not just my friend.  As special as you are, you're
      nothing more than a friend."  She gave special emphasis to the
      words 'nothing more' and twice glanced into the mirror for
      approval.
           Seth adjusted his lapels, smoothed his handkerchief and
      jabbed it back into his pocket.  Then he marched past Margot,
      out the front door, and slammed it behind him.  Margot stood by
      the window, fascinated by his departure.  She stared at the spot
      on the driveway his car had occupied for a long time after he'd
      gone.
                                    * * *
      
           "May I come in?" Officer Barnes stood, straightfaced, at
      the door.  "Why of course!" Margot waved him into the livingroom
      and perched herself on the edge of the large leather sofa.  She
      gripped her tumbler tightly with both hands, took a long drink,
      and waited.
           "Well Mrs. Beckerman, ah, as you know, there are several
      questions surrounding your ah, husband's death." Jack Barnes
      wandered around the room, his eyes resting briefly on the
      mantle, a coffee table, the large wing chairs, the paintings and
      bookcase, and then finally he stopped moving about and stood in
      front of the fireplace, facing Margot.  "Incidentally, I
      understand your friend, ah, Mr. Seth Lewis, spends most of his
      evenings here?"
           "Seth is here most evenings, yes."
           "Was he here the evening of your husband's murder?"
           "What!" Margot suddenly stood straight up from her chair,
      and took a step forward.  "Yes he was more than likely here that
      night.  Why are you asking me this?  What has Seth got to do
      with anything?" 
           Officer Barnes bit his lower lip.  "Well, Mrs. Beckerman,
      ah, there were some fingerprints on the gun.  The, ah,
      fingerprints belong to Mr. Seth Lewis.  We have him in custody right
      now, and he's being questioned down at the station.  By the way,
      didn't you used to wear, ah, glasses?"
           "Seth's prints are on the gun?" Margot, immersed in
      thought, wandered to the bar, poured herself a fresh tumbler of
      bourbon, and drank the whole thing neat without taking a breath.
      She stage-whispered, "Seth is in love with me.  He wants to 
      marry me."
           "Yes, I sort of figured that part out."
           "My glasses are upstairs," Margot announced, turning.  
      Then she squinted into the space to the left of his head and 
      said, "Seth was not here the night of my husband's murder."
           "I thought so."
           "What are you going to do?" Margot breathed.  She raised
      her eyes and focused on the officer's left ear.  "What's next?"
           "Nothing.  But I would appreciate a written statement from
      you.  I think we can wrap this up pretty quickly now, Mrs.
      Beckerman.  Yes indeed, I believe we have our man."
      
                                    * * *
                                    
           "I'm telling you, she hit that bullseye about ten times,
      never missed a beat," Seth whined.
           "Her servants never heard a thing, Mr.  Lewis.  And what
      about her eyesight?  She's half blind!" The Detective shifted
      his weight and rocked on his heels, arms folded.  This was just
      too pathetic: a loser looking to marry money, his prints on the
      gun, now pointing a finger at the widow.  Too much!
           "She wasn't wearing her glasses.  Um, I mean, she must have
      been wearing her glasses.  Oh I don't know!  Wait.  She has
      contacts now."
           "She bought those contacts after the murder.  Didn't you
      say she was drunk that day?"
           "Well, yes, actually. She's usually drunk...well she ACTS
      like she's drunk, oh I don't know... "
      
                                     * * *
       
         "Mr. Lewis' stay for execution was denied, and his death by
         electrocution just an hour ago was the second one this year in
         the State of New York.  Well, that's the wrap-up, we'll be back
         at nine with any late-breaking..."
      
           Cathy switched off the radio and parked her beemer in the
      last spot behind the Music Fair, at the edge of the woods and
      far away from the other cars.  She didn't want any dings on her
      gleaming black car.  She swung one high-heeled foot out,
      followed by the other, and stepped down - onto a pair of large
      red-rimmed glasses, which crunched under her Italian leather
      soles.  "Damn," she thought.  She checked the bottom of the
      shoes for any cuts or scrapes, and then picked up the shattered
      glasses and carried them along with her until she reached the
      dumpster.  Then she dropped them in.
      
                                    -end-
                    Copyright (c) 1993 by Lucia Chambers
                               
