The City of Dreams -- Part 27

[I confess: I really like Mrs. Humphrey's last two sentences.

[Short section, but I'm trying to put these out as soon as they're formed enough to be readable. We're really in the home stretch, though I'm realizing there's more story to come than I expected. We're a hair under 55,000 words, and I think we'll break 60,000. 65,000 would be good, but if I find myself resorting to techniques like the bad 'talking picture' in Singing in the Rain (Yes! Yes! Yes! No! No! No!) then we're calling it quits right then.]



That night I decided to get a plan.
I woke up in the City in front of a narrow house I thought I recognized. The piles of paper threatening to fall out the windows confirmed it for me. I used the heavy, metal knocker on Mrs. Humphrey's door, and after a few minutes she opened it, still bent over and still dressed in an outrageously loud, floral print shirt.
"Mr. Crows," she said, with a lighter version of her serious fact that probably counted as a smile. "So good to see you. Please come in."
"Thank you." We weaved our way through piles of papers, each one with the same title: WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. There was a small couch and chair mostly empty of papers. We cleared them off and sat.
"I'm glad you came to visit," said Mrs. Humphrey. "My plants are pleasant enough, but they don't have very much variety in their conversation. It's all about carno-synthesis."
"Carno-synthesis?"
"The carnivorous version of photosynthesis."
"Ah," I said.
"Yes, a shocking word, I admit, but I'm not the one who invented it, so don't hold me too much to blame. Besides, I confess that I like it. We all have our dirty little secrets, don't we. However, you look like a man with a purpose. It seems you didn't come here just to spend time with an old, dreaming woman."
I nodded, though on consideration, it may have been more accurate to shake my head. I decided to push on anyway. "I need your help."
"Please explain," said Mrs. Humphrey, settling back into her chair.
"I've decided to write a play."
"You've found your hobby, then? The one I asked you about?"
"No."
"Again, please explain."
"I don't know if writing a play is my hobby, but I want to do it."
"Interesting, Mr. Crows. Curious as well. Any conception in that obviously agitated head of yours as to what this play will be about?"
"No."
Mrs. Humphrey blinked at me through her oversized glasses. "It seems you're a puzzle tonight, young man. I'd like to think for a moment."
She settled back into her chair, though the deep bend to her back made it seem as if she were still leaning forward. She looked at me and I looked back. After just enough time for me to get thoroughly uncomfortable under her gaze, she spoke.
"Of course. There's some purpose for this play. What do you want this play to do? Bring tears to the eyes of grown men? Make children laugh? Win the heart of a woman? Oh, my. It seems from your face that I've guessed it."
I nodded. "Or at least apologize to her."
"Good," said Mrs. Humphrey. "An apology is much easier to manage. Even at my peak, I could never guarantee a reaction from the audience. An apology, however, depends entirely on us. I assume, that time is of the essence?"
"I don't think she hates me," I said, "so I probably have some leeway. But." I shrugged.
"Exactly. Sooner isn't always superior to later, but in this case I agree with you wholeheartedly. However, I must ask: did you try simply saying 'I'm sorry?'"
I paused. I wasn't sure if I had or not. "I...think so."
"Keep that possibility in mind. Or, in the alternative, since haste is imperative, what are your views on poetry? Ah, one squinty eye. I assume that means you're not a devote of rhyming verse."
"It's not just that," I said. "Unless it's something really complicated or long, it doesn't seem like it would be enough."
"We could try our hands at a sestina--but no. That we can save for another time, if you'd like." Mrs. Humphrey leaned forward. "If I understand you, you're telling me that, whatever you choose, it must seem to have required significant effort?"
"Not just seem," I said, struggling for the right words. "It has to mean something. It has to show that I've changed, or at least that I want to change. It can't be just words."
"It must be a work," said Mrs. Humphrey. "A good work."
I wasn't sure entirely what she meant, but it felt right to me. I nodded.
"A week," she said. "We'll need at least a week. Do you intend to perform this?"
"I think so. I know someone with a stage."
"Wonderful. I suggest we plan some sort of readers theater, performance with script in hand. Will that be acceptable?"
"Sure," I said. "Whatever you think is best."
"No, Mr. Crows. Whatever YOU think is best. This will be your work. I'll help call it out of you, but in the end, this will be YOUR apology. However oddly misshapen, hunched, and hungry this play might be, it will come from you, and your young woman will know it. That is the only way it can work. I have been a young woman, Mr. Crows. Some things I still remember."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
"Let's get started then," she said, flipping over a stack of papers to their blank side. "Run up one flight of stairs and find us pens from one of the desks. This is going to be a busy night, Mr. Crows. Try not to wake up."