The room’s dark, but not silent, a wheezing pulse in, and out, in, and out, quiet but relentless until, a whistling hitch in the rhythm, a stirring, rustling, someone’s rolling over on one of those two so-similar beds, there’s someone also on the other bed, still, for now, and silent, as the tone of that quietly regular rhythm climbs, and shrills, then settles, a notch higher, perhaps, than before. In, then out, in, and out, a fluted draw, a whistling exhalation, until, a hork, another, briefer shift, the rhythm’s awry, overwhelmed by a single perpetual unstopped wheeze, much louder, out and out and out. That other figure, silent but no longer still, hitched up on an elbow, colorless hair a-sway, “Ma!” the whispered exhortation, and then, a bit louder, “Ma!” A shift, a whip, a shadowy pillow flung across the gap between beds but too hard, over and past, whump and whuffle against and down the wall on the far side, flump to the carpet, and still that exhaling wheeze.
“Ma!” Not so much louder, but much more exhortative, yet still that whining, wheezing outflow, and nothing flowing in. Shuffle scrumble out from under a comforter into the narrow aisle between beds to crouch, shove against the other mattress, bed-frame thump but still that incessant whining leak. A plastic housing on the nightstand between the beds, a separate, breathy whirr from it, along a corrugated plastic tube drooped toward the woman asleep, her cheek on the pillow, turned away, dark hair lankly spread, white comforter up to her chin, that tube laid over a mounded shoulder to a plastic mask loosely skewed over mouth and nose, and all the air that rushes from it. Jo leans over the sleeping figure, reaching gingerly to touch, adjust, that mask, to settle it more certainly, a high-pitched keening suddenly snuffed with a whuffing suck, the quiet rhythm resumed, in, and out, the whistled draw, the fluting exhalation, she draws back, but there’s a hitch, a hum, a cheek turning up from the pillow, “What, what?” the muffled mutter.
“Your mask, Ma. It was loose.”
“Sfine. Go sleep. Go to sleep,” the rattle of the tubing as the comforter’s tugged up more tightly, she’s turning away, and Jo, drawn back, sits herself on the other bed, waiting, watching. In, and out. By the housing on the nightstand a simple digital clock, numerals rendered in shining blue diodes, 3:09, they say. She slumps herself back against her pillows, draws her legs up and back under the comforter, settling, blows out a sigh.
In, and out. In, and out. In, a whistling hitch, a grunting burr. Under that mask, her mother has started to snore.
“Hot damn, here she is!” stumble-thumping down the steps, Kirsten in cut-off jeans and a floppy green sweatshirt, Oregon Ducks, it says, yellow letters about a cartoon of an angry duck, “what is that, a sleeping bag?”
“It’s a sleepover, isn’t it?” says Jo, one black sneaker on the sidewalk, one on the first low step. “Please tell me it’s a sleepover.”
“Where did you get that shirt?” says Kirsten, with slower, more considered steps down. The sign on the wall beside her, a watery blue plaque hung over weathered grey shingles, L Building, it says, in pale letters, 442 – 448, 542 – 548. “Is that one of Wendy’s shirts?”
Jo shifts her shoulders, her ill-fitting blouse a bit tight, printed with fleshily oversized blooms in yellows and peaches and pinks against a backdrop of midnight blue. She hoists a bottle in her other hand, amberly sloshing, “I brought this? I mean, coolers are nice and all,” she shrugs.
“But liquor is quicker,” says Kirsten. “You’re still chipping in for pizza.”
The stairs up the grey-shingled side of this barn of a building lead to a windowless hallway, the hallway in turn past a row of widely spaced doors all on the left, the last of them at the end there ajar, the doorway opening on the main room of a condo, the far wall a window that looks out over the bay, water and light and thinly out there the arcs of the bridge stretched over the mouth of it, but here’s all white-painted walls and a skylight high above, a kitchenette with an oven topped by a black glass range, there’s a sofa and a couple of comfortable armchairs and a tufted ottoman, all of a beigely set, opposite them an open set of shelves of steel and whitewashed planks, a smattering of books, some photos in frames, a conch shell luridly magenta, a twining bit of ivy in a terracotta pot, all arrayed about an enormous black flatscreen television, a couple of folks crouched before it, Bex in blue jeans and a green T-shirt, a man beside her, loose blue overshirt and some kind of kerchief about his neck, pointing, shaking his head, she nods, there’s a woman sat on the ottoman, chaotically colorful sundress under a thin white cardigan, watching them both, “Hey,” says Kirsten, and then, more sharply, “hey! The heck are you doing?”
“Figuring out,” says the man with the kerchief, “where to jack in,” he’s trying to shift the angle of the screen, gripping the bottom, the back, but careful of his strength, its weight, testing each of them against the other as much as trying to move it, so nothing much is happening, but still, “Don’t,” says Kirsten, “you don’t need to, stop,” rushing over to them both, “it’s on Netflix, you just have to turn it on, Netflix comes right up.”
“Doctor Europa,” he says, and shoves, the screen moves, he winces, shaking his head, peering behind it, “is not on Netflix.”
“Bex, tell him.”
“I never said it was on Netflix,” says Bex, coolly. “I said I had it.” She’s holding up a small blue flash drive.
“Yeah,” says the man with the kerchief, “it’s back here, under the HDMI. Real convenient. Give me the thumb.”
“Wait,” says Kirsten, “wait, before you get anywhere near the television you tell me what the hell it is.”
“A thumb drive,” says the man with the kerchief, taking it from Bex, who’s saying, “All eighty-seven episodes of Doctor Europa that there ever were, which is including On the Beach, which is, like, impossibly hard to come by. If we want to end on a real dour note.”
“We could start with that one,” says the man with the kerchief, grimacing as he reaches behind the screen with the thumb. “Nowhere to go but up.”
“That’s the finale?” says Kirsten.
“The final episode,” says the man with the kerchief. “They never got a finale.”
“Suits did our boy dirty,” says Bex. Jo’s sidled over along the couch, toward the ottoman, “Hey, Amy,” she says, to the woman sat there, who looks up, with a smile, “How’ve you been, Jo?”
“Oh, you know. Surviving.”
“That’s for the Roku,” Kirsten’s saying, “you want the teevee remote,” as the man with the kerchief stirs through a basket, “Apple, useless,” he mutters, “no,” she says, “that one, there,” he’s picked up a long stick of a remote, crusted with buttons, “this is a universal,” he’s saying, and “yes,” she says, “yes, it’s a universal remote, so it works on the teevee, use that,” and right about then the screen winks to life, black gone a tenuous grey before blinking to brightly poisonous green, “source,” Kirsten’s saying, “change the source,” and “I know, I know,” he says, “I’m trying to find the damn,” and the woman in the cardigan says, “That’s Thad.”
“Yeah?” says Jo. “How long you guys been together?”
“April, so, three months? About?” An impressed little half-chuckle. “He really liked the show, too, so.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m still voting for On the Beach first,” says the man in the kerchief. The screen’s now a wall of monochromatic, monospaced text, black letters on a silvery grey, a list of file names. “We are not starting at the end,” says Kirsten.
“Time Loop in a Bottle,” says Bex.
“Oh, God, we have to work up to that one.”
“Wynona’s Way,” says Amy, as Jo’s saying, “Infiltration, but, just the, uh, second one. Part two.”
“Told you you were a Friedrich fan.”
“Fuck you,” says Jo, companionably.
“Wynona’s Way,” says Amy, again. “Come on. She’s the best.”
“Amy, I love you,” says Kirsten, “but you are so delightfully basic. I’ll not stand for any Wyopa nonsense in this house.” Amy snorts. “She was always more of a Frienona girl,” says Bex.
“What is it with that wolf!” laughs Kirsten.
“Can we, not?” says Thad, “with the cutesy shipping nomenclature?”
“Oh, Thaddeus,” says Kirsten, “you’re on our turf. You do not even get to suggest the rules.”
“Well, how come,” he says, “nobody ever talks about, ah, Wynabel, huh? Tell me that.”
“What?” says Jo, looking up, as “Really,” says Kirsten, and “Oh, come on,” says Bex.
“The way the two of them,” he says, “go on and on to each other, about how wonderful Friedrich is, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if only you could be with him, it’s, it’s classic projection.”
“Transference,” says Bex.
“Whatever,” says Thad.
“Who?” says Jo, brow cocked.
“Thad,” he says. “I’m with Amy. And you are?”
“Oh, this is our friend Jo,” says Kirsten. “She ran away to Portland so she could start slanging dope.”
“Do not,” says Bex, holding up a forestalling hand, “speak like that, ever again. You embarrass yourself, and your country.”
“No, you said,” says Jo, “I mean, it should be Wynabeth, right? Wynona? Elisabeth?”
“That’s,” he says, “that’s what I said. Right? Wynabeth?”
“It’s stupid, sweetie, but yes,” says Amy.
“Okay,” says Jo. “Sure.”
“People!” says Kirsten. “There’s only one choice for where to begin, but first, good Lord. We have to get ready! Beverages. And pizza toppings! Gimme,” and she reaches for the remote in Thad’s hand.
“I’m set,” says Jo, hoisting her bottle of whiskey as she plops onto the couch. “What’re y’all drinking?”
Bex widens her eyes theatrically. “Um, if there’s seltzer?” says Amy. “I brought beer,” says Thad, letting go. “I could, ah, go get myself a beer.”
“I’ll take a beer, too, actually,” says Jo, setting the bottle on the carpet by her sleeping bag. “I’ll get some glasses and shit,” says Bex, getting to her feet with Thad, “so which one is it, O Mistress of Ceremonies?”
“The only one to kick us off,” says Kirsten, “the gang back together again, plenty of banter and a couple of legendary set-pieces, and just enough lore to tease the best Big Bad,” clicking her way down the list on the screen, “ladies, gentleman, I give you,” the title there highlighted by a black bar, text gone white, S02.E03.Meanwhile.Back.At.The.Ranch.720px.x264.mkv.
“Seven twenty?” says Thad, “it’s gonna look like garbage on that screen,” and Bex pushes him into the kitchenette, “It’ll look just like we remember it,” she says. “Get your damn beer.”
He comes in swinging, a wildly frantic roundhouse that doesn’t connect, the other guy ducks, sidesteps the elbow jab, larger, but leaner, hands up loosely curled but not a blow thrown, hah, less an utterance than a laughing grunt, come on, come on, put your weight in it. He draws back to hurl a balled-up fist at that genial smirk, a punch that’s caught by a hand somehow just there, uncurled, rock-solid, not even a wince at the smack of the force absorbed. Not bad, says the other guy, and he turns away, shaking out his fist, scowling sourly, light sliding over the small round lenses of his sunglasses, you boys, says the woman sat on the couch, I swear. Edward Edwards, say the sharply thin sans serif letters floated over her, crisply white with a chilly, offset shadow, fading to be replaced after a moment with letters that say Robin Christopher.
I swear, she says again, loosening her tie. You’d think the last twelve hours would’ve been enough.
Adversity is never convenient! bellows the other guy, slapping his chest with both hands, collarless broadcloth under an umber leather vest, unless, he says, to its own agenda, and at that a hand held out graciously enough, Co-Producer David Allan Livingston, say the letters that appear, starkly chill. The readiness is all, says the other guy.
Who told the wolf about Shakespeare, he mutters, that’s what I want to know, working his hand, curling a fist, stretching it open, shaking it out again.
I know Shakespeare! shouts the other guy, and then, I’ve been reading Shakespeare since before you were, well, not since before you were born, little man, but. For a very long time. Teleplay by Arturo Sava, say the letters now, and then, Story by Arturo Sava and Eleanor Street.
Little man? he shouts, spun about, that hand a fist again raised and cocked, call me that again. Call me that one more time. I dare you, I double-dare you! Call me that one more time!
Boys! she snaps, leaned forward, hands on her knees, glaring theatrically from him, to the other guy, who’s thrown back his shaggy white head, laughing with uproariously genuine cheer, There’s the spirit! There’s your fire! You might could hurt a body with a thing like that!
Snarling he charges past the end of the sofa as she leaps to her feet, The two of you! but the whole clamorous hullabaloo crashes to sudden stillness at the intonation of a deeply singular word, Gentlemen. Followed, in the silence, by another singled word, Ma’am. There in the doorway, not of a notable height but nonetheless imposing in his morning coat and tie, his dark hair slicked to one side, his clean-shaven cheeks, his fleshy lips a moue of disappointment. Dr. Europa, he says, and steps aside. A man bustles past, taller and more slight, draped in a loose dark happi with arcane sigils on the lapels and panels of it, unbelted over a dress shirt and a tie still thickly knotted beneath his chin, over to an enormous desk there in the corner, where he switches on a lamp, then sets the hat he’s carried on the corner of it, a wide-brimmed dark brown slouch, and tucked into the rumpled puggaree of it a drooping zinnia, heavily pink and orange. He plucks it from the band, turns about to face them all, flower lifted to his nose for a sniff. Vikram, he says. Your report?
Directed by Marc Boylan, say the letters that fade into appearance, sharply thin, crisply white, fading slowly away.
It’ll be done, says the surly man, sourly.
Good. Get the blog up as soon as possible. The people need to know. Friedrich.
The big man lifts his shaggy head.
Sun’s getting real low.
There’s time yet, says the big man, smiling.
There’s always time, until there isn’t. Go on. Call her back.
Friedrich steps away from the sofa toward heavy curtains there along one wall, hung from ceiling to floor, and drags the weight of them open on an overwhelming blare of gold, rainbows wheeling along the angled slide of a flare and spinning away as details struggle to resolve themselves, a stretch of grass, a line of trees tiny in the distance, towering clouds backlit above, Freidrich’s opening a sliding glass door, stepping into all that golden light. A lengthy, piercing whistle, he holds up an arm, bent at the elbow, and a rattling whir of feathers silhouettes the glare, dropping to stoop, weight of it swaying his forearm braced, a hawk, fluffing tetchily, settling.
“How the hell did they not get sued?”
“I’m pretty sure they did.”
“There was – I mean, the movie always claimed it was – ”
“Amy. Could you please shut your man up.”
from the Bureau, Agent Shaw? Dr. Europa is saying.
Not that I’ve heard, says the woman, sat back against the cushions of the sofa. But then, I haven’t had the chance yet to reach out to anyone.
“Warner Brothers said it was based on a, a folktale, a legend, so there was nothing infringing about a show also – ”
“Thad.”
shove, she’s saying, I work for the United States Department of Justice. Not you.
Push comes to shove, says Dr. Europa, we both of us work for Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. Isn’t that so?
The light from the parted curtains has been fading all this time, and now as the last of it slips away they rustle to reveal a woman, pale and slender in a sleeveless gown of glossy umber, her icy blond hair spikily short, and padding by her side an enormous grey wolf, the ruff of his withers hackled higher than her elbow, head lowered for a menacing growl, black eyes fixed balefully on Vikram, who’s stood quite still, Crate that beast, he’s muttering. She smiles. Good evening, Elisabeth, says Dr. Europa.
I take it things went well, she says.
You performed splendidly. Everyone did, though it was touch-and-go there, for a time. Nonetheless, we prevailed; Closing Time will have to come another day. And so, we find ourselves, at the moment, for the moment, at leisure.
Your pardon, Doctor, says the man in the morning coat. There is the matter of Darfur.
Darfur is a phone call, says Dr. Europa, which I shall make from the study in a moment, Mannheim. So: aside from a few lingering chores, and here he directs a pointed glance at Vikram, we are, largely speaking, at leisure. Relax! Rest. Recuperate. We’ll reconvene for rehearsal in the morning.
So soon? says Vikram, frowning behind those blank black glasses.
No reason to let ourselves get rusty, says Dr. Europa. The Starlit Mysteries Tour kicks off in less than three weeks. Shall we say, ten of the clock? He stands abruptly, the hat left behind on the corner of the desk, and heads out happi a-flap past Elisabeth and the wolf, around the end of the couch, through the doorway and out, with a nod for the man in the morning coat, who follows. Vikram heads the long way round the couch, hastening out the door himself as the wolf essays another growl, rumbling till Vikram’s out of sight and Elisabeth sits herself on the couch, and the wolf lies down at her feet. Agent Shaw sits up a little straighter, somewhat warily, head up, eyes downwardly sidelong toward the enormous ridge of grey fur leaned against Elisabeth’s shins, lapping toward her own sensibly polished black shoes. He’s fine, says Elisabeth.
He’s big, says Agent Shaw.
How’d he do?
Shaw looks up from the wolf, to the woman sat above him. You really don’t remember anything much from what happens when you’re, when, when it’s daylight. Do you.
Elisabeth smiles, and reaches down to ruffle the scruff, to scritch between narrowing, satisfied eyes. I remember, she says. It’s more that, I wasn’t paying attention. Or – it’s more like, my attention was – elsewhere? The feel, of the air. The speed. The light, through those eyes – you have no idea, Wynona, how much there is, to see. So, it’s just that I don’t have any attention left over. But, sometimes, somehow, I know, there’s something he needs doing, and here she smooths the ruff, stroking along the back of the wolf, and I know what to do, to get it done.
I’ll say, says Agent Shaw. Two seconds left on the timer. Two! They never knew what hit them. And then, looking to the wolf again, Shaw says, But he really does miss you.
Well, says Elisabeth, with a wistful something of a smile. It has been six hundred years.
Netflix® is a registered trademark of Netflix, Inc., founded 1997 by Reed Hastings and Marc Randolph. Roku® is a registered trademark of Roku, Inc., which is set to be purchased by the Fox Corporation in a deal to close in early 2027. “Time Loop in a Bottle,” written by Arturo Sava and Eleanor Street, ©2001. “Wynona’s Way,” written by Neil Berg, ©2000. “Infiltration (Part Two),” written by Eleanor Street, ©2004. “Meanwhile Back at the Ranch,” written by Arturo Sava, ©2000. Ladyhawke, written by Edward Khmara, Michael Thomas, Tom Mankiewicz, and David Peoples, based on a folktale first collected by Jean Malchanceux, ©1985 Warner Bros. and Twentieth Century Fox.
