Act Fourteen - Interlude: Reunion

   He was seated in the drawing room next to the piano when I came up the elevator with Norman. He was so immersed in thought that he didn’t hear us at first. Hesitantly he reached out to touch a key, and the single note sounded, even to my ears, very despondent and sad. After a long moment of silence, Norman put a hand on the small of my back and gave a gentle push to move me forward. Then he turned and got back in the elevator to go back down to work on Big O.

    “Roger,” I say quietly. Immediately he sits up straight, turns, and, seeing me, gets to his feet. An envelope falls from his fingers to the floor and I take a hesitant step forward. He takes a few and we meet almost in the middle, him wrapping his arms around me tightly.

   “I thought-”

    “I know,” I respond, my voice slightly muffled by his shirt. After a moment’s hesitation, I put my arms around him as well.

   A little later, as I sit in the drawing room and play piano for him, as he requested, I think to ask him, “Roger, what was in that envelope?”

    “Hmm?” he looks up from his timers with a confused glance in my direction.

    “The letter, Roger, the one you dropped on the floor.”

    “It was an invitation to the Saint’s Day Ball.”

    “Saint’s Day Ball?”

    “Another silly tradition. Two months after Heaven’s Day is Saint’s Day. Originally it was to honor those who died in the Incident forty years ago, but it’s since digressed into another excuse for the wealthy of the city, the dome dwellers, to throw expensive parties.”

    “Then why would you get an invitation to the Ball, Roger Smith?”

    “The Saint’s Day Ball is a fund raiser for the Military Police. As a former Lieutenant, I guess Dastun thinks it appropriate to invite me.”

    “Will you be going then?”

    “What?”

    “Will you attend?”

    “Unthinkable. I have no reason to go.” Then he pauses, and glances at me. “Would you like to go?”

    “I’ve never been to a ball.”

    Roger considers this and pauses, standing. He picks up the envelope and opens it, scanning the contents. “You’ll need a new dress.” He looks at me, and then pauses. “Dorothy, where’s the bullet hole?”

    “What do you mean, Roger Smith?”

    “You were shot…” he cringes, as though it is a painful memory for him, “where’s the bullet hole?”

    “I was not wearing this outfit when I was shot, Roger.” I lift my hands from the keys and stand. “But you are correct, if I am going to escort you to the Ball, I will need a new dress.”

    “Dorothy, where are you going?”

    “Shopping.”

    After a long pause he speaks up, setting the invitation on the music stand of the piano. “I’ll drive you,” he pats his pockets, looking for his keys. I find myself smiling a little, and he blinks. I point him at a mirror. “Right. You find my keys, I’ll go get cleaned up.”

***