She has gotten very good at knowing when the commercials come.

1986

His face is an honorable representation of his time. Tan, but weary of the weather he sees from his Rolls-Royce. A refined and reflective car he resembles when the door opens.

His driver, Jeffery, waits, knowing better than to try to help him cross the ice, which he successfully avoids every other day of the year, living life at the equator, procured by an arsenal of mischievous grins which have naturally suited his life, unlike his uncut hair, pulled back in a continental ponytail under a top hat that has been out of fashion since Kennedy’s inauguration 25 years ago. A significant accomplishment for a man with minimal time and unlimited potential, remembered for being young, something the old man does not envy, and has no suitable expression for.

Wearing a frock, silk, and wool twill coat, Bell Moon walks with a steady pride into the cemetery he calls home. There are about 30 markers, but only one headstone bears no surname. Memories roll across each chiseled letter, flower, and trinket, slowly turning color amongst disintegrating leaves. Guilty as the carpenter who built the cross, nature and he do their thing: burying knowledge in layers of purity that will lose its innocence regardless if it is touched, sealed in a tomb between the past and present—a dream waiting to join reality as a discovered incident that still brings an ache to his beating heart. He falls to his knees, removes his hat, and weeps. He once was a public stock, but he sold his shares, no longer able to conceal his private thoughts and moments. He searches for the integral sum that reminds him where real wealth lies. He goes through his pockets for a ritual he feels no obligation toward, but grunted about before departing white sand and martinis for this 30-degree tundra. Every house he passes, he says, “How do they do it?”

“What, sir?” asked Jeffery.

“Live.”

Jeffery nodded.

Bell searches his tailored coat, muttering between him and the dead, “I’m going to fire his ass tomorrow,” and then looks at his driver, who stands stoically beside Bell’s car.

“Look at Jeffery,” he whispers. “He wants to go.”

His age, his grin, and his accent no longer hide him. His chameleon exterior has shed, and he no longer takes tea with acquaintances but dials after midnight and a belt of scotch or two.

“Jeffery! Bring me a penny. A good, shiny one! Not like the one you coughed up this morning! One that shouts! One with value! Like Penny!”

1954

She wears curlers and hasn't wiped her makeup off in 15 years. That's one year after Penny was born.

Lillian sits at the glass table and smokes a menthol in a white bathrobe that she stole from a hotel. She feels something and disrobes her shoulder to peel the scratch she got from Mr. Bengelow. She looks at her wrist, but there is no watch. There is no clock anywhere. The balcony door is cracked open, and you can hear the surf below.

She wakes up on the stove, and smacks the back of her head into the vent as if everything were on, but the only thing on are her curlers. She picks up her robe and her drink, vodka neat.

She finds a whole burnt cigarette in the ashtray and lights another. She feels the back of her head and finds blood, and removes the old bandaid and places a new one on in her bathroom.

"Lilly, Lilly, Lilly."

Her bra is purple, her breasts are handfuls. Her robe is open. Her matching underwear tells her it's time to shave. She looks at her legs. No visible bruises, scratches, or veins. Her pride and glory. Her toenails have been red since the second grade.

The phone rings, and she answers it, popping a pill before saying anything. She listens, finishes her drink, and hangs up. She sits on Penny's bed and turns on the TV. She has forgotten the hour, and all three channels are playing the same old Gore Vidal Teleplay. Above her is a portrait of a soldier. A man in his 30's with her child's eyes. He would disapprove of the smoke that rises into his clean face, his stare of authority and conviction, whether that be the hill or his family. Lillian doesn't look, and that's why Penny thinks her Mother never looks at her. She cries when the TV screen goes black. A heartbreak she is aware of, and looks away when they cut to a commercial. She has gotten very good at knowing when the commercials come.

She sighs and presses her breasts together, and walks back over to the phone and dials.

"Edgar! Honey, babe, was that you earlier? We must have had a bad connection!"

She nods and smokes, but sounds like she is smiling.

"15 minutes? Yeah, that should work, baby doll."

She puts out her smoke and begins to undo her curlers.

"Just come by…"

She stops. Her expression is blank. "Penny isn't home tonight…Listen, you sick pervert," but before she can really let Edgar have it, she looks at the phone, and can't believe a married man would hang up on her! She's been married, and she'd know if someone like Edgar was into such depravity.

Her phone rings.

"Doll?"

She twirls the chord, listening.

"Oh, yeah, put her on. Penny, what did I say?"

Her hands and jaw shake.

"Penny, what did I say!"

Tears roll down her face like the few lockets of hair freed from a curler. She slams the phone down and throws her drink at the TV. It is always black now, and somewhere on the screen is her husband.

***

Edgar Loeb is alone with 40 seats and two caskets. He hardly notices the dust floating in the light that penetrates the curtains. His black cane shines.

Edgar uses the chair in front of him to stand. He walks to the caskets and looks back like he’d like to order a third.

Edgar struggles to open the one he spent money on. Bell asks if he needs help and pulls the trigger. Church bells ring.

Another gunshot. Another Bell rings.

Jeffery suspects no one saw a thing and drives away.

Suicide. 1986.