Vivian In Red by Kristina Riggle

now?” Milo walked away, shaking his head.
    “You just became my lyricist.”
    “Wisenheimer.”
    Milo put his hands on the keys and played the song again Allen had just taught him that morning. He was already thinking of who might like to hear it. There was a new act that had been coming around looking for material, a boy-girl set of cousins from St. Louis… He said out loud to Allen, “This one might be perfect for the Debonairs, you think? I heard that they’re auditioning for George White…”
    “I wasn’t kidding about the lyrics. Why not? You go around making up words to songs all the time, and you come up with rhymes without even trying.”
    “Ha, you did it just now.”
    “Must be contagious. C’mon, it’ll be a few laughs, maybe. We’ll work on it in slow times here, or maybe after hours.”
    “Where we gonna do that?” Milo continued to play, the tune settling into his fingers like they had a memory of their own. “I don’t want to sit around here any more than I already do.”
    “My apartment. I’ve got a piano even.”
    “No kidding?” Milo paused the song. “Well, sure. After work tomorrow we’ll make like the Gershwins and be rich and famous in no time.”
    “Ah, don’t make fun.”
    “I’m not, at least not very much. But look, I feel so lucky just to get this far, I’m not gonna get my hopes too far up.”
    “Well, as long as you’re sure of failure, we’ve got nothing to lose.” Allen bent back over his music.
    “That strategy seems good enough for the government, eh?” and Milo switched tunes on the piano: “These so-called happy days, my friend, should like to drive me round the bend…”
    “Suit yourself, Short. I’m going to aim a little higher than that if it’s all the same to you.”
    “It is all the same to me, now shut up so I can do the work I’m getting paid for.” Milo switched back to the tune he was learning, for the Debonairs or some other hopeful musical act, also likely to fail but with a faint spark of a chance at stardom. It seemed to him that the whole system was powered by that little spark: his own job, plus the costumers, set builders, singers, actors, producers. He glanced around at Allen, hands still playing the tune, as his friend scowled over his song. Hope away, pal. Keeps us all in business.

New York, 1999

    I wake up like crawling out of a long, narrow cave.
    Voices. Daughter-in-law, Linda: “Terrifying. The nurse found him curled up on the landing. He could have fallen down the stairs and broke his neck.”
    A voice I don’t know: “Of course, that must have been terrible for you.”
    For you? I’m the one … And I was on the floor?
    Awareness dawns on me that I’m once again in that stiff, flat mattress hospital bed contraption. My eyes snap open the same moment I remember seeing Vivian, and worse this time, hearing her voice in my head. And next thing I knew I was on the ground and a young nurse with a blonde ponytail was interrogating me and checking me over and sticking me back in bed, at which time I crashed right back into sleep.
    The people in my parlor don’t notice that I’m awake right away, though, so I close my eyes again, to eavesdrop about myself.
    “I am so sorry about this. We’ve already spoken to the nurse on duty, I assure you.”
    Oh no, I hope they didn’t fire her. It wasn’t her fault.
    “I should hope so,” Linda sniffs. “I mean, I realize he unclipped the alarm, but honestly, she didn’t notice him walking up the stairs? This place is older than old and everything creaks!”
    “Of course, you have every right to be upset.”
    “I just hate to see him like this. Just a couple of weeks ago he was so vibrant and active, like he’d live forever.”
    I’m not dead yet. You’re all acting as if I’m three-quarters deceased.
    “He may yet live a long time.” This was said by the stranger. Head nurse I guess? Some kind of boss lady. And she didn’t say that with any kind of reassurance. She