Friday Night
Mrs. Pickett stepped out of the bathtub and reached for her Friday-night towel: a pink, fluffy, expensive thing, lightly scented with rose. She hummed an old song and wiped the fragrant suds from her ample body, smiling sweetly into the mist-clouded mirror. Mrs. Pickett was going to the Theatre.
She never would have used the American spelling of that word, neither in writing nor in speaking. When she said "Theatre," one could almost see it drip from her mouth like fine honey, roll elegantly down the slope of her bosom, and land with a dainty splat on her hardwood parlor floor.
Mrs. Pickett lived in Ohio and had never been to Europe in her life, although her husband, Edward, had gone there for the War. Still an army man, he was often stationed overseas. They had been married nearly thirty years now, but Edward was an incurable romantic and sent love letters to her every week while he was gone. His packages always included jewelry, photographs, and other trinkets from far-off lands, all of which were proudly displayed in Mrs. Pickett's home. She loved his stories and rich descriptions of the dear old streets and buildings he had seen, and the wonderfully authentic natives he had met. No matter how many times the stories were told, she felt a thrill each time she heard them. It was almost like being there herself.
Naked, clean and gleaming, she stepped nimbly out of the bathroom and across Edward's sprawled form. He was still lying in the hallway. Had she more time, she would have tidied everything up a bit, but she was running late. She would take care of it when she got back, after the show.
As a rule, she and Edward almost never argued, since their time together was rare and they couldn't stand to waste it on foolish spats. But that day, from the moment he burst through the front door, he had started that crazy talk about retirement. She attributed it to his excitement at being home. When he woke up, she would tell him that he was forgiven. He would realize how unfeasible his plan was, how silly, and all would be well.
She went into the back room—her private bedroom, when Edward wasn't home—and took her Friday gown from its place in the rear of the closet. Her bare skin prickled and sang as she slid into the dress. Months ago, she had found this exquisite creation hanging on a scratched, droopy-eyed mannequin in a window on Thrift Store Row: the shimmery purple cloth and rows of naughty black sequins caught her eye from all the way across the street. It was hers now. She loved to comb her fingers through the soft black feather collar and to feel the tingle on her calf when a slight draft crept through the slit in the side. Slipping into this gown was her secret treat to herself. She would not wear it outside. Such a work of art could not bear the world, which only wanted to tear and stain and ruin beautiful things.
Of course, a few alterations had been necessary to make it fit, but she was handy with a needle.
She gazed at herself in the full-length mirror, framed by cut-outs from various fashion magazines over the past twenty years. Who was she? The sneering grin that stole over her face told her soon enough
(...she was a brazen whore, walking the bad streets in search of quick cash. She turned, jutted her lithe hips at oncoming traffic, displaying herself shamelessly for an appreciative male audience. Tossing a sultry glance over her shoulder at an imaginary customer, she glimpsed her face in the mirror, and)
(...she was a modern duchess, preparing to hold court at her Victorian country estate. Perhaps tonight she would entertain her guests in the garden pavilion. Where was that silly little maid with her brush and scents? She looked from side to side, impatiently, and)
(...she was the leading lady in a Hollywood romance, starring opposite her favorite actor, Robert Burke. It was his first movie; he had never been off the soap opera sets. He was nervous, but she was experienced. She had been in the business all her life)
...and if she didn't hurry, she would be late for the show.
Sighing with pleasure and regret, Mrs. Pickett looked one last time at her beautiful reflection. She would wear a practical blouse and comfortable slacks, as she did every Friday night. Edward would tell her that she looked lovely, and all that earlier nonsense would be forgotten. Go, she would tell him. Go back to those marvelous lands. Don't worry about me. I don't mind staying here alone, really I don't. I love you, Edward. You will always be my soldier-boy.
Now she was her plain old self again, ambling down the street on her weekly outing. Her house was only ten blocks from the main downtown area, and the neighborhood was a safe one—one of the safest in the country, according to the most recent reports. Hers was a true community, not like those big, nameless cities where you don't even know, much less trust, any of your neighbors. She could walk in the evening without fear of Bad People.
There was her church on the right. It was a newer building, with none of the character or Old-World charm of the churches she had seen in the pictures Edward sent. In the yellow streetlight, it could almost pass for an alien spaceship but for the stone angel perched above the front door with its arms outstretched. If this is the house of God, she thought, He should consider remodeling.
Then again, she hadn't spent enough time here recently to complain. Although her name was on all the volunteer sign-up sheets, the committee just hadn't called on her for a couple of years now. Every Sunday she reminded them that she had plenty of free time, she was more than willing to do her part, but they always told her that everything was covered for the foreseeable future and there simply wasn't anything for her to do. They always promised to call if something came up.
Mrs. Pickett had a sudden, uncharitable, wicked thought: she didn't mind missing out on the church functions. Standing on the sidewalk, gazing at the dark, ugly building, she half-expected a holy lightning bolt to strike her down right there, but none came. The stone angel continued to stare down, but it seemed disinterested, looking just past her, reaching toward someone else.
So she walked on, musing, playing with the realization that although she found most of those people pleasant enough, she had never really liked spending her time with them. No, she didn't mind the lack of their company.
God would forgive them.
Oh, but the street was busy tonight! Mrs. Pickett played a game with herself, making up stories about the people in the cars that passed her. There went a young couple. They were eloping, of course. The girl's parents would not allow her to marry her boyfriend, but they were very much in love, and would surely be able to overcome the life of poverty that awaited them. They were going to California. She wished them well.
Here came an old woman, driving by herself, slowly... slowly, because she was...afraid? No, this was a strong and healthy old woman; she would not be afraid to drive. She was driving slowly because she was new to the neighborhood, had just moved in two days ago, and she was exploring her surroundings for the first time. But wait...Mrs. Pickett had seen that woman around before; she could not be new. She had moved there about the same time that Edward Pickett and his new bride had bought their house, almost thirty years ago.
That meant that the old woman had been driving around, exploring, for thirty years. She had left her house so long ago. She must have forgotten where it was. Thirty years. Thirty years is a long time to be lost on your own street.
And although she knew it was just a game, Mrs. Pickett was overcome by her little story. She leaned against a lamp post and searched in her purse for a tissue. Silly thing, she thought, they always said you had too much imagination. Now stop it, or you'll smear your make-up.
A brisk wind sent leaves skittering around the lamp post, and Mrs. Pickett wished she had put on her gray slacks instead. The night air was cold and her dress flapped frantically around her bare legs, as if it were urging her to hurry up, hurry up, you’ll be late to the Theatre. She shivered and drew her shawl (feathers?) closer around her shoulders, imagining the striking picture she must make to passers-by
(a brazen whore, walking the bad streets in search of quick cash. She turned, jutted her lithe hips at oncoming traffic, displaying herself shamelessly for an appreciative male audience. Tossing a sultry look over her shoulder)
"Get in."
A car idled at the corner. Mrs. Pickett peered into the open passenger window. An older man with unkempt, greasy hair sat in the driver's seat. Beside him were several empty beer bottles. She could smell the reek of filth and alcohol even from outside the car. "Get in," the driver slurred again, and grinned at her. "What is this, your first time out? Come on, sweetheart, get in."
She moaned—a high, small sound—and backed away. This wasn't supposed to be happening, on her street. There were no Bad People here.
The man swore and drove off, weaving drunkenly through the traffic. Mrs. Pickett stood by herself in the glow of the streetlight, watching until the car's taillights were just another pair of red dots in the city. When they had gone, her smile returned.
She thought of Edward. Edward was safe, and she was happy. How right her parents had been: she would have been poor and miserable, had she married Jeff instead. Jeff had wanted to travel and talked of nothing else. They would take what money they had and set sail, marry in England, and work their way through Europe and the East. They would explore the deep jungles of Africa; they would swim in the Indian Ocean. It wouldn't matter if they were penniless, for they would have the whole world and their love to support them. Jeff had dreamed of ending up in a small beach house in Jamaica. He had promised that the sea would sing them to sleep every night in their old age.
Her parents wouldn't hear of such a match. The very idea was ridiculous. She could not gallivant around the globe with a man she hardly knew. She was not that kind of girl. Edward was a nice boy, he cared for her, and he would join the army soon, which meant a steady, reliable income right away. He was a man who was going places.
The last she had heard of Jeff, he had set sail and married in England.
Mrs. Pickett wondered if he was in Jamaica yet.
She had been to Jamaica. Edward took her there for their tenth wedding anniversary. Once, in a crowd, she had thought that she glimpsed Jeff, but Edward had wanted to go to the souvenir stands and she never got a chance for a second look. Edward had bought her a beautiful cane made of heavy driftwood, set with stones and bits of rainbow-like shell. All that day she had carried it, admiring the way the abalone reflected in the sunlight. It reminded her of a jeweled scepter fit for a tropical queen or
(a modern duchess, preparing to hold court at her Victorian country estate. Perhaps tonight she would entertain her guests in the garden pavilion)
A stinging pain interrupted her fantasy, and someone was rushing toward her.
"Ma'am, are you all right?"
She was on the ground. A gentleman stood over her with a worried look on his face. She had reached the Theatre, she realized, and had been so deep in her memories that she had wandered into the landscaped area and tripped over the (hem of her dress) short brick divider.
The gentleman, an usher, helped her up and handed her . "Oh! There’s blood,” he said. “On your cane. Have you cut yourself? Let me help you inside. Can you walk?"
She could, and he bustled her through a side door and into the offices where he and a Theatre manager made a great fuss over her. They fetched iodine and clean rags and bandages, but could find no cuts to which they could be applied. After her repeated assurances that she felt just fine, just a bit dizzy, she was sure she'd be all right, they let her go.
The manager insisted on giving her a complimentary ticket to the show—a box seat, no less! The usher personally escorted her to her row, and after one last promise that she was just fine, he left her to settle herself comfortably.
Mrs. Pickett had never had such grand accommodations before; she usually bought a general-admission ticket. She could see the whole Theatre from up here. How different everything looked! She admired the enormous crystal chandelier, which she had only ever seen from far below. She could make out fine details of the gilt ceiling trim as well, and noticed that all of the shadowy little gold bumps were actually tiny angels trumpeting along the molding. She looked down at the floor seats and watched the other patrons fidgeting in their chairs, scraping their feet along the worn red rug. Her box seat was carpeted with rich scarlet shag, and her chair was velvet. No one shared her little compartment, so she took off her shoes and pushed her bare feet into the deep shag, giggling to herself when she saw that the color of the carpet exactly matched the polish on her toenails.
Oh...the hem of her beautiful dress had torn. A loud sigh of dismay escaped from deep within her gut. How could she have let this happen? She should have known better than to wear her special gown out of the house. Why hadn’t she changed her clothes? It was the only one of its kind in the whole world, and the world hated things that glowed with unique beauty. She would have to see if she could mend the rip later.
It wasn't really a bad rip...she would sew it at the kitchen table, and Edward would sit across from her. They would sip coffee while she told him, first, about the Theatre. He always said that she had a way of making the listener feel as if they had been there themselves.
Then he would take over the conversation, and they would sit up all night: she, listening in rapture to tales of his latest adventures in the Old Country and the East; he, untiring, never running out of stories or details. He would show her the presents he had brought for her. Though he sent her a little something every week, the really special things came when he was home for a visit.
The rest of the week would be spent in a whirl of giddy, frenzied joy. They had so little time together. She knew that Edward did not like leaving her by herself. Several times he had offered to take her with him, but who would mind the house? They had no children, and Mrs. Pickett's friends, once a tight-knit group, had long since left town (or died). She could not go gallivanting around the world. She was not that kind of girl.
How could he ever have thought of retirement? He would not be happy sitting at home, day after day, through the years, with nothing to look forward to except death. He was a man who went places, who got the job done. The house was hers; the world was his.
Damn! Another tear in her dress. One of the seams on the side was beginning to split. At this rate, she would be naked by the time she got home.
It was very hard to sit still, but she had to do so, lest she put more pressure on the seams. Even so, she heard an occasional soft snap as a thread broke. She had a vision of giggling imps, invisibly pulling her beautiful gown apart stitch by stitch. The dress should not have been taken from its special room. No one but the mirror had ever before been allowed to see her wearing it; no one else would have understood.
The lights went down—the show was about to start. From her box seat, Mrs. Pickett saw the gilt angels (so much more interested than the one above her church door) twinkling in the stage lights. Were they just twinkling? Or were they dancing, beckoning to her?
They must be, she thought, for angels from Heaven were the only defense against the imps of the world.
She was dimly aware that the crowd below had begun to point and gawk as she climbed up, balanced on the railing that surrounded the box.
(She was the leading lady)
Her dress gave a final loud tear and fluttered down to the audience. Mrs. Pickett did not mind; she wouldn't be needing it anymore. The angels would clothe her in a sparkling white gown, with all the feathers and sequins she wanted, and the world would not be allowed to touch it.
She took another step toward them.
She never would have used the American spelling of that word, neither in writing nor in speaking. When she said "Theatre," one could almost see it drip from her mouth like fine honey, roll elegantly down the slope of her bosom, and land with a dainty splat on her hardwood parlor floor.
Mrs. Pickett lived in Ohio and had never been to Europe in her life, although her husband, Edward, had gone there for the War. Still an army man, he was often stationed overseas. They had been married nearly thirty years now, but Edward was an incurable romantic and sent love letters to her every week while he was gone. His packages always included jewelry, photographs, and other trinkets from far-off lands, all of which were proudly displayed in Mrs. Pickett's home. She loved his stories and rich descriptions of the dear old streets and buildings he had seen, and the wonderfully authentic natives he had met. No matter how many times the stories were told, she felt a thrill each time she heard them. It was almost like being there herself.
Naked, clean and gleaming, she stepped nimbly out of the bathroom and across Edward's sprawled form. He was still lying in the hallway. Had she more time, she would have tidied everything up a bit, but she was running late. She would take care of it when she got back, after the show.
As a rule, she and Edward almost never argued, since their time together was rare and they couldn't stand to waste it on foolish spats. But that day, from the moment he burst through the front door, he had started that crazy talk about retirement. She attributed it to his excitement at being home. When he woke up, she would tell him that he was forgiven. He would realize how unfeasible his plan was, how silly, and all would be well.
She went into the back room—her private bedroom, when Edward wasn't home—and took her Friday gown from its place in the rear of the closet. Her bare skin prickled and sang as she slid into the dress. Months ago, she had found this exquisite creation hanging on a scratched, droopy-eyed mannequin in a window on Thrift Store Row: the shimmery purple cloth and rows of naughty black sequins caught her eye from all the way across the street. It was hers now. She loved to comb her fingers through the soft black feather collar and to feel the tingle on her calf when a slight draft crept through the slit in the side. Slipping into this gown was her secret treat to herself. She would not wear it outside. Such a work of art could not bear the world, which only wanted to tear and stain and ruin beautiful things.
Of course, a few alterations had been necessary to make it fit, but she was handy with a needle.
She gazed at herself in the full-length mirror, framed by cut-outs from various fashion magazines over the past twenty years. Who was she? The sneering grin that stole over her face told her soon enough
(...she was a brazen whore, walking the bad streets in search of quick cash. She turned, jutted her lithe hips at oncoming traffic, displaying herself shamelessly for an appreciative male audience. Tossing a sultry glance over her shoulder at an imaginary customer, she glimpsed her face in the mirror, and)
(...she was a modern duchess, preparing to hold court at her Victorian country estate. Perhaps tonight she would entertain her guests in the garden pavilion. Where was that silly little maid with her brush and scents? She looked from side to side, impatiently, and)
(...she was the leading lady in a Hollywood romance, starring opposite her favorite actor, Robert Burke. It was his first movie; he had never been off the soap opera sets. He was nervous, but she was experienced. She had been in the business all her life)
...and if she didn't hurry, she would be late for the show.
Sighing with pleasure and regret, Mrs. Pickett looked one last time at her beautiful reflection. She would wear a practical blouse and comfortable slacks, as she did every Friday night. Edward would tell her that she looked lovely, and all that earlier nonsense would be forgotten. Go, she would tell him. Go back to those marvelous lands. Don't worry about me. I don't mind staying here alone, really I don't. I love you, Edward. You will always be my soldier-boy.
Now she was her plain old self again, ambling down the street on her weekly outing. Her house was only ten blocks from the main downtown area, and the neighborhood was a safe one—one of the safest in the country, according to the most recent reports. Hers was a true community, not like those big, nameless cities where you don't even know, much less trust, any of your neighbors. She could walk in the evening without fear of Bad People.
There was her church on the right. It was a newer building, with none of the character or Old-World charm of the churches she had seen in the pictures Edward sent. In the yellow streetlight, it could almost pass for an alien spaceship but for the stone angel perched above the front door with its arms outstretched. If this is the house of God, she thought, He should consider remodeling.
Then again, she hadn't spent enough time here recently to complain. Although her name was on all the volunteer sign-up sheets, the committee just hadn't called on her for a couple of years now. Every Sunday she reminded them that she had plenty of free time, she was more than willing to do her part, but they always told her that everything was covered for the foreseeable future and there simply wasn't anything for her to do. They always promised to call if something came up.
Mrs. Pickett had a sudden, uncharitable, wicked thought: she didn't mind missing out on the church functions. Standing on the sidewalk, gazing at the dark, ugly building, she half-expected a holy lightning bolt to strike her down right there, but none came. The stone angel continued to stare down, but it seemed disinterested, looking just past her, reaching toward someone else.
So she walked on, musing, playing with the realization that although she found most of those people pleasant enough, she had never really liked spending her time with them. No, she didn't mind the lack of their company.
God would forgive them.
Oh, but the street was busy tonight! Mrs. Pickett played a game with herself, making up stories about the people in the cars that passed her. There went a young couple. They were eloping, of course. The girl's parents would not allow her to marry her boyfriend, but they were very much in love, and would surely be able to overcome the life of poverty that awaited them. They were going to California. She wished them well.
Here came an old woman, driving by herself, slowly... slowly, because she was...afraid? No, this was a strong and healthy old woman; she would not be afraid to drive. She was driving slowly because she was new to the neighborhood, had just moved in two days ago, and she was exploring her surroundings for the first time. But wait...Mrs. Pickett had seen that woman around before; she could not be new. She had moved there about the same time that Edward Pickett and his new bride had bought their house, almost thirty years ago.
That meant that the old woman had been driving around, exploring, for thirty years. She had left her house so long ago. She must have forgotten where it was. Thirty years. Thirty years is a long time to be lost on your own street.
And although she knew it was just a game, Mrs. Pickett was overcome by her little story. She leaned against a lamp post and searched in her purse for a tissue. Silly thing, she thought, they always said you had too much imagination. Now stop it, or you'll smear your make-up.
A brisk wind sent leaves skittering around the lamp post, and Mrs. Pickett wished she had put on her gray slacks instead. The night air was cold and her dress flapped frantically around her bare legs, as if it were urging her to hurry up, hurry up, you’ll be late to the Theatre. She shivered and drew her shawl (feathers?) closer around her shoulders, imagining the striking picture she must make to passers-by
(a brazen whore, walking the bad streets in search of quick cash. She turned, jutted her lithe hips at oncoming traffic, displaying herself shamelessly for an appreciative male audience. Tossing a sultry look over her shoulder)
"Get in."
A car idled at the corner. Mrs. Pickett peered into the open passenger window. An older man with unkempt, greasy hair sat in the driver's seat. Beside him were several empty beer bottles. She could smell the reek of filth and alcohol even from outside the car. "Get in," the driver slurred again, and grinned at her. "What is this, your first time out? Come on, sweetheart, get in."
She moaned—a high, small sound—and backed away. This wasn't supposed to be happening, on her street. There were no Bad People here.
The man swore and drove off, weaving drunkenly through the traffic. Mrs. Pickett stood by herself in the glow of the streetlight, watching until the car's taillights were just another pair of red dots in the city. When they had gone, her smile returned.
She thought of Edward. Edward was safe, and she was happy. How right her parents had been: she would have been poor and miserable, had she married Jeff instead. Jeff had wanted to travel and talked of nothing else. They would take what money they had and set sail, marry in England, and work their way through Europe and the East. They would explore the deep jungles of Africa; they would swim in the Indian Ocean. It wouldn't matter if they were penniless, for they would have the whole world and their love to support them. Jeff had dreamed of ending up in a small beach house in Jamaica. He had promised that the sea would sing them to sleep every night in their old age.
Her parents wouldn't hear of such a match. The very idea was ridiculous. She could not gallivant around the globe with a man she hardly knew. She was not that kind of girl. Edward was a nice boy, he cared for her, and he would join the army soon, which meant a steady, reliable income right away. He was a man who was going places.
The last she had heard of Jeff, he had set sail and married in England.
Mrs. Pickett wondered if he was in Jamaica yet.
She had been to Jamaica. Edward took her there for their tenth wedding anniversary. Once, in a crowd, she had thought that she glimpsed Jeff, but Edward had wanted to go to the souvenir stands and she never got a chance for a second look. Edward had bought her a beautiful cane made of heavy driftwood, set with stones and bits of rainbow-like shell. All that day she had carried it, admiring the way the abalone reflected in the sunlight. It reminded her of a jeweled scepter fit for a tropical queen or
(a modern duchess, preparing to hold court at her Victorian country estate. Perhaps tonight she would entertain her guests in the garden pavilion)
A stinging pain interrupted her fantasy, and someone was rushing toward her.
"Ma'am, are you all right?"
She was on the ground. A gentleman stood over her with a worried look on his face. She had reached the Theatre, she realized, and had been so deep in her memories that she had wandered into the landscaped area and tripped over the (hem of her dress) short brick divider.
The gentleman, an usher, helped her up and handed her . "Oh! There’s blood,” he said. “On your cane. Have you cut yourself? Let me help you inside. Can you walk?"
She could, and he bustled her through a side door and into the offices where he and a Theatre manager made a great fuss over her. They fetched iodine and clean rags and bandages, but could find no cuts to which they could be applied. After her repeated assurances that she felt just fine, just a bit dizzy, she was sure she'd be all right, they let her go.
The manager insisted on giving her a complimentary ticket to the show—a box seat, no less! The usher personally escorted her to her row, and after one last promise that she was just fine, he left her to settle herself comfortably.
Mrs. Pickett had never had such grand accommodations before; she usually bought a general-admission ticket. She could see the whole Theatre from up here. How different everything looked! She admired the enormous crystal chandelier, which she had only ever seen from far below. She could make out fine details of the gilt ceiling trim as well, and noticed that all of the shadowy little gold bumps were actually tiny angels trumpeting along the molding. She looked down at the floor seats and watched the other patrons fidgeting in their chairs, scraping their feet along the worn red rug. Her box seat was carpeted with rich scarlet shag, and her chair was velvet. No one shared her little compartment, so she took off her shoes and pushed her bare feet into the deep shag, giggling to herself when she saw that the color of the carpet exactly matched the polish on her toenails.
Oh...the hem of her beautiful dress had torn. A loud sigh of dismay escaped from deep within her gut. How could she have let this happen? She should have known better than to wear her special gown out of the house. Why hadn’t she changed her clothes? It was the only one of its kind in the whole world, and the world hated things that glowed with unique beauty. She would have to see if she could mend the rip later.
It wasn't really a bad rip...she would sew it at the kitchen table, and Edward would sit across from her. They would sip coffee while she told him, first, about the Theatre. He always said that she had a way of making the listener feel as if they had been there themselves.
Then he would take over the conversation, and they would sit up all night: she, listening in rapture to tales of his latest adventures in the Old Country and the East; he, untiring, never running out of stories or details. He would show her the presents he had brought for her. Though he sent her a little something every week, the really special things came when he was home for a visit.
The rest of the week would be spent in a whirl of giddy, frenzied joy. They had so little time together. She knew that Edward did not like leaving her by herself. Several times he had offered to take her with him, but who would mind the house? They had no children, and Mrs. Pickett's friends, once a tight-knit group, had long since left town (or died). She could not go gallivanting around the world. She was not that kind of girl.
How could he ever have thought of retirement? He would not be happy sitting at home, day after day, through the years, with nothing to look forward to except death. He was a man who went places, who got the job done. The house was hers; the world was his.
Damn! Another tear in her dress. One of the seams on the side was beginning to split. At this rate, she would be naked by the time she got home.
It was very hard to sit still, but she had to do so, lest she put more pressure on the seams. Even so, she heard an occasional soft snap as a thread broke. She had a vision of giggling imps, invisibly pulling her beautiful gown apart stitch by stitch. The dress should not have been taken from its special room. No one but the mirror had ever before been allowed to see her wearing it; no one else would have understood.
The lights went down—the show was about to start. From her box seat, Mrs. Pickett saw the gilt angels (so much more interested than the one above her church door) twinkling in the stage lights. Were they just twinkling? Or were they dancing, beckoning to her?
They must be, she thought, for angels from Heaven were the only defense against the imps of the world.
She was dimly aware that the crowd below had begun to point and gawk as she climbed up, balanced on the railing that surrounded the box.
(She was the leading lady)
Her dress gave a final loud tear and fluttered down to the audience. Mrs. Pickett did not mind; she wouldn't be needing it anymore. The angels would clothe her in a sparkling white gown, with all the feathers and sequins she wanted, and the world would not be allowed to touch it.
She took another step toward them.
Psycotic break?
At least.