Chapter 12: Succor

I wouldn’t say my Gibraltar presentation rehearsals were a disaster. Until I saw the video that Cora had shot. Then I would say it — my Gibraltar presentation rehearsals were a disaster.

Ms. Sloane seemed non nonplussed. But then she usually did. “Some room for an upgrade, Birdie. But, plenty of time. It’s not until Tuesday.”

“The Sisters?”

“Agree there’s an opportunity for refinement.”

Gulp.

“Now, what are you to focus on?”

“Naked people.”

“What!”

“It’s The McGovern elixir for the nerves. Imagine the audience is naked.”

Ms. Sloane seemed trying not to smile.

“Froggy said to imagine they’re sitting on toilets.”

“That’s a lot of toilets.”

“Well, Trish nixed that one anyway.”

“Good. Now think back — what are you to focus on?”

“Oh. Right. They’ll only be looking at me for a moment. As soon as I say ‘Hello,’ you kill the lights and the Keynote begins.”

“Very good, Birdie. You won’t have time to be nervous. Once the first slide goes up on the screen, everyone will be looking at that.”

Ms. Sloane may be the Brains of the Outfit, but I quickly induced her strategy. She had shortened and shortened the presentation. More photos, graphics, less words.

My sainted mother chipped in, “You’re good-looking, Birdie Brewster, a real crowd pleaser. They’ll like you on sight.”

Auntie Pru said, “Check your zipper.”

Ms. Sloan nodded, “On my list.”

Monday night, the eve of the G-Day presentation. I realize, looking back with 20-20 foresight, that the Sisters and Ms. Sloane and Trish had planned the dinner to take my mind off the impending Annihilation.

It was some sort of seafood chowder, but I wasn’t tasting it. I appreciated the effort though; Wandy thought it was a capitol idea to eat more fish. I couldn’t actually feel the old brain cells doing the cha-cha-cha, but I imagine they were doing the cha-cha-cha.

Trish and her mother, Megan, the Sisters, Wandy, Ms. Sloane, were all chattering merely away. Just as if the firing squad wasn’t polishing up their bullets.

Over desert, lemon pie, Megan smiled at her daughter, “Spending the night here?”

“Of course, succor and comfort.”

Megan winked at the Sisters, “Can’t blame her. Not after seeing Birdie in that streetcar.”

Such was the depths of my despair, the old computer didn’t immediately log on to the comment. Then I realized why my ears were burning, my cheeks aflame, my forehead moist.

Trish nudged me with her elbow, “Sorry Birdie. It was too delicious not to share. You’re so box-officey.”

There is share and there is share. Trish’s roommates ... okay. Maybe okay. But her mother? Not pukka, definitely not.

Auntie Pru was not helpful, “It is in the public domaine, Birdie.”

My mother, equally not h., “What did you think, Megan?”

“I hear wedding bells.”

One-two. Left jab, right hook.