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Silence. The high voice lowered to almost a whisper. “Damn.”
Three sets of locks rattled.
“Nobody knows that about California. Nobody.”
The door opened a few inches.
“Okay, give,” the voice said.
A hand like a great plump starfish thrust out.
“Put it there!”
I put my hand in hers.
“Turn it over.”
I turned it, palm up.
Her hand seized it.
“Calmness.”
Her hand massaged mine; her thumb circumnavigated the lines on my palm.
“Can’t be,” she whispered.
More quiet motions as she thumbed the pads under my fingers.
“Is,” she sighed.
And then, “You remember being born!”
“How did you know that?”
“You must be the seventh son of a seventh son!”
“No,” I said, “just me, no brothers.”
“My God.” Her hand jumped in mine. “You’re going to live forever!”
“No one does.”
“You will. Not your body. But what you do. What do you do?”
“I thought my life was in your hands.”
She let out a breathless laugh.
“Jesus. An actor? No. Shakespeare’s bastard son.”
“He had no sons.”
“Melville, then. Herman Melville’s by-blow.”
“Wish it were true.”
“Is.”
