The Caryatids

"I made the right choice," he said artlessly. "See, that dead costume killed Grandma , right? It smothered her. I wanted to pull my knife and slice it off of her. But I didn't. I waited for her power to reboot."

"That was smart. You were thinking like a grown-up. Your brother will be proud."

"The system crashed-but only for a little while," Lionel said. "As soon as her underwear came back on, that got her breathing. We can't panic and wreck the system. Because we are the system." He nodded, pleased with his insight. "It takes three trained staffers to tuck her into that costume. So I'm sure glad I didn't improvise."

"When we get back home safe, I'll improvise you a nice roast-beef sandwich."

"Are you sure that I did the right thing tonight, Mila? I mean...Grandma was dead."

"You did just fine, Lionel. You're a wizard, you're a true star." Radmila propped her flip-flopped feet on the greenly blinking dashboard. "I sure wish John was home tonight. John would mix me a drink. Nobody mixes a nice Greenhouse Tequila like he can."

Lionel pulled something large and ugly from a Velcro slot on his chest.

"So what's that thing?" Radmila said.

"Hey, this is my cool street blade, sister!"

"Let me see it?"

He handed it over, hilt-first.

The knife's awkward handle was wrapped in length after length of multicolored electrical wire. Lionel's homemade knife was made entirely from junked computer parts. A dozen big silicon chips-all black and heat-discolored-had been set into a melted plastic handle. Those chips were like a jagged row of shark's teeth.

"This stage prop sure is weird," Radmila said. "It smells awful! Why does it stink so much?"

"Yeah, that's the blood they put on it!" said Lionel. "When you make a prison shiv, you get, like, every guy in your prison gang to drip some blood on your blade! That screws up the DNA evidence."

"California doesn't have any 'prison gangs.' California doesn't even have prisons."

"Yeah, so this is, like, a modern electronic-parole prison shiv!"

Radmila held the makeshift weapon with one thumb and two fingers. It was more than merely strange and awkward: it looked insane.

The more she looked at this desperate, far-fetched contrivance, the worse it made her feel. It was not a stage prop at all. Some stranger somewhere had put a fanatical, psychopathic effort into making this strange parody of a knife. Its very crudeness was scary. It radiated a determined, lethal, sacramental feeling. Evil was pouring off of it, like the peppery dust from a shattered mass of concrete.

Radmila looked into the guileless young eyes of her brother-in-law. "Can I keep this knife for you?"

"Keep it? What, keep it where? Are you gonna tuck it into your bra?"

She wasn't wearing a bra. "Well, you shouldn't carry a thing like this."

"You can keep my knife if you want it," Lionel said, putting a brave face on his wounded feelings. "You're the one who gave that to me."

"I never gave you this thing. This thing is not my style."

Now Lionel was was upset. "But you did! You came onto my action set and gave that to me. It was all wrapped up in pink butcher paper."

"Where would I get a prop like this? I haven't done an action role in ages! I hate violent action roles. I do ingenue roles and supportive-girlfriend."

"Okay," Lionel said, blinking, "Fine, I get it. That's all right." He tucked the knife back into the slash in his suit. "See! It's all gone! End of story, roll credits."

His face had paled with her unmeant insult. There was some profound misunderstanding going on here.

Radmila knew that it had to be her own fault somehow. Because it was always her own fault. In nine years of knowing them, in becoming one of them: Every time she'd ever put a foot wrong with the Montgomery-Montalbans, it had been her own fault.

She was always outthinking and outfeeling the Family-Firm. She was always failing to grasp how simple and clear they were.

The Montgomery-Montalbans were California aristocrats. They were rich and powerful and secretive and very civilized. Being aristocrats, they were naturally slightly stupid, and in their utter devotion to their Family values, there was something sunny, airheaded, starry-eyed, and cosmically lucid about them.

That was their charm. They had a lot of charm. Charm was their stock-in-trade.

It was unthinkable that sweet Lionel, who doted on her, would ever lie to her. So, maybe she really had brought him the ugly knife. That was remotely possible. She often carried packages for Lionel whenever he was on his sets. Just as she would faithfully bring snacks and toys to her own daughter, whenever Mary was on. To show up with a gesture of support, to be there physically, breathing the same air, eating lunch on set-that was a steadying, reassuring Family thing. Family stars did that for each other all the time. Just to show that-no matter how weird things might get in Los Angeles-you had someone who understood and cared about you.