The End of the World: Stories of the Apocalypse by Martin H Greenberg & Robert Silverberg

Author:Martin H Greenberg & Robert Silverberg [Greenberg, Martin H & Silverberg, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781602399679
Amazon: 1602399670
Barnesnoble: 1602399670
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2010-07-08T04:00:00+00:00

The half-day trip to New York left the troupe with playtime before the first concert, but Maggie stayed in seclusion, drinking. There was talk about her use of drugs, and this alarmed Wolf, for they were all users of drugs themselves.

There was also gossip about the reunion. Some held that Maggie had dazzled her former friends—who had not treated her well in her younger years—had been glamorous and gracious. The pre dominant view, however, was that she had been soundly snubbed, that she was still a freak and an oddity in the eyes of her former contemporaries. That she had left the reunion alone.

Rumors flew about the liaison between Wolf and Cynthia too. The fact that she avoided him only fed the speculation.

Despite everything, the New York City concerts were a roaring success. All four shows were sold out as soon as tickets went on sale. Scalpers made small fortunes that week, and for the first time the concerts were allowed to run into the evening. Power was di verted from a section of the city to allow for the lighting and am plification. And Maggie sang as she had never sung before. Her voice roused the audiences to a frenzy, and her blues were enough to break a hermit’s heart.

They left for Hartford on the tenth, Maggie sequestered in her compartment in the last car. Crew members lounged about idly. Some strummed guitars, never quite breaking into a recognizable tune. Others talked quietly. Hawk flipped tarot cards into a heap, one at a time.

“Hey, this place is fucking dead!” Maggie was suddenly in the car, her expression an odd combination of defiance and guilt. “Let’s party! Hey? Let’s hear some music.” She fell into Hawk’s lap and nibbled on an ear.

“Welcome back, Maggie,” somebody said.

“Janis!” she shouted happily. “The lady’s name is Janis!”

Like a rusty machine starting up, the party came to life. Music jelled. Voices became animated. Bottles of alcohol appeared and were passed around. And for the remainder of the two days that the tram spent making wide, looping detours to avoid the dangerous stretches of Connecticut and New York, the party never died.

There were tense undertones to the party, however, a desperate quality in Maggie’s gaiety. For the first time, Wolf began to feel trapped, to count the days that separated him from Boston and the end of the tour.

The dressing room for the first Hartford concert was cramped, small, badly lit—like every other dressing room they’d encoun tered. “Get your ass over here, Sin,” Maggie yelled. “You’ve gotta make me up so I look strung out, like Janis did.”

Cynthia held Maggie’s chin, twisted it to the left, to the right. “Maggie, you don’t need makeup to look strung out.”

“Goddammit, yes I do. Let’s get it on. Come on, come on—I’m a star, I shouldn’t have to put up with this shit.”

Cynthia hesitated, then began dabbing at Maggie’s face, lightly accentuating the lines, the bags under her eyes.

Maggie studied the mirror. “Now that’s grim,” she said. “That’s really grotesque.

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