The Heat of the Sun

a woman in a golden gown whinnied like a horse, tossing back her head. I could not see Trouble. The sun, sinking sharply, speared through the wide windows. The guests,
for the most part, were local business types, plump men in tuxedoes with their wives – none of them, I surmised, much interested in classical theatre.
    I consumed several Scotches in quick succession. The evening took on a mellow glow, and I went to the edge of the terrace. Deeply, I breathed the sea air and swivelled back to watch as Aunt
Toolie, lynx-thin, with her cigarette holder, mink stole, and trailing gown, luxuriated in the attentions of an elderly professorial type and several attractive youngish men in uniform. Our lady
director and Our classical scholar, I heard the professor call her. She had pinned up her hair, exposing the long curve of her neck; her makeup was light, and though her features were
awkward – the jaw too heavy, the nose too beaky – she looked beautiful. She turned, speaking enthusiastically to the youngish men, just as I became aware of Uncle Grover eyeing me with
concern. I smiled, as if to say there was nothing wrong.
    A spoon clinked the side of a glass, and Aunt Toolie declared it was time for the play. I made for a bathroom and pissed copiously. I doused my face with water. When I emerged, most of the
guests had disappeared down the steep steps towards the amphitheatre.
    Uncle Grover, in the rear, waited for me.
    ‘Bearing up, Woodley?’ He took my arm.
    ‘Oh, you know.’ Gesturing airily, I lost my footing; he steadied me and I wished he had not, but he was determined to be generous, patiently helping the drunkard, the cripple.
    ‘You know I’ve always been grateful to you,’ he said.
    ‘To me?’ I wondered what he was talking about.
    ‘Wasn’t it on some jape of yours that Tallulah turned up at that Jap’s penthouse that night? I’d never normally meet anybody like her. Do you think I’d have dared
go to Greenwich Village? You see, if it hadn’t been for you, I’d never have married Tallulah.’
    ‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘She’s quite a lady.’
    In the amphitheatre, GIs filled the upper tiers. They were noisy and drunk.
    ‘You’re sure the soldiers were a good idea?’ I said.
    ‘But that’s precisely the purpose of the theatre! Culture for the masses, Tallulah says.’
    In the front row, Trouble leaned forward and twisted his hands. Uneasily, I took my place beside him, while Uncle Grover went to check on Aunt Toolie. The sun, framed in the proskenion ,
had almost set; arc lights, attached to a generator, bathed the acting area in a lurid glow.
    I asked Trouble where he had been.
    ‘A walk. Along the cliffs.’ His face was tight.
    Aunt Toolie introduced the play with a speech that might have been a little too erudite, making much of developments in the drama between Aeschylus and Sophocles and quoting classical scholars.
I hoped she could not hear the sniggering from the tiers further up. At last, to scattered applause, she took her seat with a proud Uncle Grover, while a boy with rabbity teeth strummed chords on a
ukulele (a lyre being unavailable) and Real Estate Agent Antigone and Cleaning Lady Ismene emerged to declaim their lines.
    Soldiers wolf-whistled; some clapped for each speech.
    The play had proceeded only so far as the first chorus when I became aware of Trouble gripping my thigh. I looked down, startled. His fingers were white-knuckled, his nails digging sharply. The
thought came to me of a rubber band, stretching tighter and tighter, and terror thrummed inside me. I whispered urgently, ‘Trouble! What’s wrong?’
    Sweat stood out on his upper lip, and he gestured with a jerk of his head towards the upper tiers. ‘You know, don’t you?’
    ‘Know what?’ I turned to where he was looking. The audience, behind the arc lights, was deep in shadow.
    ‘The soldiers,’ he said. ‘They’ve come for me.’
    ‘What are you saying ?’ I said, too loudly.
    I had no thought for the actors, the words, the embarrassed local worthies, or the jostling, whistling soldiers; all I could see was Trouble, now twisting back towards darkness; now hunching
forward, head in hands. My pulse beat at my temples like a drum. I should have led him from the amphitheatre. I should have said he was sick. I should have known that, like a rubber band stretched
too far, he would snap.
    During the chanting of an antistrophe, he leaped up, turned to the audience, and