"Tempting Fate"

He'd meant to wait until Thursday dinner, whatever his mother said. He doubted he was going to die of exposure in a week's time; autumn didn't set in that abruptly, and the less time Riggin spent in that house, the better he felt. But he'd been passing and figured he might as well get it over with. It wasn't as if he planned to stay long no matter how much his mother tried to delay him.

"Philip!" Phyllis put her hands on his shoulders to study him, then hugged him effusively. Dutifully, he kissed her cheek.

"It's only been three days, Mama."

"I worry about you in that dreadful place. Now come and eat." His mother drew him toward kitchen.

Riggin hung back. "I don't have time. I have to get back to work."

His mother sniffed and gave him a reproachful look. "You'd rather return to that - that-" Overcome at the very thought, she leaned a hand on the wall faintly, resting the other on her breast. "-instead of a meal with your family?"

Philip rolled his eyes inwardly. "I'll be back on Thursday. You know I love you, Mama. You don't want me to be a bum and walk out on my job, do you? Don't worry, I'll try not to get myself arrested tonight."

"You joke about it!" she reproached, eyes filling. "I don't know what I did wrong!"

He managed not to grit his teeth. "Nothing wrong, Mama. I'm just a lost cause."

"It's your welfare I worry about!" She sniffed and crossed to the closet. "Take the coat, then. Keep yourself warm. All those evil influences . . . you haven't started drinking, have you?" She heaved a sigh. "Of course, you have. Remember, you can always come back home. That door will always be open." It was locked after midnight against delinquent servants, but he didn't remind her of that. "You're shirt is torn. Who does your mending for you?" She shook her head. "No, I don't want to know. Philip, I tried to bring you up to be such a good boy . . ."

He wanted to scream. "You did a fine job, Mama."

"Phyllis," said an icy voice. Riggin stiffened immediately as his mother dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and looked over his shoulder in teary defiance. "What is this man doing here? I remember saying quite clearly that this house is closed to beggars."

He turned at that, reddening angrily. "Sir."

"Anderson . . ."

Anderson Ellis Riggin folded his newspaper over his arm, not once acknowledging his son. "You know better than to let the riff-raff into the house."

"I came to visit my mother," Philip said tightly.

"Anderson . . ."

Anderson set his paper on the table beside the door and put an arm around his wife, smiling fondly at her. "You have too big a heart, dear." Riggin turned to look at them. "I know how you grieve over our son's death, but you musn't let people take advantage of your kindness."

He froze, staring at the two of them. "Good evening, father," he stressed the word.

"Excuse me?" Anderson turned, brown eyes blank. The eyes were the only things that didn't give him the disturbing impression that he was staring into a mirror.

"Anderson . . ."

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave my home. You're disturbing my wife."

"Father," he said again. He didn't have to be here. He didn't want to be here. Why didn't he just leave? What purpose was served in staying?

"Phyllis, go upstairs."

"Phyllis." Composing himself, he repeated, "Go upstairs."

She went.

"Again, you'll have to leave my house. My wife and I lost our son several months ago and she's quite emotionally fragile. If you continue to prey on her feelings in this way, I'll have to take legal action."

"They'd laugh at you!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

"My wife is a gentle woman," Anderson continued without seeming to have heard. "I can remove you from the premises by force if necessary. I wouldn 't do so in her presence. You will not be able to play on my emotions so easily. My son is dead. The papers were signed seven months ago and are on file in the city courthouse. He is not an-" A hint of emotion entered his voice. "-ungrateful wastrel who disgraces his family by spending his days and nights in sordid recreation in some den of iniquity and returns, a tramp at the back door to beg money when his pockets are empty."

Riggin clenched his fists in fury. How could he possibly - "You will leave my house-" Anderson noted the movement "-or I will call the police and charge you with assault."

Ten seconds of furious silence passed. "Good-bye," he managed to spit finally.

The words spilling through Riggin's mind when he reached the Rose that night were worthy of Curse at his very best. He escaped dealing with anyone who might notice his mood and comment on it by heading for the catwalk as soon as he arrived. The lights had slid out of place again. He ought to tighten the hinges, but he’d have to go down to the tool shop and risk meeting people.

He sighed, and called down a warning, but if he’d timed it right there would be no one to hear him. "Clear!"

Judith jumped, then smiled. "’Lo, Riggin."

Just what he’d hoped to avoid. Conversation. He summoned a smile. "Busy?"

She looked at him, concerned. "Why? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing!" he protested hurriedly. "Small talk." The last thing he wanted was to get into a discussion of his day.

"Oh." Judith looked slightly skeptical, but at least she didn’t pursue it. "How’ve you been today?"

Intentionally that is.

"Not much." Riggin grimaced. "Picked up some stuff from home."

To his relief, she changed the subject. "Mother says you and Ragtime are ‘fine young men’ and ‘why don’t I invite them over for dinner more often?’" she smiled.

He grinned. "Well, of course she does!"

Judith laughed. "To which part?"

"She’s clearly an excellent judge of character," he replied, grinning. Briefly he wished his own mother had such a high opinion of him. He stopped a scowl from forming at the thought. Frustrating as she was, his mother hadn’t been the one to throw him out.

She laughed again. "Something like that. I guess you’d both better consider that an open invitation for Sunday dinner."

"It’s an honor." He bowed elaborately.

"Always the perfect gentleman, aren’t you?" she teased.

"Naturally!" He wished –

Never mind.

Small talk, small talk . . .

"Awfully quiet, aren’t you?" He hadn’t noticed Anastasia join them. Had he been that self-absorbed? "So this is what peons do for fun." The actress turned to leave.

Judy rolled her eyes.

Riggin released a mental groan. He straightened up. "Good evening, Miss Bradshaw . . ." On a wicked impulse, he tilted his head to look at her, knowing he was going to regret this later. "Do you mind me calling you Anastasia in public? I love to say it."

Anastasia turned back around, giving him an odd look, that quickly turned haughty. "It would be improper."

Judith smiled sweetly. Oh, no, why was she getting herself into this? He was going to be slapped at best. "But it’s not a nickname . . ."

"But it’s so hard for me to proper around you." He’d been told once to do art a favor and stay off the stage, but for a non-actor, he did a passable imitation of love-sickness.

Anastasia narrowed her eyes at both of them, then her expression changed. "Fine, you may call me Anastasia."

Riggin’s eyebrows almost shot up. He hadn’t expected such a pleasant reaction. To be perfectly honest, the evening had left him wanting someone to irritate and ‘Stacy’ was always easy to irritate. Usually, that is. "Thank you." He kissed her hand. If that didn’t fase her, he was going to be in trouble of a different kind.

"You’re quite welcome."

It figured, really. It just figured. When everything else went wrong . . . But somehow, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. "Can I help you with anything tonight, Anastasia?"

It was a nice name, really.

Anastasia looked at him speculatively. "Yes, I could use some help cleaning my dressing room."

"It would be an honor," he said grandly.

"Thank you," she replied, oblivious to well-hidden sarcasm. He felt vaguely bad about making fun of her, but heck, the way she treated the rest of the Rose . . .

Most of the time.

He remind himself that cleaning the dressing room was an honor. However – unusual – she was acting, she was still the same Stacy Curse had nicknamed, the same one he’d teased with a dinner invitation because the townhouse on Agate Court was the last place she’d associate with a dirty ‘peasant’ from the Rose’s stagecrew.

"If you want to talk, Riggin," Judy called, trying to hide her amusement, "I'll be back in costumes."

He smiled distractedly at her and followed Stacy to the dressing room.

The chore of cleaning ‘Miss Bradshaw’s’ dressing room, did a bit to reminded bring Riggin back down to earth. It was amazing. He was certain the dress hanging over a screen dated back to The Merry Wives of Windsor, which the Rose had been showing when he first started working.

It wasn’t the only one. Another hour found him outside the costume shop, trying to make his way through the door despite a heap of clothing higher than his head. "Any of these look familiar?"

Judy came over to inspect them. "Yes. We’ve been wondering where these two were, and this one . . . and this one." She shook her head, taking the costumes one by one and hanging them around the shop. "How was it?"

"I was expecting her to slap me," he admitted. "Learned my lesson." Hadn’t he?

"Yes," she replied. "That was rather . . odd . . ."

Riggin grinned wryly. "If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think she was beginning to like me." He laughed.

"It would be a first," Judith replied with half a smile, "her liking someone other than herself."

He held the back of his hand to his forehead, doing his best impression of Martin’s Romeo moping over Missy’s Rosalind. "And I’m left to pine away!"

"Somehow that’s not something I picture you ever doing," she laughed.

"You doubt my affection?!"

"I never said I did," she replied, taking one of the costumes laying by and beginning repairs. "I just said I never pictured you pining away for love."

He dropped the wounded air and grinned. "Me neither. Sounds – painful."

Judith laughed. "I agree."

Riggin stayed. He didn’t feel like returning to the apartment just not. Even if Ragtime didn’t note his mood, he’d want to talk and – well.

She looked up and nodded to a chair. "Have a seat." Continuing with millenary ministrations that were completely foreign to him, she remarked, "You and Ragtime are Michael’s new favorite heroes."

Michael was the brother they’d met at dinner on Sunday. He sat, grinning "Well, naturally!"

"Heaven help us all, he wants to be just like you!" she laughed.

"And have his parents disown him?" It slipped out before he realized it. He tried to laugh it off, but the attempt fell flat. He sighed, still trying for a weak grin as Judy set down her sewing.

"They disowned you? Why?"

"Seven months ago," he replied lightly. There was no reason to dwell on ancient history, but he preferred it to the more recent past. "When I started here." He turned his grin on full force. "I’m an ‘ungrateful wastrel’ and a ‘disgrace to the family,’" he quoted.

Judy didn’t laugh. "You are not."

"Well, I know that." He tried the grin again.

She still didn’t seem amused. "Why would they think such a horrible thing as that?"

He kept the grin, failure that it seemed to be, and raised an eyebrow. "Theaters are dens of iniquity, you know. My mother just thinks I'm going to wind up in prison."

"How would they know if theaters are dens of iniquity or not?" she sniffed. "Have they ever spent time in one?"

Riggin explained the Agate Court mentality. "At the opera occasionally. It’s all right to attend a show, but you know what the people who work there are like." He rolled his eyes.

"Oh." She rolled her eyes as well. "Yes. We’re all murderers, thieves, and ‘ladies of the night.’"

"Exactly. And," the bitterness he’d tried so hard to keep out of his voice crept in, "‘Anderson Ellis Riggin’ couldn't possibly have a son who works in such a place." He gritted his teeth.

She frowned. "Well, you’ve got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was." He grinned weakly, only partially understanding, and Judith continued indignantly, "Whether or not he approves, you’ve got to be your own person. You’re not your father, after all."

"God forbid!" He laughed.

"Is he that bad?" Judy asked sympathetically.

"Just-" He thought of the house on Agate Court, of his mother’s stylish, but conservative dresses, of starched uniforms on the servants, and of the dinners before he left home, friends and entertainment always suited to a thriving businessman’s stature. "-pleased with himself."

"And not with a son who’s good at what he does?" she asked gently.

Riggin shrugged. "He wouldn’t know. He threw me out of the house in February."

"Oh, I'm so sorry . . ." She didn’t leave him time to tense before hugging him.

He shrugged again, still more uncomfortable. "I’ve had months to get over it."

She saw through that. "Are you?"

"Sure," he lied even less convincingly.

She sat on the floor by his chair, after moving a pair of sewing shears. "It doesn’t seem that way to me," she replied, still more quietly.

He protested. "I’m-" He sighed, finally conceding. "Saw him today." Judy nodded. He shrugged again and managed a full grin – more a grimace really. "I wanted to hit him." Wanted? Still do.

"Oh. Why?" She wrapped her arms around her knees.

Riggin shrugged yet again. "I should get home." By now, Ragtime should be asleep and there would be no need to talk about his day.

She touched his hand lightly. "Things get better, eventually. It takes time, but they do."

"Thanks," he mumbled, feeling still more uncomfortable.

She nodded.

He stood up before noticing her distracted expression. He didn’t know what to say anyway.

Judy looked up at his sudden movement. "Oh . . . good night . . . ."

"Good night." He looked at her. "Ah . ."

"Hmm?" She blinked.

Are you all right? He couldn’t figure out how to say it. Finally, he gave up. "Good night."

She smiled a bit and nodded. "G’night, Philip."