Alone Again

For "Hearts Afire. February 2025." 
Prompt #3, Alone Again.
Words: 1111

Dorie didn't know why she stared at the advertisement for so long. She had never been interested in theatre, never acted in a play, unless you counted the one in Kindergarten 55 years ago, when she had been the Buzzy Queen Bee and had got her wings stuck in the stage door and run on stage with crooked wings, crying for Mamma. Fifty-five years later, she could smile at the memory.

But now that Harold was gone, she was alone again.

Her kids and grandkids visited often and called often, but that wasn't the same as having someone there to talk to, to pop some corn with, to share a pretty sunset ...

Maybe it was because the face of the actor in the advertisement reminded her of her children's Dad, her grandkids' granddad. A fine father and an even finer grandpa he had been. But best of all, he'd been a loving husband. "You're always first in my heart," he'd say to her, when he made pineapple cake because she liked it though the young ones preferred chocolate. In a thousand little ways and big ways he had shown her that she came first in his heart. It had been difficult to let him go, to disconnect the life-support when the doctors said there was no hope, but she knew she'd done the right thing. "Don't let me be a vegetable," he'd pleaded. "Let me go, if I'm of no use."

Six months of complete emptiness, and then Harold. Harold had been her late husband's physiotherapist and had come over home often enough to be called a friend. He'd stay for tea and cookies when the grueling physio sessions were done. "You're giving cookies to the man who gave me so much pain?" Alan would mutter, his eyes twinkling. There. She had thought of him by name. Alan. The tears blurred her eyes and she finally shut the newspaper and put it aside.

Harold said he had always loved her, but had waited six months because it had been indecent, he felt, to make a 'move' before that. He had made his 'move' and begun to live with her. They'd been happy. At least, she thought they'd been happy.

Then one day she'd woken up to find him gone, his clothes gone from the closet, his hat and shoes gone ... and a note. "Dorie, you are looking for Alan to come back, and I'm not him. I'm sorry, but this is the only way."

So she'd been alone again and was trying to get used to it.

She reached for the newspaper. What the heck, she'd call the number. Calling a number couldn't hurt.

"Hello? I saw your newspaper advertisement. No, I've never acted before. That's right. No, no, dear, I'm much more than that. I'm sixty years old. Well, you did say any age ..."

They gave her a lot of attention at the audition. It was crowded, but they made sure she had a chair and a cup of tea while she waited her turn. People told her they were 'inspired' that she, at her age, was auditioning for a play, acting for the first time in her life. She always added 'Not To Bee' in her head when someone said that. The Bee play didn't count as acting.

She found herself trembling when her name was called and she went on stage. A mic was pinned to her collar and she was given a script.

"Oh dear," she said. "I didn't bring my reading glasses."

"Never mind," came a voice from somewhere. "I'll cue you and you just give me whatever response you think of, with a lot of expression. Leave the script aside."

She wasn't sure whether that made her feel better or worse, but she was here, the spotlight was on her, and the voice said:

"Do you have a pet?"

"Ah, Alan was a cat-person, he was, we always had a kitty. The last one was called Crookshanks, after Hermione's cat in Harry Potter, you know, my grandson named him."

"Tell us about Crookshanks."

"Well, Crookshanks had a very odd mew. Sometimes we thought he was trying bird imitations, you know, Meeeew, Meeew, Mew, Mew, Mew."

"Very nice. The grandson who named him, how old is he?"

"Ah, Tom is six now and a lovely boy he is. He always says to me when he calls, he says, 'Grandma, you're the grandest ma anyone could have. You should be the queen.' He's a good boy he is. His sister Jane is a good child, too, though she doesn't talk as much as he does."

"Thank you. Just so we have it on tape, please state your name and phone number."

Dorie did so. Someone disconnected the collar mic and she got off the stage and went back to her seat, to be presented with another cup of tea and a sandwich.

She found herself waiting by the phone after that. The rules said don't-call-us-we'll-call-you, and the suspense was agonizing. She hadn't known she wanted to act this badly!

On the third day, the phone did ring. She was next to it, but she answered it at the third ring.

"Hello, hello?"

"Er - that is to say - I mean - is that Dorie?"

Who was this? Someone from the theatre company wouldn't um and ah like that. Should she hang up? Was it some tele-marketing thing?

"Dorie?" said the voice again. Was the voice familiar?

"Y - Ye - yes," she mumbled.

"Dorie, it's George."

"George?"

"I was the drone bee when you were the queen bee. If you remember, I held your wing when you went off stage so it wouldn't drop right off you."

George!

"But - then -" she stuttered.

"Yes, Dorie. Yes. That wasn't the only time ... you were my date for many a party in high school."

"But - you moved - where are you? How did you find me?"

"It's a funny story. My nephew was auditioning for a play, and I've told him a lot of stories about us and about you. He took down your phone number because he thought you were the same lady that I'd talked about. How have you been? How is Alan? How're the kids and grandkids?"

"George -"

"What is it, Dorie?"

"George -"

"Dorie?"

"George, Alan is gone."

"What's your address? I'm coming right over."

The newspaper hadn't been thrown out yet. She searched for it on the pile and opened it to the correct page. She stared at the photo. No, she decided, it wasn't George in the photo, it was still someone who looked like Alan.

But whoever he was, he had caused the drone bee to find his queen.