In the living room, Mr. Zukor was saying, “But sometimes the image actually is separate from the person. In fact, Mr. Golod, I’d say always.” Now, that was odd; the hairs on Rebecca’s neck stood up. “Take Chaplin, for instance….”

When they’d lived in Beaumont, there had been that day when Chaplin was seen everywhere. What if that happened all the time? What if people’s images were suddenly all over the planet, thousands at a time, and this had been going on for years? Maybe there were times a person was projected when there was no projector, and people we met on the street were just these strange modern ibburim invested with living souls, and that’s why the movies were so compelling; it was part of our collective memory. Maybe that was why acting was so attractive: you got the chance to be everywhere at once, and you could pretend to be many different people, the way nature intended. No one would have known about these ibburim until now, because now certain people were famous. If, for instance, she, Rebecca, was everywhere, and there were thousands of Rebeccas in cities and villages and in the ocean and on mountaintops, who would know? No one except her, and only if she ran into herself.

She had never found what she loved. Not yet. The boys at the studio and at the socials sponsored by the synagogue tended to fall to pieces when she spoke. She was still waiting. For now, she wanted to be useful. She wanted to help those in need. If she could be a saint, she would be a saint, but that was problematic.

The air above the stove started to bend and sway. Vapor hit her hand, leaving it satisfyingly moist. She heard the sound of a dry piece of toast breaking against its will into small pieces. That was Zukor laughing. Her father was reeling him in. She closed her eyes and waited for the whistle on the kettle to go. It was starting to sigh.

Maybe she really was everywhere. Maybe many small things that were wrong were being set right by her. Maybe she was what the world was reaching out for now. For her to play parts wherever she was needed. Any moment now, the kettle. Here it comes.

51

The next morning, Leland approached the docks with his dogs on leashes, and a set of explanations, in case he needed them. But those rehearsals died in his throat; he was the last person in a line that made him dizzy. Before him was a mass of blue wool coats and ankle-length skirts, women milling around, uncomfortably hot in the sun, fanning themselves with their departure papers. Leland didn’t even need to count to know there were 233 women standing ahead of him. He was shipping home with the Hello Girls.