Private Screening Read Free Page A

that.”
    â€œI don’t believe that. And I don’t believe you do.”
    â€œI’m afraid I do, though. Six months ago, I came to see you in Washington. People who waited for hours to hear you sing wouldn’t cross the street to vote for me or anyone.”
    â€œIt’s because they can feel things without being used.”
    â€œStacy, it’s because there are two Americas now, and the one you reach doesn’t respond to words or ideas, but to sound and pictures—film, TV, video games, music. I don’t like this, but I’m not responsible for them—you are.” His face was keen with challenge. “I wonder if it’s enough to let them make you famous because you’re a beautiful woman who can sing.”
    She tilted her head. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty, skip it. I’ve worked too hard.”
    â€œThen you’ve achieved something,” he answered crisply, “for yourself. But if people like you don’t ask their fans to commit to the world they live in, we’ll end up with a generation so passive and easily manipulated that the next Hitler could stage the Holocaust as a miniseries.”
    She gave him a comic look of skepticism. “You’re running to keep Hitler off of MTV?”
    â€œI’m running for things you’ve said you care about—like women’s rights, for openers.” Shrugging, he finished in a throwaway tone. “And because I can’t imagine being dead unless I’m president first.”
    Suddenly, she wanted to communicate with him, not just fence. “Does needing it that much ever scare you?”
    For an instant he looked so vulnerable that Stacy knew she’d caught him by surprise. “Does it you?” he asked.
    â€œIt sets you apart,” she answered softly, “to try and do what other people can’t. It doesn’t help that you never quite know why they want to be with you.”
    As Kilcannon glanced down, she noticed his lashes were unusually long. “Stacy, I’m not asking you to sing, all right?”
    â€œThen what do you want?”
    â€œSomething more, I think.” Looking up again, he asked quietly, “Are you free?”
    There was no missing it. After a time, she said, “I can be.”
    As they left, Stacy realized they made a striking couple.
    Later, as he held her in the dark, she wondered why it had happened. “Stacy?” he murmured.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI really did like your concert.”
    Stacy laughed aloud. “So you are going to ask me to sing.”
    â€œNot after this.” His voice softened. “What I want now, is to see you.”
    For two years he had done that, in fragments stolen from his race for president or jammed between her tours. For weeks he’d be a face on her television; then they would be lovers on the Baja. They’d rented a house there. Mornings they would swim, or run the beach. In the afternoon, hiding from the savage brightness, they would make love. He read poetry to her, Yeats and Dylan Thomas. Sometimes Stacy sang new songs she’d written as he listened, thoughtful. Her reasons for performing seemed to fascinate him—as if, perhaps, he saw himself reflected. Besides Damone, he was the man with whom she talked most easily.
    â€œHow is it for you?” Jamie asked her. “Onstage.”
    They were sitting at a white wooden table overlooking the ocean; their bottle of Chardonnay was half empty.
    â€œIt’s getting harder,” she said finally. “They expect so much now.”
    â€œYou never use drugs?”
    â€œIt’s safer to depend on myself.” Stacy shrugged. “Sometimes, before a show, I don’t feel too great.”
    Jamie gazed out at the ocean. “Do you know why you keep doing it?”
    Stacy wondered how to explain this. “When I write a song,” she said, “it’s still not finished. It’s