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THE GIRL WITH COPPER COLORED HAIR
By BARBARA M. DICKINSON

            James Becker was late. His mother would say he was “falling down late, from his tardy start this Thursday morning to the interns’ meeting at 11 to the ward meeting at 4….until now.” He had been running all day. It was 10 ‘til 8. The concert flyer read “8 p.m. No admittance after 8.”
            James dodged between the cars creeping past Museum Hall and dashed passed fellow ticket holders hurrying up the steps. Where had his afternoon gone? His morning, for that matter. He had grabbed a sandwich in the hospital cafeteria but that took half a second. When did I eat last? Not to worry, here he was at the door of the Hall.
            “Ticket, sir?” asked a grim-faced usher.
            “Yeah, somewhere…” James fumbled in his pocket. Ah ha! Success! “Here we are,” he said, smiling, as he handed the crumpled ticket to the usher.
            “You best hurry, young man,” warned Mr. Grim-faced. “Your seat is in top tier, left balcony. One of the interior ushers will assist you.”
            James nodded and moved swiftly inside. Interior usher? Geez! This is hardly the Metropolitan Opera! Then he joined the dwindling crowd of jostling concert goers who, like himself, hurried to find their seats before the lights dimmed. It seemed the acclaimed chorus from the University had packed the house.
            A pleasant young woman thrust a program into his hand and pointed to the staircase to take him to the balcony. Man, that’s a contrast to the guy at the door. He was met at the balcony level by yet another smile. Why don’t they station these people out front to greet the general public? She directed James to his seat.
            Ahh! Aisle. How could I be so lucky? Nosebleed heaven, but at least I can get out quickly if I have to run.
            James settled into his seat, resting his program on his bony knees. Endowed with preternaturally long legs, and finding him in a seat with little room between the rows in front of his, the program was nearly in his face. For the first time he noticed that he had not changed his shirt. Green scrubs under a tweed blazer. Well, he had changed his trousers. Didn’t look exactly like the poor intern he was. Catching his breath James glanced around him. Couples were whispering softly, fanning themselves with programs, turning to people behind them, glancing at the evening’s offering.
            Must be university kids, James thought. Only ones strong enough to climb this far up. Few singles, that’s college for you. Everybody’s got a somebody. Oh, God isn’t that what mother always harps about?
            Whew. Just sitting feels good right now.
            The lights dimmed, paused, and then dimmed further. Eight o’clock.
            The heavy curtains on the stage parted slowly, revealing three sets of bleachers, four rows high, poised in a semi-circle. Not a huge chorus, James thought. Maybe 75?
Should have looked at my program.
            The group was dressed somberly in creamy white with maroon vestments that reached to the hemline. They stood still as soldiers in regimental formation.
            James sat back in his seat, relaxing a bit, and sighing at the luxury of once more hearing Handel’s “Messiah” sung by a professional group. Or nearly professional. The critics had raved over this chorus’ operatic talents. This might be the only touch of Christmas I’ll get this year. I’ll soak this up for the next two weeks solitary confinement.
            As James peered at the group, his eyes focused on one particular individual in the back row of the center riser. Not so much on the individual as on a halo of color that surrounded the head. Under the stage lights it shone as bright as a new penny. Fairly gleamed as a matter of fact. He was fascinated.
            James leaned forward in his seat, straining to see what, or who, belonged to this copper colored halo. From his distant seat, the face was a blur; only the hair glowed, a living force vibrating on the stage.
            God! Am I the only one here that sees that?
            The couple next to him had binoculars. They were dormant on the man’s knee as the couple strained together to read the program.
            “Pardon me, but I notice you aren’t using your binoculars right now and….”
            “Sure thing. Help yourself.”
            James eagerly accepted the binoculars. Adjusting the distance lens to his eyes he searched the top row for Copper. There!
            Oh, God! She’s a she! And fantastic! Green eyes? Am I really seeing this? James greedily trained his eyes and gazed until, guiltily, he passed the glasses back to his seat mate.
            “Thanks. I mean, really, thanks.”
            “Sure thing. Nudge me if you need them again. A relative down there?”
            “No, no one I know. Just interested.”
            The familiar opening strains of Handel’s masterpiece floated out over the auditorium, famed for its acoustics. Once more James settled back in his seat and closed his eyes. The accompanying orchestra was a fine one. Reassured that it was not going to overpower the singing, James concentrated on the girl with the copper colored hair. She is singing just for me, he fantasized.
            He had opened his eyes to drink in one more glance of his fantasy woman when he heard a loud POP. Obviously his seatmate heard it also, for he leaned forward with a
“What the devil?”
            And then the unthinkable horror unfolded in a slow motion tableau before their eyes. The entire center bleacher crumpled, with the sides folding in upon themselves, sending bodies tumbling to the floor amidst shafts of steel supports.
            “Oh my God!” cried James, leaping to his feet. “I’ve got to help; I’m a doctor.”
            He raced to the exit and ran down, down, down the stairs in the direction of the stage and the girl with the copper colored hair.
                                                                       
            To be continued…..

Barbara Dickinson is a Roanoke-based novelist and freelance writer.

Comments or questions? E-mail to comments@primeliving.net.