The Talking Dead
A Diana Poole Short Story
Published in Ellery Queen Magazine, June 2003

“And last but not least I would like to thank my father who loved his booze more than me. But when he was half-sober and feeling melancholy, he would take me out in the backyard at night and teach me to talk to the moon. Thanks, Dad.” Tears filling his eyes, Brendan Kincaid raised his Golden Globe in the air and bowed to the audience, the TV cameras, and the world. I adjusted my pearls and black silk suit jacket and forced an appropriate smile. Even for an actor, Brendan Kincaid cried too easily.

As the ballroom filled with applause I peered around the glittering centerpiece on the table and nodded at Alison, Brendan’s wife. Kneeling in front of her like a suitor about to propose marriage was a man in a tuxedo, balancing a camera on his shoulder, capturing her tired but triumphant expression.

“Oh, Diana, Brendan is so sensitive,” the young –- some say too young -– actress who played Brendan’s TV wife gushed into my ear.
I am one of those who say she is too young. But that’s because I tried out for the role of Brendan’s wife and didn’t get it. I wasn’t age- appropriate, meaning I was too old, meaning I was Brendan’s age.

“I love how he talks about his life. Don’t you?” She beamed. I nodded politely even though I didn’t agree. Brendan talked about his life as if no one else had one.

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