Refund by Karen E. Bender Page B

if she had begun to disappear.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?” she asked Darlene. She lurched toward her. “What?”
    â€œHold on,” said Darlene, looking at the salesgirl. “I’ll be right back.” She backed up and began to hurry down the hallway.
    â€œWhere is she going?” asked Ginger. She stepped toward the door. She went into the hallway and began to follow her.
    A N ELDERLY COUPLE FLOATED TOWARD HER . T HE WOMAN WORE A white brimmed sunhat, and the man had a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “Thief,” Ginger whispered. She passed the maid clutching armfuls of crumpled sheets. “Thief,” she said. The maid turned around. Ginger began to walk onto the deck, the sunlight brilliant and cold on her arms. She staggered through the crowd in their pale sweat suits. “Thief!” she yelled. She believed one side of her was becoming heavy. She heard her voice, flat and loud; she heard the jingle of ice cubes in people’s drinks. “My money!” she yelled. Her voice was guttural, unrecognizable to her. “Give me my money!”
    The girl was running up to her.
    â€œThief,” Ginger yelled.
    The girl blinked. “What?” she asked.
    â€œThief,” said Ginger. She wanted to say the word over and over. Ginger’s face was warm; she was exhilarated by the act of accusation. She had forgotten the girl’s name. It had simply disappeared. Her knees buckled. The girl grabbed her arm.
    â€œCall a doctor!” the girl yelled. “Quick!”
    The ocean was moving by very quickly, and Ginger stared, unblinking, at the bright water until she was unsure whether she was on the deck looking at the water or in the water looking up at the light.
    The girl’s firm grip made her feel calmer. Ginger placed her own hand on hers. Ginger did not know who this friend was, did not know who had loved her and whom she had loved. She leaned toward the glaring blue world, the water and ice and sky, and she felt a part of it.
    â€œYou’re not who you say you are,” murmured the girl. “I don’t believe you. You’re not a swindler. You’re a nice old lady. It was all a joke, wasn’t it . . .”
    Ginger breathed more slowly and clutched the girl’s arm. She saw everything in that moment: the trees on the shore giving up their leaves to the aqua sky, the ocean shimmering into white cloud, and the passengers’ breath becoming rain. She felt the vibrations of the ship’s motor in her throat. Through the clear, chill water, the ship moved north.

Anything for Money
    E ach Monday at eleven o’clock, Lenny Weiss performed his favorite duty as executive producer of his hit game show, Anything for Money : he selected the contestants for that week’s show. He walked briskly across the stage set, the studio lights so white and glaring as to make the stage resemble the surface of the moon. In his silk navy suit, the man appeared to be a lone figure on the set, for his staff knew not to speak to him or even look at him. He had become the king of syndicated game shows for his skill in finding the people who would do anything for money, people that viewers would both envy and despise.
    The assistants were in the holding room with the prospective contestants, telling them the rules: No one was allowed to touch Mr. Weiss. Mr. Weiss required a five-foot perimeter around his person. No one was allowed to call him by his first name. No one was to be drinking Pepsi, as the taste offended Mr. Weiss. Gold jewelry reminded him of his former wife, so anyone wearing such jewelry was advised to take it off.
    He stood by the door for a moment before he walked in, imagining how the losers would walk, dazed, to their cars, looking up at the arid sky. They would try to figure out what they had done wrong. They would look at their hands and wonder.
    Then he walked in, and they screamed.
    He loved to hear them scream. They