They first met in Israel, pursued there by The Greek Furies for their crimes. Amanda, so stunningly dark, the vibrant actress, shielding old prejudices behind her Roman faith; and Michael, the wealthy scholar, the marksman, the disreputable drunk who had gone to the Dead Sea as the lowest place on earth to sober. Both had only a toe-hold on life, always just that footfall from death. They courted there, then married in Italy, traveled much before returning home, keeping their secrets intact. Why tell your husband of your troubled past? Would he even listen? To then have to tell you the madness of his own? So the Wednesday arrangement began: three days away in the city, to locations not known to each other. Amanda to care for her demented step-mother while Michael hid out in a flop-house, in denial of his wealth. Forced separation would do them both well. But a stranger calls on Michael, worried about Amanda, who is now heavily pregnant. For the theatrical truth will always out The stranger thought that Michael would be able to sort it. Drunk and enraged after what he hears, Michael takes up arms, and all those concerned, to go off and bury the dead.
