Peachy Scream

by Anna Gerard

  “I promise, the revision is for opening night only. And thank you. You have the undying gratitude of our entire troupe for allowing this homage to a talented actor. Your professional generosity will not be forgotten … right, Nina?”

  “Right!” I declared through my final bite of PPB&J sandwich.

  Mrs. O’Malley’s pale cheeks had gone faintly pink at Harry’s praise. However, she swiftly recovered herself with a tsk and a brusque “If that is all, Mr. Westcott, I must be off to contact my troupe concerning this wardrobe change. I hope they will be able to accommodate.”

  She stuck the pages in her binder and stalked off, flowers on her sunhat quivering in disapproval. Harry called after her, “Mrs. O’Malley, your notes for me?”

  The woman paused without looking back and reached into her binder. Pulling out a sheet of paper, she crumpled it in one hand and then dramatically tossed it over her shoulder as she resumed her exit walk.

  Harry glanced my way and winked.

  “All right, now that’s settled, let’s see what kind of magic our tech crew can do with this,” he declared, and pulled a thumb drive from his shirt pocket.

  Fortunately, the lighting technician—a tattooed, long-haired blond guy who looked like an ex-roadie—was up for the challenge.

  “Nope, don’t even want to know,” he said, waving off Harry as the actor began a convoluted explanation as to why the changes. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”

  This session was a bit more extensive, perhaps an hour long, and included practice with my props. But with both me and Harry onstage standing in for the various players, we finally had the brief scene blocked out with the new backdrops and lighting.

  “We owe you,” Harry told him as the man—Matt, I’d learned was his name—finished writing up the new cues. “If you need a favor while you’re here …?”

  “Nah, it’s all part of the job,” Matt replied with a shrug. Then, as we left the control booth and headed back to the festival, he called after us, “Maybe send me over one of those grilled peach and peanut butter sandwiches I’ve been hearing about?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “All right, people, we’re here,” Harry announced unnecessarily as the Wild Hare bus rolled into our designated spot at the festival grounds. “It is exactly five PM. Since everyone is already in makeup, all you need to do is get costumed and double-check your personal props.”

  The drive over had taken far less time than getting the bus out of my driveway, as we’d had to reverse the maneuvering that had gotten the vehicle parked in the first place. Fortunately, Harry had taken my suggestion that we retrieve the bus earlier in the afternoon rather than waiting until the last minute. With Mattie assisting by riding shotgun, and me standing in the driveway pointing right and left, we’d finally managed to get the beast out past the gate and on the street until it was time for us to head to the festival.

  “A little free advertising for my tour company,” Harry had observed in satisfaction, since I now had a virtual billboard parked in front of my house. The fact that it effectively blocked my discreet metal sign on the fence that proclaimed Fleet House Bed and Breakfast apparently hadn’t occurred to him.

  Since things would be hectic on opening night—particularly if our mousetrap ended up sprung!—I’d left Mattie to watch the house for the evening. She’d hear all about it from me in the morning.

  Now, just as with an arriving plane rolling to the gate, we were already up and moving before Harry put the bus into park. While we gathered our costumes and props, he gestured to the small air-conditioning unit that was mounted in one of the bus’s windows.

  “I’ll plug in the AC so we can use the tour bus as a greenroom, as our outdoor stage isn’t equipped with anything other than fans. Feel free to relax here before the performance and enjoy the cold air. Once the curtain rises, you’ll be stuck in the wings or backstage.”

  He paused and made shooing motions. “What’s everyone waiting for? Go get dressed. And don’t forget that we have a meeting onstage with Mrs. O’Malley at exactly six to receive a few final technical notes.”

  While the rest of the troupe headed out the bus’s bifold doors, and Harry left to find the electrical outlet, I hung back a moment. I hadn’t been inside the small beast of a bus since Harry’s last stay in town, so I was curious to see what he might have done with the vehicle since then.

  It was mostly unchanged, except that any personal belongings were stored in suitcases or trunks strapped onto overhead racks or stowed beneath the seats, giving it a much more open feel than before. In fact, the bus looked more like an airport shuttle, with the original face-forward rows resituated so that they ran the length of the bus on either side. Certainly, the arrangement made the vehicle more convenient for tiny house living, though for Harry’s sake I hoped he was done with that.

  “Still here?” Harry asked as he climbed back inside and turned a couple of knobs on the air conditioner. The unit began blasting air that started out warm but quickly cooled. “You’re not changing your mind about our surprise performance, are you?’

  I smiled a bit nervously and shook my head. “Still on board. And when it’s over, I’ll be ready for those three little words that every woman loves to hear.”

  “You mean, You were right?”

  He flashed a grin, looking surprisingly boyish despite his gothic stage makeup, and then sobered. “But what if you aren’t?”

  “As you said before, we’ll just tell everyone it was a tribute to Len. And then I’ll drop the subject forever. I Secret Squirrel promise.”

  While I was busy swiping hand over heart and zipping lips, Harry had begun drawing the curtains on the bus windows. I hurried to help, and once he’d pulled shut the fabric divider behind the driver’s seat, the vehicle had become a cozy and private room. With a few of those batik throws draped over the seats, I told myself, it actually wouldn’t be a half-bad place to hang out. Maybe Mattie could have come, after all.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” I told him, and retrieved my garment bag containing my costume. “Fingers crossed this all works out.”

  “Fingers crossed you hit all your marks, you mean. Your box of props is hidden behind a couple of small flats in the stage-left wing. That’s where you’ll make your entrance for that scene. You’ve got that black cloak I gave you, right?”

  I nodded and indicated the garment bag. “Safe in here.”

  “Good. Stow it with the box so you can swap your costuming there in the wings just before you go on. Anyone says anything, tell them it’s been cleared with me and Mrs. O’Malley.”

  “Got it,” I replied. With any luck, the rest of the cast would have the same opening-night jitters I was beginning to feel, so they wouldn’t even notice anything out of the ordinary.

  Moving from bus to stage involved a good fifteen-degree temperature change, but fortunately the stage’s high canvas roof let in a bit of breeze along with the oscillating fans. The audience would be fine too, as the sun was now low enough in the sky that, between canvas and rigging, any direct rays were pretty well blocked.

  All the privacy fencing that had kept the stage a relative secret these past days was gone now, though the main curtain was drawn until showtime. I mounted the short series of steps near the rear of the stage and cut through the stage-right wing, heading for the dressing room. I passed Chris in the crossover. The youth had already changed into costume and so merely gave me the quickest nod before heading, I presumed, back to our makeshift greenroom.

  I hadn’t seen anything in Chris’s expression since that overheard phone conversation that indicated any suspicion of me. Still, I had to remind myself that all of these people were actors and, thus, practiced at pretending. With luck, this whole situation concerning Len would be resolved by the time the curtain rang down on our opening night. But in the meantime I was keeping my guard up.

  Not that I had much chance to worry. Once I had located the box where Harry had left
it and draped my black cloak over it, I headed for the dressing room. Inside, there was a sudden flurry of action, with the three of us women hurrying to change into our costumes and seeming to bump into each other at every turn.

  As my wardrobe was the simplest, I hurriedly dressed and then helped Tessa with her more elaborate gown. Susie was seated before one of the mirrors muttering over her garland of posies, which had managed to tangle itself since the previous day.

  “Stupid flowers,” she said to no one in particular. “And you know, I really hate that speech I have to make about rosemary being for remembrance, and pansies, and fennel. I mean, what woman wants pansies? Len always brought me roses … big old red ones, and not the kind you buy at the grocery store.”

  Tessa and I exchanged glances. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I actually rather liked pansies myself. But before I could, Susie looked at both of us via the mirror and asked, “Do you think Len will be watching us tonight from somewhere?”

  You bet … or, at least, his stand-in will.

  Of course, I didn’t say that either. And while I was pretty sure there was a somewhere from which folks who’d passed on could watch us, I felt a bit uncomfortable getting into a discussion about that likelihood.

  Fortunately, Tessa was willing to wax philosophical on the matter, and so replied, “Of course, my dear.”

  “Good. Because I want him to see that I’m doing okay.”

  Once costumed, we all made it back to the bus just long enough to cool down for a bit before it was time to meet with Mrs. O’Malley. The stage manager was minus her earlier sunhat now but still wearing her seersucker suit, though she’d exchanged the heels for a pair of practical running shoes. Her high school troupe—three of them with actual roles, and the rest background players to fill the stage—was gathered around her while she gave them final instructions.

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Fleet,” she called as she spotted me. “Over here, if you don’t mind.”

  I obediently “here’d,” and she introduced me to the three students who would be part of the Mousetrap play with me. They were all wearing long cloaks, but I caught a glimpse of modern street clothes underneath, which hopefully meant they had managed to re-create the wardrobe we’d requested.

  “You have your notes,” she told the players, “and we’ve already rehearsed these changes. You will have seen from the script that Mr. Westcott, as Hamlet, will be narrating events in the pantomime as they unfold, while Ms. Fleet will serve as the leader of Hamlet’s players. So follow their lead, and if it goes badly it is on their heads.”

  The three nodded and cast glances at me as Mrs. O’Malley headed over to meet with the GASPers.

  “I played Annie in summer stock,” the female of the trio told me. “And Dorothy in a revival of The Wiz last winter. What have you been in?”

  Obviously, I wasn’t going to get any respect from these kids—or, at least, from Annie—if I didn’t have a decent acting resume. And so, thinking quickly, I leaned a little closer and confided, “I played the title role in an all-female version of Hamilton in Atlanta a few months ago. And before that, I played Nala in a country-western version of The Lion King.”

  Her eyes momentarily widened, then narrowed in suspicion. Before she could call me out on my fabrications, I brightly told the three, “Sorry, gotta go join the rest of my troupe.”

  We spent a few minutes with Mrs. O’Malley listening to her notes, which were mostly technical and having to do with pacing. At Harry’s previous request, she did not mention the change to Gonzago to the rest of the troupe.

  Their characters are supposed to be confused and put off balance by the pantomime and Hamlet’s commentary, he had told her. So their reactions will be quite appropriate to the scene. And as soon as Claudius exits, we’ll pick right back up with the script.

  Afterward, we deposited our valuables, including cell phones (turned off, not just set to vibrate) into an oversized lockbox that the stage manager would stand guard over for the duration of the performance. Then we were dismissed back to our greenroom, where we remained until our call ten minutes before the curtain was to rise

  “Get moving, folks,” Marvin urged at the knock on the bus door. “It’s showtime.”

  “Break a leg, everyone,” Bill added. “And remember, there are no small parts—”

  “—only small actors,” the rest of the troupe chorused with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I smothered a smile. Given their reaction, I guessed that Bill habitually pulled out the old Stanislavski quote as a pep talk prior to every performance.

  “It’s standing room only,” Mrs. O’Malley whispered as I joined my fellow act 1, scene 1 players in one wing while the rest of the cast gathered at the opposite. “Let us look sharp, ladies and gentlemen. The curtain will be rising shortly.”

  And so it did, a few minutes later to great applause. As the stage manager had indicated, the bleachers were packed, and numerous people had gathered on the grass in front of the stage. Assuming everyone attending kicked in the suggested donation, it looked like the festival fund was off to a healthy start.

  That was, as long as no one demanded a refund once they saw Harry’s slightly modified version of the play.

  From the opening scene, Harry was again the star of the show. Not that the other players didn’t get their fair share of appreciation. Maybe it was the outdoor venue—or perhaps the abundance of grog and mead available for sale—but the audience behaved much as an Elizabethan audience might have, applauding every soliloquy and cheering each act. By the time the scene with the traveling players being taken aside by Hamlet arrived, everyone was well invested in the outcome.

  Harry and I most of all.

  While I had managed to contain the worst of my stage fright during the first couple of acts, knowing what was to come brought it back with a vengeance. As the second scene of act 3 commenced, I watched the projected backdrop switch to that of the castle’s inner hall. The entire troupe entered from both wings, forming a semicircles at either side of the stage: Bill and Tessa—King Claudius and Queen Gertrude—seated side by side on their thrones, along with Radney and Chris on one side, and Susie, Marvin, and Harry on the other. The high school drama students who were the extras scattered themselves behind the main cast, serving as other ladies and courtiers to add a bit of living background.

  I was the only member of the main cast still waiting in the wing. By now, I’d exchanged my cloak for the hooded black robe Harry had given me. I’d tied it tightly about my padded waist so that I was enveloped inside it and, hopefully, unrecognizable with the hood drawn up. Clutching my props, I watched the onstage action and waited for my cue.

  Harry, as Hamlet, rushed onto the stage from the side steps, his movements erratic, as by this point in the play he had descended into madness—or, at least, pretended to do so. And so his eyes were staring widely, his hair and costume disheveled.

  “The entertainment begins,” he exclaimed to his court. “The play is called The Murder of Gonzago. But if my lords and ladies will indulge me, I shall present a version of this famous drama far different than you may have seen before. First, I beg you, we must have music!”

  At that, the costumed Renaissance quartet that I’d seen playing around the festival grounds earlier in the day made an entrance up the same short set of steps located downstage. They settled there, stage left, and began softly playing their instruments.

  I saw Bill and Tess exchange quick puzzled glances at this obvious deviation from script. They’d soon find out that for this particular performance, the “play” portion of Gonzago had been cut, leaving only the pantomime—which also cut Queen Gertrude’s line about ladies protesting too much.

  Harry, meanwhile, dramatically pointed to his stage relatives. “Wait, not a word from you, my dear uncle king. Nor from you, Madam, my mother queen.”

  Swinging around with pointed finger, he encompassed the rest of the cast with his gesture. “Nor the rest of the court. Be silent, all, and wa
tch in wonder. As I said, this play is well-named The Murder of Gonzago … but I prefer to call it The Death of A Man of Business.”

  The backdrop behind the cast abruptly changed to one that Harry had selected, a quite ordinary dining room. I heard a murmur from the audience. Then, with Mrs. O’Malley’s cue, the first of the student players took the stage.

  The murmur became faint laughter, for the young man had a modern and distinctly hipster vibe about him. He was dressed in tight black jeans and an oversized black-checked flannel shirt. A knit cap was pulled low on his ears, and black-framed glasses perched on his nose. Even Chris couldn’t fail to notice the resemblance, I told myself.

  “See this callow youth, how he pays no mind to what is around him,” Harry narrated as the young actor slouched his way to center stage, gaze ostentatiously fixed upon a cell phone. “An arrow could go flying past, and he would not notice. But let us see another.”

  At that, the second drama student made his entrance, his appearance drawing more chuckles. He was taller than his classmate by a good head, and dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt.

  Len’s personal uniform, I thought with a nod. The Len character made his way to where the other player waited, continually glanced about him with a self-important air, his phone held to his ear.

  Harry rushed to center stage. “This”—he pointed at the taller of the pair—“is our man of business. As the name implies, the man is busyness personified. Even at his leisure, he is quite like a bee.”

  Harry spun around, hands tucked in his armpits to simulate wings, and drawing outright laughter from the audience. As for the troupe, they had begun to break character just a bit, glancing from Harry to each other, as if not sure whether to play along with him or intervene in what was seemingly a play going off the rails.

  Then Harry rushed downstage, only to stop and turn again. “Both of these fair gentlemen, unalike as they are, soon find themselves in a most interesting predicament together. Behold, the toast!”

  Which was my cue. Drawing my hood down lower and pulling the cloak closer, I slunk my way onstage toward where the two mime players stood playing with their phones. My back to the audience, I raised both arms high, displaying an empty champagne bottle in one hand, and an oversized saucer-style champagne glass in the other. Then I turned so that I was at right angles to the audience and dramatically pantomimed pouring from bottle to glass.