Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  “I’m already on my way outside,” he says. “What’s your problem?”

  “You can’t say the name of that play in a theater! Don’t you know that? It’s horrible luck!”

  “Lady, all the luck in the world isn’t going to save this bomb. Now let go of my arm.”

  “No! You have to eradicate the curse!”

  I’ve never seen Trixie more insistent. By this point she’s drawn a crowd, thanks to the teeming hordes who are attempting to exit the theater before Dream Angel shudders to a close.

  “Here’s what you have to do,” Trixie says to the man.

  He glowers at her. “Nobody tells me what to do.”

  That draws jeers from the multitude.

  “Please!” Trixie cries, “it’s easy,” and she launches into quite the sequence of moves, to the obvious enjoyment of everyone watching. She spins three times; she spits; she swears; and then she knocks on the theater door asking to be let back in.

  “Fuhgeddaboudit!” the man yowls, and disappears into Manhattan’s chilly night along with his three compatriots.

  “Don’t feel bad, lady,” another departing theatergoer tells Trixie. “You put on the best show I saw all night.” Then he and his gal pal flee as well.

  I look after them with envy. Fabulous New York City is pulsing all around me, but all I get to see is the inside of this godforsaken theater.

  “What now?” Trixie’s face is ashen. “That’s the last thing we needed. That man pretty much spat on the biggest Broadway superstition ever.”

  “You ask me, that spinning and spitting routine is nutty,” Shanelle opines.

  “Superstitions exist for a reason,” Trixie insists. “If it’s really true that the first actor who ever played, you know, the M word, died after his performance, that play is cursed. Its name should never be mentioned in a theater.”

  “What are people supposed to call it then?” Shanelle asks.

  I’m starting to answer “the Scottish play” when my voice catches in my throat. I swear I stop breathing. Everything fades into the background as I stare at a well-dressed man walking across the theater lobby, a handsome man with dark hair and olive-toned skin and a certain something in his profile—

  “That man kind of looks like Mario,” Trixie murmurs.

  That’s the M word I’m not supposed to say. Or even think. I’m not having much success with that New Year’s resolution, I can tell you.

  “It’s not Mario, though,” Shanelle points out.

  I clear my throat. “No, of course not. He has no reason to be in New York.” Because Mario doesn’t follow me around anymore. Not that he ever really followed me around, but you know what I mean. All that’s stopped. There’s no more of that.

  The tabloids prove that he’s doing exactly what I told him to do. He’s getting on with his life. I told him that’s what he had to do the last time I saw him, in Minnesota a month ago. And you can’t get mad at a man on that rare occasion when he actually does what you tell him to do, now can you?

  No, you cannot. Not even when it feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest and stomped on by evil women wearing extremely high stilettos. And especially when you have no business being upset because you have your own husband and he’s a pretty great guy.

  Fortunately, my BFFs don’t bring up any of the tabloid news. They can tell I’m flustered enough. Trixie rubs my arm. “We’d better get back in there.”

  I manage to smile and even crack a lame joke. “We shouldn’t have any trouble finding places to sit.”

  Truer words were never spoken. We plant our butts in abandoned seats in the third row right off the center aisle. Moments later the orchestra launches into an abbreviated version of the overture, presumably to get everybody back in the mood for Dream Angel. That’s a tall order. I know what I’m in the mood for: an adult beverage.

  At long last the musical wends its tortuous way to the closing scene, when our heroine finally wins the pageant title she’s always dreamed of. You’d think this would tug at my heartstrings—after all, it parallels my own life story—but the dialogue is so forced and the heroine’s final song so sappy that the only emotion I can summon is a raging desire for the curtains to fall.

  Singing all the way, the heroine begins the tricky ascent up the steep, glittering staircase atop which her gold and crimson throne awaits. From my left side, Trixie lays a hand on my leg. I know why. I’m sure that like me, she’s wondering if tonight, like every other preview night, Lisette will appear on stage at the tippy top of the staircase to scream about how much she detests the music in this final scene of “her” musical.

  “Oh my Lord!”—Trixie’s fingers clutch—“there she is again!”

  “Stop everything!” Lisette hollers, raising her arms wide like a mad preacher and stepping out in front of the throne.

  That turns out to be the last order Lisette Longley ever gives. All of a sudden she lurches forward, her eyes amazed behind her amber-colored eyeglasses, and does a header down the stage’s sky-high staircase—boom, boom, boom, boom—tumbling ass over applecart all the way down to the footlights, thumping every tread en route, head and body flailing like nobody’s business.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I guess I leap to my feet because the next thing I know I’m standing. That puts me in sharp contrast to Lisette, who’s an inert heap onstage.

  The orchestra stopped playing while Lisette did her bloodcurdling plunge so the only sounds in the theater are screams and shouts. No doubt I contributed a shriek or two myself. To my left I heard Trixie make a strangled cry and probably even Shanelle joined in.

  The lights come on. “Is there a doctor in the house?” a male voice from the stage roars. I guess not, because no one steps up. “Somebody call an ambulance!” the voice repeats, and I bet fifty people turn on their cell phones to make that call. I note nobody is heading for the exits. Unlike the preview, this is real drama, which not a soul wants to miss.

  The actors huddle around Lisette attempting to shield her from view. I see among them the dazed-looking heroine who somehow managed to step out of the way as Lisette did her barrel roll down the staircase.

  Shanelle’s fingers dig into my right arm. “Do you think—”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t see her moving,” Shanelle adds.

  Neither do I. I’m squinting hard, but I don’t see a single sign of life coming from Lisette. I state the obvious, as I often do in times of crisis. “That was one heck of a fall.”

  “My Lord, did you see how much her head was bleeding?” Trixie murmurs. “Should we go up there and help?”

  “I don’t know,” I say again, which goes to show what a nut job I am, because if this were a murder, God help me, I’d know exactly what to do. I’ve been down that ghoulish road a few times now. But show me a tragic accident and apparently I’m verklempt.

  “An ambulance is on its way!” a woman’s voice calls from the rear of the theater.

  “Thank you!” cry a few people onstage. It’s at that moment that I realize Oliver is not among the crew that’s created a protective circle around Lisette.

  “Where’s Oliver?” Shanelle asks. Sometimes it works that way with us, especially after we’ve been together a few days. I think something and she says it.

  “He’s probably too scared to face”—Trixie hesitates—“tragedy.”

  I have a different noun bouncing around in my brain, even more stark. It starts with a “d” and rhymes with breath. And while I remain silent, I agree with Trixie. Oliver’s absence does not sit well with me, either. So what if he’s not exactly Lisette’s biggest fan? She’s a colleague. After an event this calamitous, he should be by her side.

  Trixie chokes out a sob. I put an arm around her as Shanelle grabs her hand. “I can’t believe this!” Trixie whispers. “I thought we might get some bad luck from the M word but this is too much.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I feel so guilty.”

  “Why would yo
u feel guilty?” I say.

  “Because I didn’t make that man who said the M word eradicate the curse. As soon as I let him walk away, I knew I made a mistake.”

  “Don’t you go blaming yourself, girl,” Shanelle says.

  “Shanelle is right,” I say. “This has nothing to do with any so-called curse. Besides, if anybody’s cursing anybody, that would be me. I can’t go anywhere anymore without people dropping dead. It’s a wonder you two are still kicking.”

  “Lisette might still be alive,” Shanelle points out.

  I glance at the stage, upon which Lisette remains as immobile as a boulder. Yeah, and Dream Angel might win a Tony Award for Best Musical.

  “I can’t help it,” Trixie says. “I just feel so guilty.”

  I squeeze her shoulders. “What happened to Lisette was just a horrible accident.” But I get the funniest feeling as I say those words. My gut tightens in the weirdest way.

  “There’s nothing you could’ve done, Trix,” Shanelle says. “Sometimes it’s like that. You try and you try and—”

  Shanelle stops. I glance her way and am flabbergasted to see tears flooding her eyes. I launch into crying jags all the time, in private, in public, you name it. Trixie has her liquid moments as well; we just had an exhibition. But I have never once seen Shanelle cry. She is far and away the most stoic beauty queen among my acquaintance. Seeing Shanelle cry is truly shocking, like seeing Sister Frances from sixth grade hike her habit over her knees and break into a moonwalk. (True story.)

  Now my arm is going around Shanelle’s shoulders. Trixie grabs her hands. “What in the world is wrong, Shanelle?” I ask.

  Her teary eyes gaze at the theater’s rococo ceiling. Clearly she’s trying to control her emotions. “I can’t talk about it. I get too upset. I promise I’ll talk about it some other time.” She straightens her shoulders. “Anyway, what we should focus on is Lisette.”

  Of course she’s right, but now I’m imagining all kinds of disasters that might have befallen Shanelle. Marital woes. A serious health issue for her or her husband Lamar or her 8-year-old son Devon. A ruinous financial setback.

  We’re distracted by a commotion at the rear of the theater. Seconds later paramedics race up the central aisle rolling a gurney. I spy a few cops as well. The actors part to allow the medical experts to swarm Lisette. And now that the first responders have arrived, Oliver materializes on stage.

  “Can you believe that?” Shanelle mutters. “He’ll try to take control now.” She seems her sassy self again, her eyes dry and her demeanor calm.

  I can’t tear my gaze from the tableau on stage, where the paramedics have stopped moving with haste. A few sit back on their heels. One remains on one bent knee and shakes his head. Another hobbles to his feet and consults Oliver. In short order a cop joins them.

  The heroine spins away from her fellow actors, a wail escaping her throat. I can only imagine how freaked out she must be, seeing what happened to Lisette on that towering staircase. She’s the only one who ever had to navigate it. Immediately the other actors cluster around her, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. I watch as a paramedic lifts a sheet from the gurney and drapes it over Lisette’s body.

  Except for a few muffled cries, the theater is silent. Without words, we all understand. Lisette is gone. The paramedics couldn’t save her. Probably she was gone by the time they arrived.

  I close my eyes. Lisette was extremely hard to get along with, but she was an amazing life force and now it’s been extinguished. One heedless rage, one careless step, and her life is over. It’s almost too much to take in.

  Trixie rubs my back. “Are you okay, Happy?”

  It’s a moment before I can speak. And then all I can manage is a line straight from a Hallmark card. “We should appreciate every day.”

  “Amen to that, sister,” Shanelle murmurs.

  Oliver steps to the edge of the stage, some distance from Lisette and the paramedics. I see that he avoids Lisette’s eyeglasses, which are lying pathetic and broken on the boards, much like their poor owner herself. He clasps his hands behind him and bows his head. A beat later he looks out at the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in his high-pitched voice, “if I may have your attention.”

  Needless to say, he’s got it.

  “We have all witnessed a tragedy tonight,” he goes on. “I’m asking you from a social media point-of-view to please be discreet about what happened. We want our colleague’s family to hear this terrible news from the authorities and not some other way.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I hope Oliver isn’t making this request too late.

  “We’ll be releasing a statement. Thank you so much for attending our preview tonight and please include our colleague and her family in your prayers.” He steps back and nods solemnly a few times.

  The audience takes that as their cue to depart. A few people are callous enough to snap last-minute photos of the macabre scene on stage. As I watch everyone go, I’m uneasy. I wonder if anybody knows exactly who was in the theater tonight. Someday, just maybe, that information might prove useful.

  I know, I know. Indeed it does appear that Lisette’s demise is accidental rather than homicidal. Let’s just say that has not been established to my satisfaction.

  We three queens remain in our row. I’m imagining there will be some sort of wrap-up meeting for everyone in the production, including us. On normal preview nights we have “notes” meetings where Oliver says what he did and didn’t like. God knows we need something on this wildly abnormal preview night.

  “Why didn’t Oliver say Lisette’s name?” Trixie whispers as the last audience members shuffle away.

  “Maybe he thought people would be less likely to tweet,” Shanelle says, “if they don’t know her name.”

  That’s an excellent supposition. Lisette Longley might have conceived this musical—as the book writer, on some level it’s her baby more than anybody else’s—but that doesn’t mean the theatergoing public knows who she is.

  I’m thinking that’s sad. Given how devious my mind is, I’m also thinking that with the cops and paramedics fully occupied onstage, and most of the actors and techies massed there as well, this is a terrific opportunity to bop backstage to Lisette’s office to rifle through her satchel.

  I know that sounds horrible. But you have to give me points for being crafty.

  After all, I noticed Lisette had her satchel slung over her shoulder the first time she interrupted the production. However, it was not in evidence the second time. That tells me she left it in her office. And if I don’t examine it now, when will I? For sure the cops will spirit it away.

  I grab my own handbag, a black leather crossbody with a rose-gold chain, and attempt to sound offhand. “I’m going to pop backstage for a few minutes.”

  Trixie makes a move to follow me. “I’ll come with you.”

  “That’s okay, you stay here. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Shanelle narrows her eyes at me. “What you up to, girl?”

  I squeeze past Shanelle without answering. It’s one of those times when I don’t want to lie and I don’t want to tell the truth, either. I know Shanelle will disapprove of what I’m about to do and I can’t say I blame her. When my sleuthing cap goes on, my moral compass wavers just a tad.

  Backstage is a warren of narrow corridors that can trap the uninitiated like a rat. In this theater, the walls are a sickly yellow color and everything is old and careworn. Corkboards pegged with timesheets and schedules and workplace safety regulations cover most vertical surfaces. Mysterious equipment is everywhere, along with rolling wardrobe racks and discarded props that were useful once and might be again.

  The bottom line is that I totally love it. Magic happens here. If everything were shiny and bright, I wouldn’t be able to imagine Olivier and Hepburn and Burton and Bergman navigating these halls, memorizing lines between cocktails, cackling over reviews, conducting clandestine affairs, receiving bouquets
of congratulatory roses on opening night. Decades of theater history envelop you like a shawl, wrapping you in a mystique you want to cling to forever.

  The door to Lisette’s office, at the end of a corridor, is ajar. Light glows within. I push the door, see that the office is empty, and sidle inside. I was here once before, when Lisette pretended to consult Trixie, Shanelle and me about the pageant world. Quietly, I shut the door behind me and leave the desk lamp on.

  The lone window is closed—it is January, after all—but even still I hear a muted version of Manhattan’s incessant buzz: car horns, voices and laughter, heels clicking on pavement, a distant siren. This city positively throbs. And since this is the theater district, the night outside the grimy sash window is aglow with neon.

  Posters from musicals past adorn the walls of Lisette’s office: Spamalot, Hairspray, Rent, Phantom of the Opera. Not a flop among them, though failures would hardly be inspirational. The furniture is minimal: green corduroy sofa—upon which Lisette’s satchel sits—coat rack, softly purring mini fridge, desk. I edge closer to that last. It’s a mess of folders, playbills, binders, and spiral notebooks. I see nothing personal—no framed photos, for example—though off to one side atop an untidy pile perches a white mug half full of tea, its rim stained with lipstick. The mug is adorned with purple lettering that reads She Who Must Be Obeyed. I wonder if Lisette got that for herself or received it as a gift. If the latter, I hope it was all in good fun. In the middle of the desk squats a laptop, booted up. Gently I touch the mouse pad. Suddenly revealed is a page of reviews for a Chinese restaurant called Kung Fu, in Hell’s Kitchen.

  That stops me short. How mundane. How poignant. The woman who just left us for the Great Beyond wasn’t so much thinking great thoughts in her last hour as planning a late dim sum supper. Maybe that was her comfort food. Then again, if Lisette was focused on her stomach, at least she wasn’t seething. Sadly for her, that composure didn’t last. In the end she was irate enough to stalk backstage and mount that treacherous staircase. We all know what happened next.