Viola in the Spotlight

by Adriana Trigiani

  Mom sits down next to me. She smooths the turquoise and white comforter over the edge of the bed. “I’m so happy we’re all home again.”

  “Did it seem like years to you?”

  “Decades. But you’ll understand that when you’re a mother. You want your baby near you always. No matter how old she grows. It’s just the way it is.”

  “You know what’s weird?”

  “That your dad thinks he’s a great cook?”

  We laugh.

  “It’s weird that I miss my roommates. I miss Marisol. Suzanne too. And even Romy—though she’s a jock and was always at practice. I didn’t think I’d miss them so much. Every night, we’d walk back from the dining hall together and talk through our days. No matter what, we all connected at the end of the day and talked about all the stuff that was going on and what papers were due and how our classes were going. It was like having sisters.”

  “I know you’ve missed out on that.” Mom gets the worry crease between her eyes.

  “But that’s what’s so funny. Once I got to boarding school, I had instant sisters. I was so anxious to leave Indiana I didn’t think about who I’d leave behind.”

  “Email them,” Mom suggests. “That’s why all those brilliant programmers invented all those gizmos. So people like you could have instant pen pals. When I was a girl, we mailed letters to France. It took weeks to get a reply.”

  Mom angles the fan in my window and turns it on low. Then, as she turns to go, she puts her arms around me and gives me a hug.

  Dad stands in the doorway. “Good night, Vi.”

  Mom gets up and gives Dad the corner of the bed. He sits.

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Those burgers were pretty awesome, don’t you think?”

  It never ceases to amaze me how insecure my father is when it comes to grilling. “The best,” I reassure him. Mom stands in the doorway and rolls her eyes.

  “I love my girl,” he says, and gives me a hug and a kiss.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  As Mom and Dad go to their room, I hear them whisper.

  I IM Marisol.

  Me: Home twelve hours, had a cookout—Andrew and Caitlin over, Grand got a dog.

  MC: You weren’t kidding, more stuff happens in Brooklyn than anywhere else!

  Me: No kidding.

  MC: I unpacked and went to Friendly’s with my family. It always smells like spilled milk at our Friendly’s, but the sundaes are delish.

  Me: I miss you guys.

  MC: I know! I can’t believe it. How is Andrew?

  Me: He got cute.

  MC: How cute?

  Me: Tall. Braces off.

  MC: Everybody here in Richmond is the same size they were a year ago.

  Me: Sorry.

  MC: Did Andrew say anything about Olivia?

  Me: It’s still over. There are no lasting effects except the haircut. He’s the same old Andrew. Sigh of relief.

  MC: Suzanne e’d that her dad is okay. Not great. Okay.

  Me: Is she worried?

  MC: She was low-key, but I can tell she’s worried. We had some laughs because Romy is still in love with Kevin. Romy has been emailing Suzanne nonstop, hoping for a news flash on Kevin. Suzanne told Romy that Kevin still has a girlfriend. But Romy doesn’t care. She’s determined. FYI: Kevin’s girlfriend is from Ireland.

  Me: Exotic.

  MC: I think I have a job at Target this summer.

  Me: Everybody’s getting jobs!

  MC: Need the money.

  Me: Who doesn’t?

  MC: LOL.

  I lie back in my bed and listen to the dull whirl of the fan. I lean over and pull the chain on my lamp, shaped like a sheep, which I left at home and didn’t take to Prefect because it seemed babyish last year. Funny, now it doesn’t seem babyish, it seems kitschy. I think my roommates would have liked it.

  I turn over in my bed. It’s strange to be alone in my room after a year in the quad. I never thought I would like sharing a room, but there was something nice about coming in after class and debriefing my day with my friends. I actually miss Marisol whispering every detail about our teachers, the classes, and the people in them. Sometimes I’d fall asleep before she finished, but she didn’t mind. Suzanne liked to study into the night, while Romy, who always had to get up early for field hockey practice, would go to sleep wearing a satin mask with eyes embroidered on it. If only we all lived in the same city. And if only, in the land of my sweetest dreams, that city could be New York.

  I follow Dad and Mr. Longfellow into our basement apartment. He doesn’t seem like a famous director, but more like every dad I know.

  Our furnished apartment for rent is downright spectacular.

  Mom and I cleaned the apartment, changed the linens, checked the silverware and dishes, and made sure all the appliances were working. We even changed out some of the furniture, bringing down a leather recliner easy chair and a pretty floor lamp. Mom thought it would be a selling point, to have a good reading chair for a theater director. Mom also bought some flowering potted plants, red geraniums and white nettle, placing them around to cheer the place up. English people are known for their gardens, so we went for it! It’s officially a cozy one-bedroom garden apartment with a kitchenette, perfect for someone who needs a short-term stay in the city.

  “Lovely,” Mr. Longfellow says in his British accent.

  “There’s a garden.” Dad shows Mr. Longfellow the way to the slate portico off the back bedroom. Dad hosed down the slate floor and moved small trees in terra-cotta urns to create a wall of privacy between the porch and our backyard. From this vantage point, all you see is green through the French doors from the bedroom. Nice. Mom moved the best of our garden furniture, a wrought-iron table and two deck chairs with white canvas cushions, to the portico. It almost looks like the terrace of a fancy hotel.

  “Ah, a garden.” Mr. Longfellow’s shoulders relax.

  “Our last tenant even read the paper out here in the winter.”

  “It’s peaceful,” Mr. Longfellow says. “I’m going to need a respite during rehearsals.”

  Mr. Longfellow is like any of Grand’s theater friends. He uses language as it sounds in books, not as it sounds in conversation. He is dramatic in a gentlemanly way, his eyebrows shoot up and down, and he has very deliberate facial expressions. He has a booming voice and fills a room when he enters it. It’s sort of a star-quality thing. When I used to ride the subway with Grand, we played a game called Star Quality. We would choose people on the train who we felt had cinematic potential. Here’s the list of things you must have to be a star, the SQ specifics:

  Large-size head

  Wet eyes (limpid for camera work; nearsighted people often have the best eyes for film work)

  Wide-set eyes. Eyes too close together are hard to film.

  Great beauty for a woman (full lips, small nose) or

  Obvious masculinity (square jaw, high forehead, hair!) with rough edges for a man

  Deliberate character features (unique nose, expressive mouth)

  When this person enters a room, subway car, or any enclosed place, if everyone looks up at the person simultaneously, that’s a sign of star quality. SQ is a mesmerizing presence that draws attention to itself just by existing. SQ is as obvious as it is rare. SQ cannot be manufactured; it has to exist in and wholly of itself.

  Les Longfellow looks like one of the guys in the painting of the Last Supper. He has a red beard and short hair. He’s taller than my dad but about the same age. “Do you have a roll-away bed for the bedroom?” he wants to know.

  “We do.”

  “I’ll need one.”

  “You can have as much company as you like,” my dad says. “Let me show you the basement where we do the laundry.”

  Mr. Longfellow follows Dad down to the basement. Mom peeks out the back door. “How’s it going?” she asks me.

  “He likes it. We have to get the roll-away out of the attic.”

  “No
problem.”

  Dad and Mr. Longfellow come up from the basement. They discuss good restaurants in Brooklyn. Mr. Longfellow likes Indian food. I’ll have to ask Caitlin for up-to-date recommendations. He also likes the occasional Italian farm-table fare (whatever that is).

  Dad extends his hand. “It’s all yours, Les. Welcome to Brooklyn.”

  “Thank you.” He turns to me. “How old are you, Viola?”

  “I’m fifteen.”

  “That’s exactly how old my son is. He’s going to spend the summer with me.”

  “Viola can show him all the sights.” Dad smiles and looks at me.

  “Sure,” I say. The last thing I want is to get stuck with some snobby British boy for the summer, but I’ll agree to anything so my parents get a good renter in here. Besides, he might be cute, and I can practice talking to a boy from a foreign country who will not be able to either glom on or dis me at school, depending on his reaction. Either way, I’m going to be nice to the Longfellows. This is my way of contributing to the family coffers without having to get an actual job. “I’ll even introduce him to my friends. We’ll find stuff to do.”

  “Wonderful,” Mr. Longfellow says.

  Dad gives Mr. Longfellow the keys to the apartment. “I’ll move in tomorrow,” he says.

  I IM Suzanne in Chicago.

  Me: Don’t tell me you have a summer job too.

  SS: I do. Dairy Queen.

  Me: Ugh.

  SS: I’ll be sick of Blizzards by the end of the summer, but right now, I’m having one a day for free.

  Me: Enjoy.

  SS: Ha.

  Me: Mom and Dad rented the basement apartment to a theater director. He has a son. He is exactly fifteen like us.

  SS: Psychic flash: potential new boyfriend for you.

  Me: I doubt it.

  SS: Your heart belongs to Andrew. I knew it!

  Me: You and Marisol should form a chat room to discuss Andrew and me. No, thankfully, he is over Olivia, which gives us time for our BEST FRIENDSHIP. I would never trade best friend for boyfriend. Ever.

  SS: OK. OK. I hear you. What’s the British guy’s name?

  Me: Maurice. But it’s pronounced Morris. When I met Mr. Longfellow, he called me VEE-OH-LA. I didn’t correct him because I don’t know how much of it is accent related. How’s your dad?

  SS: Some days better than others. He sends his love to you.

  Me: Love right back!

  SS: I wish you were here.

  Me: I wish YOU were HERE.

  I imagine Suzanne at the Dairy Queen. I remember how we loved going to the DQ in South Bend. Peppy Trish loved a dip cone, and she turned all the girls from the East on to them. You have to go way south like Virginia or way north like Vermont for a DQ. I hear there’s one in Queens, but that has not been verified.

  I wish there was a way to have my roommates from Prefect close, and still live here and keep my friends that I grew up with, all in conjunction, and simultaneously. I imagine there’s a world where that could happen, I just have to figure out how.

  THREE

  MRS. PULLAPILLY MAKES A KILLER TANDOORI CHICKEN. Slow cooked, rubbed with spices, and hot, hot, hot, it’s a perfect summer meal. Andrew and I will do anything to score a dinner invitation when Mrs. P fires up the clay pots. She also makes this very soft bread, which she throws on the grill, to serve with it. Vegetables are always delish at their house, as they are finely chopped and there’s a fresh dressing on them. No matter how many times I ask my mom to try to copy the dressing, it never comes out the way the Pullapillys make it.

  The dessert is always amazing. And at the end of the meal, Mr. Pullapilly roasts pineapple and serves it with some kind of vanilla yogurt. “To cool the taste buds,” he says.

  The Pullapillys live on the outskirts of Bay Ridge in a new Indian section, complete with stores that sell their spices and favorite foods. Their apartment is on the bottom floor of a new apartment building. They have a common garden with the other tenants, which is planted with all sorts of exotic flowers and greens (probably to remind them of the climate they come from). The apartment is decorated in deep green and white, with fabric tapestries on the walls. The living room furniture is low and comfortable. There’s a small gurgling tabletop fountain on a side table in the entry.

  “You know, Mrs. P, when I was marooned in boarding school, one of my dreams of home involved your tandoori chicken.”

  Mrs. P laughs. “Well, you and Andrew are my biggest fans. I assure you that my sisters and mother make a far better chicken than I do.”

  “Let’s hope I never taste theirs, because as far as I’m concerned, yours is the best.”

  “Dad made mint tea,” Caitlin says as she pours me a glass and then Andrew.

  “Did you miss my mint tea, too?” Mr. P wants to know.

  “I sure did.”

  “Did you get a job for the summer?” Mrs. P asks.

  “I’m working on it.” It seems no adult on the planet will rest until I get a summer job.

  “Dr. Balu went to a lot of trouble to give Caitlin a job.”

  “I’m very grateful, Mama.” She smiles.

  “How about you, Andrew?” Mr. P asks.

  “I’m going to camp,” he says, taking a sip of his tea.

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. P says as she serves us the delicious chicken from the clay pot. A mist of spices rises up from the pot, and my mouth waters.

  “I don’t really want to go.”

  “The fresh air will be good for you,” Mrs. P says.

  “That’s what I hear,” Andrew says agreeably.

  I take a taste of the chicken. It’s very lean, spicy hot, and so tender I can cut it with my fork. The bite is so delicious, I close my eyes to savor it.

  “I’m so happy to be home,” I say dreamily. “I missed the international cuisine of Brooklyn.”

  The Pullapillys laugh. “You’re so dramatic, Viola,” Caitlin says.

  “There are some things in life that are over the top, and this chicken is number one on the list!” I assure them. “The Basmati Palace in South Bend can’t compare, trust me.”

  “So your grandmother is in Arsenic and Old Lace? I enjoy revivals. I really liked Arms and the Man at the…” Mr. P looks at his wife.

  “The Classic Stage Company,” Mrs. P says.

  “My wife is not only my partner, she’s my memory.”

  “We go to so many plays, it’s hard to keep up,” Mrs. P explains.

  “And a lot of musical concerts,” Caitlin says.

  “That’s how you fell in love with music,” Mr. P says.

  “It helped,” Caitlin admits.

  “Devica is a lovely flautist,” Mr. P says proudly, gesturing to Caitlin’s younger sister.

  “Do you play an instrument?” I ask Abel, who is ten.

  “I play the piano,” he says.

  “You guys should have your own orchestra,” Andrew says.

  “Someday,” Mr. Pullapilly says. He spoons some cool chopped salad onto my plate; there are cucumbers and tomatoes with a yogurt dressing.

  “It’s so nice to have you both home,” Mrs. Pullapilly says.

  Mr. Pullapilly isn’t kidding about a band. This is a family of overachievers. They don’t just learn an instrument for fun, they aim for Carnegie Hall. Caitlin doesn’t read one book by an author, but all of them. The science projects that come out of this house are something to see. Caitlin didn’t show up with a barometer made out of a milk carton (like me); she made a cotton gin, engine and all. The Pullapillys play hardball, and they play to win.

  The rehearsals for Arsenic and Old Lace are “chugging along,” Grand says, which is a totally old-fashioned way to describe it, as the play takes place in 1941, the era of the Super Chief and high-speed trans-American trains.

  My summer plans have yet to take shape, but I’m working on it. I’m putting together a virtual tour of Grand’s career, a kind of mini-documentary, gathering photographs and bits of film she appeared in and weavi
ng them into a story, which I plan to give her on opening night.

  Right now I’m working on Grand’s résumé picture from 1965. I listen to my voice-over:

  “Once actors get over the excitement of getting the part, they wrestle with how to play it. The director’s job is to stage the show, but also to bring out the best in each actor. Coral Cerise has worked with some of the greats: Michael Langham, Garland Wright, and now, Les Longfellow.”

  I click off the audio and begin adjusting Grand’s image on the screen. I start in tight close-up and pull back until her full face is revealed. In this shot, she looks a lot like Cleopatra might’ve looked, big black eyeliner and straight black hair. She definitely has star quality.

  There’s always a story behind any show Grand appears in. There’s always a cliffhanger to the whole thing, and this one is no different—like will or won’t Grand win the part, will or won’t she win the spot on the coveted bus-and-truck tour, and will or won’t the show itself run longer than five performances? Even Arsenic and Old Lace wasn’t a done deal until the moment the contracts were signed. Grand and George had already worked with one director, who cast them, and they liked her. She was replaced with Les Longfellow when the play went to Broadway. Usually, the director would recast, but Grand and George were very lucky. Mr. Longfellow liked them enough to keep them.

  Big whew.

  George plays the leading man, Mortimer Brewster, a drama critic. His family is nuts, including two spinster aunts who live in a house in Brooklyn and have taken to poisoning old men with wine that is laced with arsenic. Grand is playing Martha Brewster, one of the old aunts. George has a young love interest in the play, and Grand is not one bit jealous of her. Mom says that’s one of the things about Grand that makes her alluring. Grand has self-confidence.

  Dad and Mom are totally sucking up to Mr. Longfellow. Anything he needs, he gets. Dad even loaned Mr. Longfellow our Bose CD player. The great director is playing CDs of Victrola-style music constantly, which makes me depressed. It sounds like somebody is hand cranking old records from a Norma Shearer movie, scratches and wah-wahs and all. Evidently, Mr. L isn’t listening for pleasure; he is choosing transition music for the play. He is very picky (Grand says), so he’s listening to every tune of that era he can get his hands on (George says).