Cinnamon especially began to have those suspicions. She and Howard were practically hoarse every morning. They were working with Mr. Marlowe on stage now, and he was after them to project, project, project. He no sooner had them memorize one scene from one play when he handed them another and told them they were to do it without scripts the following morning. Their evenings were absorbed by their rehearsals. That and the regular voice and diction classes kept their vocal cords very busy.
Madame Senetsky began sitting in on all our sessions, pounding her cane after each criticism and complaint as if to put a dramatic period or
exclamation mark at the end. She rarely smiled. All of us felt her eyes on us. They were like two pinpointed lights searching for weaknesses, mistakes, and signs of discouragement.
She lived up to her promise about the makeup artist. too. Each of us was analyzed and then redesigned, so to speak. Ice was infuriated about the cutting of her hair. Cinnamon hated her makeup, the new lipstick and nail polish that were brighter than her usual colors. Ironically. Rose thought she was being neglected because the consensus was that she should be left "natural." except for a little lipstick. Her hair was tied in either a pony tail or a bun when she danced in rehearsal. I was given some highlights, but my hair was only trimmed at the bangs. I was directed to use a different shampoo and conditioner and made to feel like an absolute country bumpkin when it came to taking care of myself.
"Stop this griping and whining! Experts are necessary to handle you when you are in the theater or on the stage," Ms. Fairchild lectured when she overheard Ice mumble a complaint. It was as if she was lingering just around corners or behind a door. She pounced on us.
"You need people not only to advise you on how you should look and dress, but publicists to handle your public appearances and relationships. It is the price you pay to be famous. The trade-off is you become a public commodity. In other words, your life isn't your own, not the same way it is for so-called everyday people.'
"You mean, like you?" Cinnamon fired back at her, her eyes taking on that small, dark, darting look she often had.
"No." Ms. Fairchild said, barely skipping a beat. "I'm one of the experts Madame Senetsky depends upon when it comes to her students.
"And as one of those experts. I would advise all of you to contain your negative comments and show more appreciation. There is literally a line of candidates just chafing at the bit outside this very door. Why, the wind stirred up by your exit won't even die down before one of them takes your place."
She glared at us and left. Despite her comments. Steven was vocal about his displeasure concerning what they asked him to do with his long hair. He could keep it long. but they wanted him to have it more styled, neater.
"I'm a pianist, not a male model. Can you imagine someone telling Beethoven how to wear his hair?"
Howard, on the other hand, acted as if he was comfortable with every suggestion, soaking up the criticism and comments like some medical patient who had turned his whole life over to a specialist.
He infuriated us all by saying. "Ms. Fairchild is right. She's not my favorite person, but what she's telling you is correct."
"Like we need to be reminded every day by her and now by you," Cinnamon retorted. "'And if I hear one more time about the line of candidates just outside this door..."
"Do you doubt it?" Howard asked her. "I'm beginning to." she said, which took him by surprise.
Soon after our makeovers, Madame Senetsky began to pop up everywhere, and not only in our classes and sessions. Just like Laura Fairchild, she seemed to lie in wait, ready to swoop down on each of us, criticizing the way we walked, held our shoulders and heads, dressed, ate. and. I began to think, even slept. It wasn't long before we were all turning somewhat paranoid.
"Every once in a while. I have this tingling at the back of my neck and turn around looking for someone." Ice revealed. "It's like someone's there, someone's always watching."
"I could swear the shadows in this house move when I move," Rose added.
I had to admit having the same feelings often.
"Maybe we really are being observed every single moment of the day," Cinnamon conjectured. 'Maybe spying on us through windows is just the tip of the iceberg. Who knows? Our phones might be tapped. There might even be cameras secretly placed in our rooms."
"ThenI'm glad Evan didn't tell me anything over the phone," Rose said.
He had informed her that he was coming in ten days, which would be in time for what we learned was to be our first Performance Night. For this. Madame Senetsky relented and, through Laura Fairchild, informed us we could each invite two guests. Naturally, it was expected we would invite our own parents, if possible, but friends were permitted.
My mother and father wanted to come. but Daddy was pressured with the fall harvest. I called Chandler, and he said he would try to be there. He had a friend at Columbia University who could arrange for him to stay at his place. Cinnamon was tying to get her parents to come, but her father had to have some adjustments made on his pacemaker and would be in the hospital and under observation that weekend. Her mother wasn't sure she would come without him.
Rose revealed that her mother was coming into New York this week specifically to have lunch with her. She worked up the courage to go to Madame Senetsky to ask for the day off. and Madame Senetsky approved of the schedule changes so Rose could meet and spend time with her mother.
Ice was quiet about her parents. Whenever we asked her. She said. "I'm not sure yet."
Then. on Wednesday, she joined Cinnamon and me in Rose's room and told us her parents were getting a divorce.
"I told you how my daddy had been shot on his security job and how long his recuperation has been. Mama's lost patience with him and. I just found out, she has moved out of the house,"
"Is he all right by himself?" I asked.
"He's fine, but still not a hundred percent, he says. He wanted to come himself, but I told him to wait until the next Performance Night."
"What about your mother?"
"She's busy with her new social life. She said she would try. but I'm not holding my breath. and I'm not exactly sure how I would treat her if she did come."
Everyone was quiet, the depression as heavy as bad humidity, and then Rose looked up and said. "Maybe the theater will become our new life, and everyone in it our new family. Maybe Madame Senetsky isn't wrong about any of it."
No one disagreed, but it was apparent from the looks on all our faces that no one was completely happy about what that meant.
Sure, we could get close to other members of casts, directors, other musicians and even producers, but after the performances ended, they were all gone and we were alone again. The stage would become an empty place and our voices would just echo inside us. All of us were well aware that too many people in our line of work ended up on psychiatrists' couches, looking for answers. Who wanted to spend a lifetime having no one to confide in but psychotherapists?
Rehearsals were now stepped up in preparation for the Performance Night. Ms. Fairchild began dropping the names of people who had been invited and would attend. Most were, as we were promised, people from the theater, producers and actors, as well as some critics. Every dinner began with the announcement of another acceptance. I think it was designed to build the pressure on us.
Madame Senetsky was not subtle about that. One night at dinner she lectured us about how important it was for a performer to learn to deal with anticipation and with the pressure that came from an impending appearance.
"Even the most seasoned actors and musicians experience stage fright, butterflies, shattered nerves before stepping on stage. One never gets blase about the fact that hundreds of people, even thousands, and with television, millions are looking at you and only you at times, watching, listening, noticing mistakes. People are just naturally critical. It takes so much to please them, and even when you have a major success, there are those who detract from it, who find fault, who can nev
er be satisfied. You know that, and yet you go and expose your talents and your efforts under the spotlight.
"It takes courage, fortitude, and a great deal of self-confidence. There is quite a difference between self-confidence and arrogance, however. Arrogance will always get you into trouble. Self-confidence will insulate you against the slings and arrows."
'Hamlet," Howard whispered to us, in case we didn't get the "slings and arrows." reference.
Contrary to its purpose, Madame Senetsky's lectures served to make me, at least, more nervous than I had been before she pointed all these things out. She was so eager to do it. I thought it was exactly the result she was looking to achieve. As our big night drew closer and closer. I found myself developing a trembling in my hands. Mr. Bergman noticed it as well and had been making me pause, take breaths, and start again in our rehearsals.
Finally, one day, with Madame Senetsky sitting and watching me work, he slammed his palm down on the piano and cried. "Stop!"
I held my breath as he paced.
"Sit,' he ordered. and I did, holding my violin in my lap and glancing furtively at Madame Senetsky, who herself sat like some alabaster statue, her eyes frozen on the space between me and Mr. Bergman.
"You're. thinking too much." he began. "You are not separating yourself from the performance. You're worrying over every note and making it all sound mechanical. You are no longer submerged in the music, which was the well from which your talent has drawn its strength, its life's blood."
I glanced at Madame Senetsky, who nodded slightly, but continued to stare.
Mr. Bergman looked at me hard. too.
"Follow me," he suddenly decided and marched to the door, where he turned and waited. I was so confused that for a moment I just sat there. "Well, get up and bring your violin and your violin case along," he commanded.
I looked at Madame Senetsky and then rose and followed Mr. Bergman out the door. He led me down the corridor to the front door and held it open.
"What are we doing?" I asked.
"Getting rid of pretension," he declared. "Go on. Walk out."
I did and he followed, closing the door behind us. He walked down the steps and started down the driveway. Now, more confused than ever. I walked behind him, carrying my violin in its case and looking back occasionally at the house. He had me go all the way to the gate and then stopped and opened it. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and folded his arms over his chest.
"Come along," he directed. "Out here!"
I did as he asked. Pedestrians along the sidewalk and across the way gazed at us.
"Take out your violin." he said.
"What?"
"Take it out of its case. Now."
I did so.
He placed the case open at my feet and stepped back.
"Begin your piece," he commanded.
"Here?"
"Exactly." he said. "Play."
I lifted the violin and began. The music carried over the street. People who had paused gathered in a small crowd, and others began to join them. The air was cool, crisp, with just a slight breeze that seemed to lift my melody higher and higher. Before long, there was a sizeable crowd collected. I closed my eyes and I let the music carry me off as well. When I finished the piece, the people in the street all applauded, most throwing coins and dollars into my open case.
I looked at Mr. Bergman.
"There." he said. "You've played for an audience in New York. It's out of your system. Now think only of the music, and if you develop that trembling again, come down here and play again on the sidewalk, if you like, but get yourself out of that box that is suffocating you. Understand?"
"Yes," I said. "Thank you."
"Very well. We'll return to our studio," he said, and we headed back to the house. I saw a curtain move in a window on the third floor and imagined Madame Senetslw had been watching the whole time, but when we returned to the studio. I saw her in her posh office making phone calls.
Later. I told everyone what Mr. Bergman had done. "I actually made seven dollars!"
Steven said he would have a hard time wheeling the piano down and then up the driveway, otherwise he would do it. too.
"You don't have her problem," Howard told him, "You have the opposite problem."
"Oh, yeah, and what's my problem, oh mighty master of the stage?"
"You could care less about the audience."
Howard meant it as a criticism, but Steven thought a moment and then nodded.
"You're right." he admitted. "It's me and my piano and everyone else can go to hell."
"Whatever works for you, works for you. It doesn't necessarily work for the rest of us," Rose told him in a very angry tone of voice, which was so out of character for her it raised everyone's eyebrows.
Actually. Rose had been unusually quiet since she had met her mother for lunch. She didn't tell us much about it until early Friday evening. Ms. Fairchild, as usual, dictated our weekend schedule to us at dinner. At eight o'clock we were going to attend a lecture on the theater that was being given at the New York Public Library. On Saturday we would go to a matinee of a play that had just been brought over from London and Saturday night we would attend a performance of Madame Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera. Sunday was finally free.
Rose had made arrangements to meet her boyfriend Barry. Since Chandler was coming the following weekend. I couldn't ask him to come Sunday. Rose proposed that Barry bring along three of his new college buddies. Cinnamon thought it might be a good idea. She suggested we all go to the zoo in Central Park.
"It's supposed to be a very nice late fall day. What do you think. Rose?" she asked.
"Why not?" Rose replied. "We're all in our little cages. We might as well look at some fellow sufferers."
Her bitterness and depression was finally too much.
"What's wrong with you. girl?" Ice snapped. "You been saving ugly things ever since you met your mama."
Rose just stared at the floor. "Well?" Ice pursued.
We were all in my room, relaxing before we dressed for the lecture.
"My mother is getting remarried," Rose revealed. "She's fallen head over heels in love with a man five years younger than she is. He's a salesman working for a company out of California. He sells air time on radio and independent television stations."
"Did you meet him. too?" Cinnamon asked.
"No and yes."
"Huh?" Ice said. "How can it be no and yes? Either you did or didn't. right?"
"He wasn't actually there with us at lunch. but I felt like I met him. That's all my mother talked about. She hardly asked a question about me and what were doing here. She's like some teenager, I'm telling you." "When is she getting married?" I asked.
"She wants to get married next week, but his travel schedule makes it difficult, so they're getting married as soon as he has the time. She said it would just be one of those justice of the peace ceremonies. They might even do it in Las Vegas." she said. "Maybe they'll get an Elvis impersonator as a witness," she added bitterly.
"And then what? She moves to California?" Cinnamon asked. Rose nodded.
"Is she coining to the Performance Night?" I asked.
"Maybe. It depends on his schedule. but I kind of got the idea she wouldn't."
"What's his name?" Ice asked.
"Warner Langley. He was married once before, but it lasted only a month."
"That's more like a long date, not a marriage," Cinnamon said.
"This might be as well," Rose muttered. "Sorry I've been such a drag around ,y'all,"
"What's it been like in dance class?" I asked, thinking about my own session with Mr. Berman.cr
"Not bad," Rose said, perking up. 'When I'm into a routine, doing exercises, moving to the music, I forget everything else. Mr. Demetrius said that even when I'm dancing to the same melody. I have a natural tendency to vary it just a little, almost making it more beautiful, more touching. He really cheered me up."
"He's right, of course. That
's why you're so good. Rose," Cinnamon said. "That's why you're going to make it, despite all the rest.'
"Then maybe she is right," Ice said. We all turned to her.
"Who?" I asked.
"Madame Senetsky. Maybe she's right. We should become like nuns and marry ourselves to the stage." Cinnamon nodded slowly.
"It's a way to escape," she said.
"From what?" I asked,
"Who we really are," she replied.
"I don't want to escape from that," I said.
"There's nothing about your family, your past, yourself that deep inside you hate?" Rose asked, her eyes forbidding.
I thought about Grandad Forman and his ruthless religious fervor that made me feel guilty about all my loving feelings, tying me as tight as a drum inside, making me feel as if a simple kiss, a trembling in my breast was all leading to some enormous sin. It nearly kept me from winning Chandler's affections. Even now, even after all the promises and wonderful things we had said to each other, there was still some of that inside me. and I always feared it would keep me from giving myself truly and wholly to anyone who loved and gave himself to me. I used to think it was like a stain on my heart, corrupting my emotions.
"Maybe," I confessed.
"We all want to escape from something," Cinnamon insisted.
"One day you'll realize exactly what it is and you'll be happy you've been given a way to do it. You can't change your mother or stop her from making another mistake, Rose, and neither can you. Ice. Let's all stop trying to change our pasts. Let's just change our futures.'
Rose nodded and then smiled,
"What about Sunday? What should I tell Barry?" Cinnamon looked to me.
"Honey?"
"I don't care. I'm not getting married Sunday," I said. I put on a brave face, but my heart was pounding. If Chandler found out, he might not come the following weekend.
"Good." Cinnamon said. "Let's have a good time. Forever and ever," she added. "let's have good times. A vow, come on." she said, holding out her hand. Then she closed her eyes and recited. Begone, all unhappiness. Come, sweet lips of pleasure. Kiss us all, every one."
Ice smiled and put her other hand over Cinnamon's. So did Rose, and then so did I. We held onto each other and for a long, wonderful moment, it seemed very possible, very much within our grasp, to do what she prayed for: to enjoy life.
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