Echo After Echo

by Amy Rose Capetta

  But the story doesn’t end there. Echo and Ariston share everything, except their true identities. That’s what makes it a tragedy. Ariston doesn’t figure out who Echo is until it’s too late to save her.

  So Echo dies.

  Of course.

  The ending shouldn’t have the power to hurt Zara after reading the play so many times, but it does. Zara has to stop. Breathe. The darkness of it wraps around her, so when she takes the last step, to the edge of the orchestra pit, she almost doesn’t notice.

  There is darkness down there, too.

  And the outline of a body.

  “Hello?” Zara asks. She thinks she must be seeing something wrong — that it’s a trick of the shadows. They’re different in theaters. Heavy, like the curtains that sway at the edges of the stage.

  “Hello?”

  There is no answer, and Zara has almost convinced herself she was wrong. But then she hears a thin groan. She sits down and pushes herself off the edge of the stage into the orchestra pit. It’s dark down there — she uses the firefly glow of her phone to light a vague area. A man on the ground. Blood spreads from his body, a shade darker than the carpet and the seats.

  Red and red and red.

  Kestrel opens the door to the hallway, revealing her new roommate, who is chubby, bedraggled, and plain as unflavored yogurt.

  Then Kestrel remembers that she should give Zara a significant break. She did just find Roscoe in the orchestra pit.

  Kestrel leans in and hugs her. “Poor thing. You must want to turn around and go right home.” That would fix all of Kestrel’s problems. It’s a perfect solution, really. She’s proud she thought it up.

  Zara pulls away. “I just got here.”

  Kestrel doesn’t know this girl any better than a stranger in Times Square, but she can see in the set of Zara’s wide, stubborn lips that she isn’t going anywhere. The Aurelia didn’t want to pay for housing for a nonfamous out-of-town actor, so Leopold asked Kestrel to take the girl in like a stray puppy. And she certainly couldn’t say no to Leopold.

  Kestrel is too nice. That’s her problem.

  She shakes her head and feels the end of her bob skimming her shoulders. Her fresh red dye can’t possibly look good in the bright hallway. They should go inside — but that’s so final. “This isn’t right at all,” she says, and she can hear the whine souring her tone. She tries to brighten things up. “I always script my meetings, don’t you? We only have one day to get to know each other before the read-through. One. Day. I thought we would go out for tapas.” As long as this girl is here, they might as well get to know each other. It’s not like Kestrel has had a friend her age in a long time. She likes that her friends are older — sophisticated — but the idea of having another teenage girl to talk to about teenage girl things has been vaguely exciting.

  “I’m not hungry,” Zara says, stomping all over Kestrel’s plans. “I’m sort of tired, actually.” Zara peeks around her, through the door. Behind them is the apartment — stainless steel and tasteful curtains and cream furniture. “This building is nice,” Zara says. “Really, really nice.”

  Kestrel wants to snap at her, because that’s really, really obvious. Doesn’t this girl have anything better to say? Kestrel doesn’t snap, however. She shifts her weight onto one foot, hitches a sole up to the other knee. Yoga is one of the things that keep her calm when she is on edge. “This is just the New York apartment. Mama and Alec will be in Florence for at least six months. They haven’t lived in the city full-time since I was a baby, but I won’t budge.”

  She waits patiently until Zara asks, “Why?”

  “Because of the food and the people and the Aurelia, of course.” No way was she spending a season with the Italians and their stunning lack of deodorant while Leopold Henneman directed Echo and Ariston. Kestrel prepared every day for months, and went in for five different auditions. She remembers having to break the news to Mama and Alec over the phone, hiding the tears behind her well-trained voice.

  Her phone starts up a dull buzz in the living room. She snatches it off the side table and comes right back. “Stage manager,” Kestrel announces. She reads the short message, feeling her brain tighten around the news. “Roscoe died in the hospital.” Kestrel isn’t surprised. Not really. Zara looks surprised enough for both of them. Her eyes are full of harsh, reflected light. She’s not breathing. And then she’s trying to breathe too much.

  Kestrel runs into the apartment. She’s seen this sort of thing before. She goes straight for the medicine cabinet and hunts down her Xanax. There are only a dozen pills at the bottom of the prescription bottle, and they make a skittering noise as she runs back to the door. She twists the cap, thrusts a pill at Zara. “You’re having a panic attack,” she says. “Take this.”

  Zara shakes her head like an idiot, and Kestrel almost throws the entire bottle at her. “I shouldn’t . . .”

  “Fine,” Kestrel says. “Your choice.”

  She downs the pill instead.

  The girl looks like a disaster, so Kestrel tries to make her feel better. “It’s not really a surprise that Roscoe would fall from the balcony. You wouldn’t know because you never met him, but he was just so odd.” Kestrel repunctuates. “Just. So. Odd.”

  “I didn’t know he was the lighting designer,” Zara says, her breath starting to smooth itself out. “I thought he came in from the alley. It was cold out. The stage door was unlocked.”

  “Right,” Kestrel says, and before she can stop herself, she adds, “anyone could wander in.” But being terrible to Zara Evans doesn’t actually make her feel better. She finds tree pose with her other foot and lets out a breath. “It was probably the curse.”

  Zara’s eyebrows go up. Besides being cliché, they’re dangerously unplucked. “You believe in the Aurelia’s curse?”

  “Short answer? Yes.” Zara stares at her, looking confused and needy. “Fine. Long answer. Theaters are strange places, and you have to walk into one with an open mind. If we wanted to be unimaginative and live flat, boring lives, we would have done people’s taxes.”

  Zara smiles a tiny bit, and Kestrel gets the summery feeling that comes from giving a good performance.

  But it blows past and they’re left standing in the hallway. This unwanted Echo is right on her doorstep, and what does Kestrel do? Bring her inside, along with her hideous suitcase, and offer her tea.

  Too nice. Every time.

  Meg made place cards for the read-through: curled handwriting on plain white card stock. It’s not necessary, but it’s a nice touch, she thinks.

  The table is the same one they used at auditions, favored in the theater even though there are much grander ones lying about. Supposedly its swirled grain and scuff marks originate from the 1956 production of Waiting for Lefty. It bleeds history, like everything else at the Aurelia.

  Meg squares the corners of each card. The little rectangles give her a pleasant feeling. Meg likes to plan, to arrange things.

  This business with Roscoe has been regrettable, and Leopold surprised her by taking it personally. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to believe that he is the reason Roscoe pitched himself to the ground.

  It’s no secret that he was unhappy with the lighting design.

  And then there are the other things, the ones that Leopold whispers to Meg when he should be sleeping.

  Meg wants Leopold to forget that for today. She has changed the location of the table read from the stage to the studios. There will be a small furor from the older actors — it’s not tradition — but the police aren’t finished in the theater.

  Besides, a death lingers over the orchestra pit. Meg doesn’t want anyone too close to the truth of that moment. Theater patrons who sit in the front row always live to regret it. They’re too near the bodies of the actors, able to feel their strain, to count their tears. Distance is what turns life into a story. Distance will turn Roscoe’s death into a small, simple tragedy.

  They can mourn quickly and then get back to
work. Leopold will like that. And that’s what Meg needs, more than anything. A happy director.

  More cards, more squaring, and then Meg stops. She brushes her thumb over the imprinted letters of a name.

  Zara Evans.

  Leopold’s pet nobody. Meg knows what Leopold will do to her. Not the details, but it’s the same story, every time. And this girl will go along with it, like they always do — swept up and not even noticing, at first, how strong the current is.

  As Meg sets a script in front of each seat, a song scratches at the inside of her head, begging to be let out. A song she used to love. She releases the sound in a small, tight hum. “Tonight.” West Side Story.

  The table is ready, but when Meg looks back, she sees it through Leopold’s eyes. She knows his thought process as well as she knows her own. The cream cards would look perfect in the vast, gilded theater. In the studio, they seem out of place.

  Meg changes directions, counterclockwise, undoing all the work she has done. She spent hours on these cards, but no matter. The rectangles of paper accumulate in a little pile, then melt away into the trash.

  Yes — a clean table. A blank studio. A fresh start.

  This will make Leopold happy.

  For today.

  Kestrel and Zara arrive at the read-through late, but they come bearing gifts — small gold boxes of chocolate. Kestrel insisted on stopping at a specialty shop in the Village, forty minutes out of the way. “People need comfort right now,” she said. “They need to be reminded about life. How it’s here — a moment, melted on the tongue — then gone! A bite of perfect chocolate does that.”

  Zara tugged away from the ridiculous plan at first, but then she was charmed by the odd taste of pear caramels, taken in by the rustle of fancy paper, even half-convinced by Kestrel’s words. She could almost forget the body crumpled in the orchestra pit.

  As soon as Zara enters the studio, she remembers everything. Roscoe’s ragged breathing. How she never finished walking the boards.

  The actors are already gathered around a long table. Everyone turns to look at her. Kestrel breezes away from her side, setting down the chocolates on the table. Zara is left standing alone, empty-handed.

  And then she sees Leopold Henneman at the head of the table. Leopold Henneman, smiling gently at her.

  Zara has seen pictures; she recognizes his uniquely light brown eyes, the steep angle of his features. What can’t be shoved into a frame is the amount of heady, unfocused energy he gives off. “My dear,” he says, and his voice wraps around her like a coat on a cold day. “Come.” He nods to the empty chair next to him.

  On his other side is a woman with pink-white skin and short blond hair tucked behind her ears. “This is Meg,” Leopold says. “My personal assistant. Meg, you remember Zara Evans.”

  Zara’s lips stretch into a thin, nervous string of a smile.

  Meg gives a nod. Her pale-blue eyes have a dark stone of pity at the centers. Why? Because Roscoe died? Because Zara had to sit there, waiting for the ambulance, and watch?

  She doesn’t have long to wonder, because Leopold stands. He takes in the room with a single, sweeping glance. “Welcome,” he says. “Or, as is the case with so many of you, welcome back.”

  Zara knows those words aren’t for her. She’s not really one of the company yet. But she has to start somewhere — right? This is what Zara has been waiting for. Sitting in a plain studio on a spittle-gray afternoon. This is when she becomes one of the initiated, the people behind the curtain, making the stories. Someone who can be welcomed back.

  “This is not what I would have wished for, but as always in the theater, we work with what we are given. Thank you, all of you, for cooperating with the police.” Zara had her moment with them, after the ambulance and hospital and before Kestrel’s apartment. She was so tired and their faces were so blank. They asked over and over again how she knew the theater would be open. I didn’t. Then how did she open the door? I didn’t. Then why was it open? I don’t know. Why did she go in that way? I just wanted to see the stage.

  I’m an actor.

  “They must follow their procedure,” Leopold adds. “The more help we give, the sooner they can leave our space. And while I cannot say anything officially, the police have informed us that Roscoe’s death was most likely an accident, caused by an unsafe lighting session.” These words are the air that Zara has been waiting for. Accident. Unsafe. She takes a full, round breath for the first time since yesterday.

  “This is what we do,” Leopold says, “We push on. At the Aurelia, we stop for nothing, not even death. Perhaps it is most important to be making art when death is all around. This is when we need the perfect story.”

  Leopold lets the room fall back into silence. His words make Zara feel bold and terrified all at once.

  The stage manager invites them all to go around and introduce themselves. Zara shifts in her seat. Maybe things will settle in now. This could still be everything she dreamed, with no more dark edges.

  The crew goes first. Sound design, set design, dramaturg. Leopold nods with each addition.

  His energy changes, tightens, as the turn falls to a young man who fits the description of tall, dark, and handsome a little too snugly. “Barrett,” the young man says. “But you can call me the God of Props.”

  “I make costumes,” says a woman whose deep voice is touched with an Italian accent. A white braid runs down her back, sleek against wrinkled skin. She’s unspeakably elegant. “My name is Cosima.” She must be the oldest person at the table by at least twenty years.

  Next, they come to a girl with blue-green tattoos twining up her arms. A girl almost as young as Zara. She has curly black hair, glowing amber-brown skin. Her hands are filled with nervous energy. She’s so pretty that Zara assumes she’s an actress, then immediately changes her mind.

  “Eli,” she says. “Assistant lighting designer.”

  The silence shimmers with tension.

  “As you know,” Leopold says, “the Aurelia has seen few designers with Roscoe’s level of dedication. We are sure that his assistant will be able to carry out his wishes for Echo and Ariston.”

  “All right.” The stage manager sounds a too-sudden clap. “On to the actors.”

  First up is a wisp of a woman with vaulted cheekbones. She might be in her early forties, but she looks a decade older. Her light-brown hair is brittle, her voice as pretty and sharp as a smashed mirror. “My name is Enna, and I’ll be playing the role of Echo’s mother, Amalthea.”

  Then comes Echo’s father, a heavyset man with a blunt red face and stunning blue eyes. “I’m Carl.”

  As soon as Zara sees the man playing Ariston’s father, she wishes she could swap. Toby is short, bald, and gay in every sense of the word. “I’m so glad to be back here with all my favorite chickadees,” he says. “Minus one, minus one. But Roscoe is going to the great big show in the sky.”

  Toby’s words and his warm voice are almost enough to convince Zara that Roscoe is in a better place. But then her Jewish atheism kicks in, reminding her what she believes — when you die, you die. Besides, Zara doesn’t need a heaven. She has the Aurelia.

  “I’m Kestrel,” her roommate says, standing up in a way that demands attention. “I’ll be playing the chorus leader.” Her fake smile lasts long enough for her to sit down, and then it vanishes.

  Zara is the only actor left.

  “Aren’t we waiting on one more?” she asks.

  “She’s excited about Adrian Ward,” Leopold says with a dry chuckle. Zara shifts in her chair. That wasn’t what she meant. Still — how can she be Echo without Ariston? “We have a week before actors are called again, and Adrian, our Adrian, is still filming scenes for his upcoming release. Something about a warlike species of bugs that intend to take over the planet. He has to slay a few more before he can join us.” Leopold folds his hands and turns back to Zara. “Now. Shall we?”

  “I’m Zara Evans,” she says as she stands up, even though her kn
ees don’t seem to think it’s such a great idea. Her chair clatters, making twice as much noise as anyone else’s. “I’ll be playing Echo.” The words came out tilted, like a question. I’ll be playing Echo?

  Into the silence, she blurts out, “I’ve loved this play since I was a little girl.”

  Enna studies her with a series of rapid, dramatic blinks. “You mean since last Tuesday?” Laughter rises around the table.

  Zara looks down and closes her eyes. Sees Roscoe on the floor.

  Leopold rushes up from his seat. He puts a hand on her back, five points of pressure holding her up. “Our Echo has had quite the arrival,” he says. Then, like velvet in her ear, he adds, “Sit down, my dear.” She does. He tells the company how perfect she is, while Zara keeps her eyes on the scuffed table.

  The stage manager calls a ten-minute break. Zara thinks it might finally be safe to look up.

  The girl with the blue-green tattoos is watching her.

  Eli spends five minutes of the break wanting to talk to Zara Evans and the other five trying not to talk to her.

  The girl she thought would climb the curtains is right here, slipping out of the studio, disappearing into the bathroom. She comes back with paper-towel scratches like claw marks on her cheek.

  Zara Evans has been crying.

  It punches Eli in the gut: she hasn’t cried yet. She’s been too busy. Her entire family has been on the phone, talking to her, leaving messages. Her mom: We’ll send flowers to the church. Her dad: Is that theater safe? ¿Estás segura? Both of her brothers called, although they clearly had no idea what to say.

  The visit from the police this morning didn’t help. They had a list of questions for Eli that seemed to go on for hours. They were mostly interested in whether Roscoe and Eli had been sleeping together.

  “He was my boss,” she told them as they did an inspection of the lighting booth, grabbing random pieces of equipment and calling them evidence. “Also, he was thirty-four years older than me.”