Born to Sing, no. 1

by Donna Del Oro

  I flipped an extension-lock of curls back over my shoulder, went over to him and playfully kneed his tuxedoed leg. “It’ll be wonderful seeing her. Maybe we’ll go on that new Eye over London. The ferris-wheel ride they built for the millennium celebration. Sara says you can see all over London from the top of it.”

  “Where would you stay?” he asked suddenly, pursing his heavily made-up mouth, now grotesquely red and misshapen, and powdered over. She couldn’t help but smile at his transformation into the deranged Phantom. Poor man, he barely tolerated the heavy makeup and two layers of wig.

  “I don’t know—maybe the Dorchester,” I began uneasily, knowing where this was going, “though it’s far from Sara.”

  “Better not stay at Fogel’s. I won’t have you stay there, Evie, no matter that Sara’s there. I don’t trust him. I won’t give that SOB the chance to steal you back.”

  I spun around, my back to him, blowing air out my cheeks.

  “I can’t believe you, D.J. You think there’s a ghost of a chance that I’d go back to David? How can you think such an absurd thing?” A glance at the TV monitor impelled me to move to the door leading to the backstage labyrinth. “How can you think such a thing?” I repeated hotly, then checked myself. I spun back around and blew D.J. a demure kiss. “Break a leg, darling.”

  “You, too. Catch you behind the mirror.” He made what might’ve been a rakish smile, though it was difficult to discern it as such behind all his garish makeup.

  “Ah, here we go. Two months down, one to go.” I slid my hands down my waist and hips, flattening the little skirt which draped from the bottom of the corset-style bodice.

  I wended my way through a tunneled hallway to the right side of the stage, scurried up the stairs to the backstage center area where the other ballerinas were gathering. At my approach, the mostly twenty-some things hushed themselves and nodded at me in respectful greeting. They, too, wore the same extensions of curly locks in various shades of blonde. I was the only brunette in the dancing chorus, purposely agreed upon by the artistic director, wardrobe and stage designers. The diva would stand out, be the focus of attention.

  In other words, the hair color would draw attention away from the fact that I was a thirty-eight-year-old opera singer playing an eighteen year-old. Oh well, the producers had wanted Darren McKay badly enough to accept his contingency, that his wife would sing the Christina role. The money was excellent and we’d never played Broadway together. Since D.J. had talked me into doing this, I’d at the very least get as many London visits with Sara in the bargain.

  Besides, I loved the music and it was just plain fun working with D.J. Over the years I’d missed our collaborations and now we’d come full circle, so to speak. From our UT student concert, singing the Chrisina and Raoul parts, to actually playing the Phantom and Christina roles in the Majestic Theater on Broadway. We’d fallen in love singing Webber’s music…surely, D.J. was recalling, too, how we’d felt all those years ago.

  Nearly sixteen years ago.

  Hard to believe.

  I loved him as much—no, even more than I had then. In truth, I loved him to distraction. He was my life, my air, my music—

  Our cue. A dresser hooked my mike to the battery in my corset. Singing with amplification was so much easier than having to project over the orchestra, as I was required to do in a traditional operatic production.

  I took a deep breath and followed the stance of the other girls. All those ballet lessons I’d had to take during our month of rehearsal were paying off…I hoped. At least enough to fool the audience. God help me if I fell and broke an ankle!

  Nearly three hours later, I was standing in the flat-bottomed boat with the actor playing Raoul, a young baritone eight years my junior. The stagehands were preparing to pull it on its track behind the gauzy backdrop, silhouetting us as we sang a few measures of “All I Ask of You”. Meanwhile, the poor Phantom was downstage, center, completely distraught after realizing he’d lost Christina forever to the young, handsome Comte de Chigny.

  I covered my little face-mike.

  “The audience seems especially receptive tonight,” I whispered to Bruce. He was holding me about the waist, keeping his legs apart for balance. I was relying on him to steady me inside the boat as it moved from stage-left to stage-right. The night before, the boat had lurched a bit in its track, the result of debris clogging the track. Bruce and I had nearly lost our balance. We were assured the track had been cleared before tonight’s performance.

  “Say, what about joining a bunch of us at Sardi’s after the show? You and Darren?” Bruce asked quietly, hand over his mike as well.

  I nodded. “Possibly, have to check with D.J. first.”

  “Think Cherry already asked him. He said yes.”

  Cherry. The ingenue singing the role of Meg, Christina’s friend and fellow dancer. She’d been cozying up to D.J. a lot backstage, flirting with him, dropping by his dressing room on the flimsiest of pretenses. I knew D.J. was flattered by the twenty-five year-old’s attentions. She was lovely, ambitious, a skilled actress. Her soprano voice, however, Eva thought, needed training—was shaky and weak in the lower registers.

  Hmmm. I’d have to monitor that situation…

  Bruce nudged my elbow and we both glanced over at the TV monitor backstage, watching for the maestro’s cue. His stick went up, his left hand poised mid-air…

  I began to sing…pianissimo, “Say you’ll share with me, one love, one lifetime…say the word and I will follow you…”

  Raoul clutched my waist as the boat rocked a little to the side.

  “Share each day with me…” he sang.

  “…each night…” I sang, leaning back into Bruce’s arms, thinking, Damn this rocking boat—

  “…each morning…,” we sang in unison, trailing off our voices as the boat came surprisingly to a smooth stop backstage right. Bruce helped me out but I stood there backstage, watching D.J. wring out the Phantom’s final, pitiable cry into his mike.

  “You alone can make my song take flight…it’s over now, the music of the night…”

  I moved over to downstage right, waiting for D.J. to reappear behind the black curtain that covered the back part of the huge throne-like chair on stage. On stage, Meg crossed to the throne after climbing down the portcullis. She picked up the Phantom’s mask, all that remained of him…and the curtain falls.

  Thunderous applause. Whistles.

  The cast prepared to move upstage for our bows and curtsies. I’d be following Bruce, then joining hands with him for our bow. There’d be time to greet D.J. backstage before taking my place in the lineup.

  Before I could step forward from behind the backdrop and make my presence known to him, I saw Cherry sidle up to D.J. as he bent over, letting the dresser replace the top wig, the glossy black-haired one attached to the white mask. The girl caressed his back in an overly familiar way and when D.J. rose up to his full height, ready for the curtain calls, Cherry ran a playful hand down his chest and abdomen. Down to his fly where it lingered for a second before he seized her hand and said something which Eva couldn’t hear. D.J. turned away to go over and stand in the wings.

  In shock, I hung back. My insides tumbled and bile rose in my throat. Would Cherry have touched D.J. that way if they weren’t having an affair? What woman would do that unless…

  No, no! Ohhh, D.J., no! Not you and her. Not now. Not HER. She’s not much older than Sara! My mind went blank, and I thought I might vomit, then and there. My hand flew up to my throat, willing myself to gain control. Then I closed my eyes for a moment.

  Bruce’s hand touched my arm. Curtain time. He grasped my hand and led me back onstage. We strode to the center and took our bows.

  It was close to midnight when I took my seat at Sardi’s, my chair at the large, circular table for twelve pulled out and offered by Bruce who then sat back down next to me. Curious eyes darted all around the table as D.J., following us into the restaurant, took the only other avail
able chair, a seat across the table from me, next to Cherry. Well, of course, I thought disparagingly. Had this—the cozy seating— been prearranged? Were they all aware of D.J.’s and Cherry’s affair? Were D.J. and I invited here tonight so that they all could watch some fireworks develop in this horrible love triangle? How loathsome and disgusting—!

  The others were all cast members, pumped up by how well the performance had gone that night. It’d be two in the morning by the time most of them left the restaurant. Some of the younger ones would find an all-night club in which to begin the real partying. There must be a reason why they’d all agreed to meet here tonight…after all, our run wasn’t over for another month.

  D.J. gave me a curious stare as I studiously ignored him and turned my attention to Bruce and the baritone-bass who sang the Andre role. He was closer to my age, somewhere in his late thirties although his makeup gave him an older, avuncular appearance. I pretended to listen raptly to his appraisal of tonight’s second act. In actuality, I could think of nothing but how possessively and familiarly Cherry had touched my husband. His chest. His groin. There could be no doubt that the girl and D.J. were having an affair. But how? When? I was with D.J. every free moment when we weren’t at the theater.

  There were a few afternoons when he’d claimed he had dentist appointments…

  We’d barely exchanged more than a few words with each other since emerging from our dressing rooms fifteen or so minutes before. I was freezing him out, my usual reaction when I was angry with him. He pretended to have no clue what the problem was. I could only sigh. We were both such damn good actors.

  Maybe THAT was the downfall of our marriage. We were both such GOOD ACTORS. Were we afraid to show how we truly felt? Why was that?

  Walking over the few blocks to the restaurant, D.J. had tried to broach the topic of my visit to London again but I’d stubbornly refused to discuss where I would stay in London. I was still in shock, so overcome with grief at D.J.’s apparent betrayal that I could barely speak. Walking with him and keeping my emotions in check was more than I could bare and so I’d ignored all of his attempts at discussion.

  We would make our appearance at Sardi’s, and then leave. Once home—if you could call their suite at the Hilton Residences home—I’d have it out with him. The boys would be asleep in their room, their nanny, also. We’d be civilized about it, keeping our voices low but I’d confront him with my suspicions.

  Maybe threaten divorce. No, not threaten. I’d ask him to leave, find another living arrangement. No doubt he’d be happy to share Cherry’s little…whatever.

  A glance over at D.J. He was looking very uncomfortable as he faced away from Cherry and chatted with the man who played Firmin, a bass by the name of Tom Ferguson. Tom’s wife and five children were at home on their ranch in New Mexico and D.J. enjoyed talking to him about ranching. Cherry was leaning over him, her breasts rubbing against D.J.’s arm as she pretended to be listening to Tom. One of her hands was under the table, disappearing somewhere in the vicinity of D.J.’s left leg. D.J.’s left hand kept disappearing under the table periodically, too.

  Was he caressing her— Letting her caress his—

  His face flushed red when he caught me staring at him. He started to stand up but Tom urged him to sit back down. Everyone’s expressions changed as the maitre d appeared with a waiter carrying a half-sheet cake ablaze with lighted candles.

  I had forgotten. Tonight was D.J.’s birthday! March 30th! There was a big “Happy 45th Birthday” written in black frosting on the white cake; the caricatured face of the Phantom, all in frosting, was partly covered by the signature white mask.

  “Happy Birthday!” everyone cried all together.

  Surprised and flustered, D.J. stammered and stumbled through his thank-yous. His face spotted rosy cheeks as he stood up and blew out the candles. He was gazing at me, his mouth open in a questioning look, waiting for me to come up to him. I was half-standing, reflexively wanting to share this moment with him and kiss him—

  Cherry lurched to her feet, wrapped her arms around D.J.’s neck and kissed him full on the mouth. His lips were smeared with Cherry’s red lipstick by the time D.J. pulled his face out of her reach.

  I swiftly surveyed the table. People covered their momentary embarrassment at Cherry’s forwardness by raising their voices in raucous gaiety. Well, well, I thought, even our cast mates, most of them seasoned Manhattanites, found the girl’s behavior inappropriate. It was abundantly clear that D.J. found her attentions at the table embarrassing. He was wiping his mouth with a cloth table napkin, his laugh a mirthless one. Maybe he wanted Cherry’s crush or whatever they had going on to end…or stop it before it spun out of control.

  Why didn’t he just tell the girl to fuck off?

  D.J., the Texas gentleman?

  Maybe this girl didn’t understand how Texas women resolved such situations.

  Well, I for one would have to give Cherry a lesson in Texas etiquette.

  As one of the waiters whipped out a large cake knife and proceeded to cut the half-sheet cake into large squares, I rose to my feet. Smoothing down my belted tunic, I strode with purpose and poise to my husband’s side, leaned down, gave him a hug and kissed his cheek. Then I wiped the rest of Cherry’s lipstick off his mouth.

  “Happy birthday, darling,” I cooed.

  D.J. looked relieved, so much so that he wrapped an arm around my waist and wouldn’t let me leave. He pulled me down onto his lap, both arms snuggly fastened around me. I kissed the other rosy cheek, and twisted around in his lap.

  “Here, I’ll do the carving,” I said to the waiter, remaining on D.J.’s lap. A quick glance at D.J.’s face; he was looking suddenly guarded, was frowning a little.

  Be afraid, I thought. Be VERY afraid.

  The knife was large and ominous-looking. Just the right prop, I decided. I took over the job of carving up the cake, feeling D.J.’s warm chin pressed against my left shoulder. He was whispering to me but I ignored him. I let the waiter place and distribute the pieces of cake around the table. Chatting gaily, asking the others their preferences as to piece size, I continued until everyone at the table had his or her share of cake. When, at last, the last two squares for D.J. and me were cut, I wiped the knife clean on D.J.’s napkin.

  Then, with a false smile plastered on my face, I leaned over Cherry, holding the knife point half a foot from the girl’s neck. The table companions closest to D.J. grew still and quiet; the other side of the table didn’t seem to be noticing, so busy into their cake were they.

  The girl’s eyes bugged out and she leaned away from the knife point.

  “You touch my husband again, Cherry,” I purred loudly enough to all to hear, “or kiss him or even speak to him again…”—my smile widened—”you’ll be one sorry little slut.”

  There were soft gasps among the women nearest Cherry. Now all eyes and ears at the table were focused on us. When I politely handed the waiter his cake knife and stood up, our table mates seemed to heave a collective sigh. Cherry had run around to the other side of the table, exclaiming to anyone who’d listen what a crazy bitch Eva Villa was. Shoot, I was just giving her a friendly warning…Texicana style.

  D.J., meanwhile, had leaped to his feet, pulling me with him, retrieving my coat, waving goodbye and shouting “Thank you!” to the group. Fortunately for him, he made no apologies for my behavior either to Cherry or the rest of them. The stunned group bade us a hasty goodnight.

  Minutes later, in their cab, D.J. was apologizing profusely.

  “Evie, I’m so sorry. I should’ve done something sooner. I admit she massaged my ego a bit but I swear I never led her on—”

  “Huh, bet she massaged more than that!” I was letting my pain and fury roll out in one huge outburst, having socked him in the arm and chest pads at least half a dozen times.

  “Well, hell, I’m forty-five and she’s, what, twenty! Sure, it feels good knowing a pretty girl finds you attractive—”

  “K
eep talking, buster. You’re sinking deeper and deeper in shit—”

  “Aw, c’mon, you’ve enjoyed the attentions of that Bruce guy. Why can’t I enjoy a little flirtation—”

  “He’s gay, you asshole!”

  Even in the darkness of the taxi, I could see D.J.’s mouth drop open.

  “No kidding? I thought he was playing up to you and you liked it and—I mean, you sang that duet so well and you both kissed so convincingly…”

  “Yeah, it’s called ACTING. Oh, God, I’m too old for this, all this nonsense—I’m exhausted!” I groaned, “D.J., what is this really about? Are you tired of me? Tired of our marriage? Is working together crimping your style?”

  His big hands took hold of my shoulders, wrenched me around to face him.

  “What ARE you talking about? Listen, Evie, I never slept with that girl, never even kissed her before tonight— SHE kissed ME! I’ve been flirting a little with her, that’s all. I admit it. Okay? Just for fun. Tonight, she carried it TOO far. I told her that.”

  “When?” I asked quietly.

  “Backstage. She grabbed me in the crotch and suggested— well, never mind. I realized it’d gone too far and I told her to lay off. At the table, too. She kept groping me and I kept removing her hand, for crissakes. Even Tom noticed what she was doing, tried not to stare. She went too far, beyond the boundaries of decency—partly my fault, I realize. I’m sorry for that. I should’ve stopped it sooner. Jeez, Evie, she’s just an ambitious kid willing to sleep with anybody she thinks is going to further her career. She’s one of those…” He searched for the word.

  “Immoral sluts,” I interrupted archly. “Willing to ruin a marriage to further her career.”

  “…stage tarts. I swear, Evie, I did NOT sleep with her. Didn’t come even close. Didn’t even consider it.”

  I pondered his explanation, saw how it fit with what I’d observed. Then I recalled all those afternoons…

  “What about those trips to the dentist you’ve been making? You’ve gone four or five times in the afternoon.”