June 25, 1939
A lot of stuff has happened in the last few days. Some things I need to write out of my system and forget about. But also quite a lot of stuff that, years from now, I’ll probably want to read over and over again. So here goes.
Monday was the first day of rehearsal, and I got to do Puck’s long speeches at the beginning of act 2. Mr. Andre, the man with the beard who watched my audition, is the executive director, and everybody says he’s pretty tough. He had me change some of the business I’d thought up. Some of the things I’ve been doing to break up Puck’s long speeches. But he seemed to really like some other things I’ve been doing. I didn’t notice, but Virginia Blake (the woman I met in the cafeteria) told me that when I was doing one of the long speeches in act 2, she saw Mr. Andre nodding and laughing.
And after the rehearsal was over, he told me he’s thinking of having Puck onstage in a few places where Shakespeare didn’t mention it. Like I’ll be sneaking around hiding behind bushes when the not-too-smart village craftsmen are making plans to put on the Thisbe play. I’ll be watching what they’re doing and falling all over myself laughing when they say dumb things. So I have a lot of new business to learn. Yesterday Mr. Andre had me do some handstands and backflips, and then he told me that since I was so acrobatic, he might have me enter once or twice by swinging onstage on a vine. Well, a rope actually, but they’ll make it look like a vine. I’m to start practicing that tomorrow.
A lot to practice and learn. William put down his pen as he thought about all the things he’d already learned in the first week of rehearsal. Days of shaking off attacks of stage fright, like always, before he went on, even though things always went pretty well once he got going. But there had also been a couple of backstage problems that he hadn’t counted on. One of them was Clarice.
Clarice seemed to be backstage a lot, especially when and where William wasn’t expecting her to be. Like standing in the wings watching when he came offstage. On her way, she always told him, to get something for someone on the staff—like one of the set painters or stage crew. It seemed like she was always running errands that took her to wherever William happened to be.
There was the time, for instance, when he’d been called into the costume room, and the tall, long-fingered costume designer named Igor something-or-other was measuring him for his costume. William was standing on a stool in nothing but his underpants, while Igor wrapped tape measures around his chest and ran them up and down his legs, and just then the door opened and Clarice walked in, carrying a tray. William had his back turned when he heard her voice saying, “Hello there, Mr. Igor. Miss Walker just made a fresh pot of coffee, and I thought you might like some.” And then, “Oh hi, William. I didn’t know you were here. You want some coffee too?” Like it never occurred to her that a person standing on a stool with their clothes off might not be interested in coffee. At least not if it was being served by a person of the opposite sex.
Anywhere William went, it wasn’t long before Clarice turned up. He also knew, even if Clarice didn’t seem to, that the whole thing was getting to be a backstage joke. It was probably Bottom, the guy with the donkey head, who started it. He kept calling Clarice “Helena,” and everybody seemed to get that the joke came from act 2, when the Helena character kept chasing after the guy named Demetrius, who kept trying to lose her. But Clarice didn’t get it. She just went on reminding people, straight-faced, that her name was Clarice, not Helena.
William didn’t think it was all that funny. For one thing, it wasn’t that he hated Clarice, or anything like that. In fact, he still felt grateful about how she’d helped hide him and Jancy and the little kids in her basement when they were running away. So he really owed her a lot, even if she had told him and Jancy a few lies to keep them there when they really needed to get on with their escape. And of course he also owed her for the fancy new leather binder—which she’d sent him as a secret present, and then made it clear that she wanted him to know who it came from.
Actually, there were times, particularly when he was back in his room at night, when William kind of liked thinking that Clarice was crazy about him. It was just that when she showed up suddenly, batting her eyes and standing very close, it made him kind of nervous. He was going to work on it, though. And sometime soon, when he didn’t have so many other things on his mind, he just might decide to tell her he liked her, too. It was an interesting thing to think about, but in the meantime he wished she’d stop, so Bottom and the rest of those jokers would stop teasing him.
And then there was Bernard. Bernard was another backstage problem that kept coming up. But in his case it definitely wasn’t because he liked William too much. From William’s point of view, Bernard was just looking for trouble. In fact, he as good as said so.
It was on the second full day of rehearsal and William, who was having a very busy day, had a break and went into the greenroom, the place where actors went to rest and relax. The greenroom at Mannsville was a really nice place. There were lots of chairs and couches, and over in one corner a little snack counter where there usually was hot water for coffee or tea, a soft-drinks refrigerator, and sometimes a few snacks. William checked out the snack counter—all gone—and then collapsed on one of the couches. Before he’d even had time to close his eyes, the door opened and Bernard walked in. William nodded and said hi, but Bernard didn’t say anything. At least not right away. But later, when William’s eyes were closed and he was half-asleep, a voice that came from very nearby said, “Hi, Hardison. Remember me?”
William opened his eyes, and there Bernard was, looking down at him. “Sure I do,” William said. “You’re Bernard.” He sat up and, trying not to look or sound the least bit accusing, asked, “So, I guess you’re in the cast too?” He didn’t mean to rub it in or anything. It was a question that anybody might ask a person who was hanging out in a room that was supposed to be for cast members only.
But it was pretty obvious that Bernard didn’t like the question. His teeth clenched, his big jaw got bigger, and his hands rolled into fists. Just at that moment a couple of other actors came in, which might have been the only reason that Bernard didn’t do something more or less violent. But he did say something. What he said was, “Yeah, didn’t you know? I’m your understudy.”
Big relief. William swallowed hard and said, “Hey, that’s great. I didn’t know I had one. Nobody told me.”
“Well, I am,” Bernard said. “My dad and Mr. Andre have been talking about it. Actually, it looks like I’m going to be more than just an understudy. More like an alternate. You know about alternates?”
William thought he did. “It’s someone who plays the role part of the time, instead of just when the lead actor is sick or something. Right?”
“Right. So maybe I’ll sort of take over later in the summer. My dad and Mr. Andre are still discussing how much I’ll be doing.” Bernard seemed to be relaxing a little. His scowl had turned into a not-too-convincing grin. “In the meantime, I’ll just be getting ready to take over suddenly if something should happen to you. You know, something unexpected. Got it?”
William got it. What he also seemed to be getting was that he’d better keep his eyes open when Bernard was around. Wide open.
William’s journal entry that night covered all that stuff. All about the new business he was supposed to learn, and a lot of other important problems that kept coming up. Problems, for instance, like Clarice and Bernard. It was fairly late at night when he wound up by writing:
So that’s the way things are going. I’m getting to know a bunch of the other actors and actresses. Of course, they’re all pretty old, like in their twenties or thirties, or even older. All except Clarice—and Bernard, of course. But Miss Scott says that later on there will three or four other kids who will be playing Titania’s fairies, and even one five-year-old kid who will be the changeling. The one that Titania and Oberon are fighting over. That should be kind of interesting, having a kid that little in such an important production.
So it was sort of a coincidence that the very next evening, when he got back to Edwin Hall, the lady at the front desk handed him a letter that had arrived that day. It was from Jancy, and it was mostly about Buddy.
CHAPTER
12
Of course, it wasn’t the first letter that he’d received since he left Gold Beach. Just two days before Jancy’s letter arrived, he’d gotten a short note from Aunt Fiona. One that they’d all signed. Even Buddy, in huge wobbly letters, and with the Ds backward so it actually said Bubby.
According to Aunt Fiona, they all missed him, but everyone was feeling well and enjoying the summer. But obviously that wasn’t exactly the way Jancy saw it. Her letter went:
Dear William,
I hope you are fine and having a good time. Everyone is okay here and we have done some fun things like going to the beach and the library. And Aunt Fiona says that next week, when Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm comes to the Gold Beach Odeon, we can all go see it. As a reward for being such good Hardisons. Buddy, too, even though he doesn’t deserve it.
I’m worried about him, William. Things are happening just the way I was afraid they would as soon as you left. It’s not just how he won’t eat anything that’s good for him, and doesn’t come when Aunt Fiona calls him. Or even the way he is with the other neighborhood kids, like Freddie Burns and Bobby Johnson, who are both older than he is but not quite as big. Buddy keeps having fights with them. I’m not sure who starts the fights, but Buddy always wins them. I’ve tried to talk to Aunt Fiona about it, but she just doesn’t take it very seriously. She just laughs and says things like “boys will be boys.” Or that four is just a difficult age and that next year going to kindergarten will probably do a lot to civilize him.
William, what scares me is that he seems to be turning into a real Baggett. Of course, he can’t help being big for his age, like most Baggetts. But what worries me is how much he acts like one.
Of course you probably won’t agree with me, because he always behaves better when you are around. He used to mind me, too, or at least listen to me when I talked to him. Not anymore. But maybe when you come home again things will be better. If it’s not too late by then.
Please write to me.
Jancy
P.S. Buddy says for me to tell you that Pumpkin is just fine too.
William was glad and relieved to know that it was only Buddy who had been making Jancy so gloomy before he left home, and not something really scary—like for instance, something about the Baggetts. Not, he had to admit, that he’d spent much time worrying about them since he got to Mannsville. Not when he was awake, at least.
There had been some dreams, though. Nightmares, actually. Times when he’d awakened suddenly with his mind full of great dark Baggetty shadows. Threatening shapes that seemed to be chasing after him as he tried to run. Sometimes he’d be trying to hide under the bed in his room at Aunt Fiona’s. But more often it would be right there at the Mannsville theater, where he would be trying to conceal himself backstage behind transparent stage sets and flimsy curtains, while huge Baggett-shaped creatures crept closer and closer. It was that one, the dream about Baggetts being right there, backstage in Mannsville, that was the worst. As if it was warning him that he wasn’t safe anywhere. That no matter where he went, Big Ed’s belt was still waiting for him.
But none of his nightmares had been about Buddy. He sighed, feeling guilty. But then he shrugged, telling his conscience to get off his back. You couldn’t blame him that much—what with all the things he’d had to cope with lately. Things like the audition, and then all the new stage business and blocking to memorize. He’d had all that stuff on his mind, not to mention Clarice, and Bernard.
He would write to Jancy right away. Just as soon as he reviewed what his promptbook said about the scenes they would be doing tomorrow. Mr. Andre had blocked out exactly where Puck was supposed to be and what he would be doing every second. Things like acting as if he couldn’t believe his ears when Bottom and Quince were talking, and then laughing so hard he staggered around and then fell over backward. And where he would be, and how he would act when donkey-headed Bottom came onstage. There was a lot to memorize and practice, and by the time he’d finished he was really sleepy. He nodded firmly, telling himself he’d write the letter to Jancy tomorrow.
But tomorrow, as it turned out, was an even busier day. To begin with, it was the first rehearsal that included Titania’s fairies—all of them. Clarice as Cobweb was the biggest one, but Peaseblossom and Moth were played by two really small kids. They were only about nine or ten years old. It must have been their first time onstage, and they were so nervous they kept stumbling over each other. Or getting so busy watching the other actors that they forgot to do anything.
But the biggest bottleneck was caused by the kid who was supposed to play the part of Titania’s little changeling boy. His name was Jerry, and you might say his problem was that he wasn’t nervous enough. He was having a great time, but what he definitely didn’t get was that actors were supposed to listen to the director and do exactly what he tells them to do.
Mr. Andre probably would have dumped him right away, except he looked so great for the part, with a kind of movie-star kid face, and a whole lot of curly brown hair. But when he absolutely insisted on doing a Shirley Temple–style tap dance when he came onstage, it began to look like the director wasn’t going to put up with him much longer. The kid’s mother was right there in the wings, but he didn’t listen to her, either. It was when Mr. Andre told everyone to take ten that William had a chance to talk to the kid.
What he did was to start a conversation that didn’t sound like scolding, at least not at first, the way Jancy did sometimes with Trixie and Buddy.
Pulling the little show-off to one side, he said, “Hey, kid. You any good at pretending?”
“Yes, I am. I pretend better than anybody. Like when I pretend I’m that tap dancer. I do that better than anybody.”
“Yeah, I guess you do,” William told him. “But the thing is, what we’re doing here is this special pretend, see. Now the way this game goes is that that pretty lady”—he pointed to Titania—“is your mother, and that big guy is a really dangerous kidnapper. You know about kidnappers?”
The kid nodded, big-eyed.
“Yeah.” William nodded back. He was pretty sure the kid would know about kidnappers. There’d been some pretty famous ones in the news lately. “Well, the way this game goes is that when the big guy says, ‘I do but beg a little changeling boy,’ it means he’s going to try to kidnap you and take you away to work for him. I mean like drag you off so you’ll never see your mother again. And you know what he’s up to. So that’s when you’re supposed to hang on to your mother’s skirt and try to hide behind her and pretend you’re scared to death. Looking scared to death when you really aren’t is a hard thing to pretend. You think you could do it?”
Another big-eyed nod. And when the break was over, Jerry did just what he was supposed to do. Even looking wide-eyed and frightened. Problem solved. It turned out that Jerry really was good at pretending once he knew the story, and afterward he really liked all the praise he got for doing it so well.
When the rehearsal ended, and the kids were offstage, Mr. Andre called to William. “Hey, Hardison. How’d you like to double as an acting coach for all our preschool cast members?”
A
lot of people laughed and clapped, and William laughed with them as he turned around, taking a few bows. However, as he turned past stage left he saw one face that wasn’t exactly laughing, and farther out in the wings, another one that definitely wasn’t. The first one was Clarice, and she was doing her fluttery-eyed stare, and the other face, the one that looked something like an angry bulldog, was Bernard Olson.
The rehearsal lasted until late that afternoon, and then Mr. Andre called a meeting to talk about the first run-through, which was scheduled for the day after tomorrow. He made a big point of repeating several times that they would be going through the whole play with no stopping, just as if it were opening night, no matter how many mistakes were made. “Absolutely no stopping, no matter how badly you mess up,” Mr. Andre repeated. “Got it?”
William got it, along with a bad case of the willies that lasted right through dinner. Back in his room, he calmed himself down by going over his promptbook three or four times. It wasn’t until late that night that he got around to writing the letter to Jancy.
Taking a page out of his journal, he began:
Dear Jancy,
Thanks for writing. I’m sorry I didn’t answer sooner but I’ve been awfully busy, and it looks like my schedule is going to get even harder.
I have been thinking about you, though. I was really worried when I was getting ready to leave for Mannsville, and you wouldn’t tell me what was the matter. So now I know, and I don’t really think you have all that much to be worried about. Not that I think it’s okay for Buddy to act like a Baggett, because I don’t. But don’t you think it’s a good sign that he wanted me to know that Pumpkin was okay? As you and I know, real Baggetts don’t care what happens to guinea pigs.
Oops! That was a mistake. Biting on the end of his pen, William read over what he had just written and wished he hadn’t. Mentioning Jancy’s first guinea pig’s horrible fate was a pretty stupid thing to do in a letter that was supposed to cheer her up. But there it was, in unerasable ink. William stared at what he’d written, sighed, shrugged, and went on.
William's Midsummer Dreams Page 6