The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  Beth is even nice to Mac. She offers him the bowl of cranberry sauce with a “Would you like some cranberry sauce, Mac?” Myra looks at her suspiciously, a crease in her forehead, and keeps looking at her until Mac has the cranberry sauce solidly in his hands. Beth knows she expected her to slide it onto his lap or something. Her mother is always expecting the worst from her.

  “I’m working with the company this summer,” Beth tells Ben, because he’s looking at her and that makes it easier to talk to him. Her mom has told Beth to call him Mr. Walton, but her dad said to call him Ben. That discussion was ended in a stalemate of, Do whatever you think is right, so Beth never calls Ben anything at all. He’s pretty cool, though. He’s big and heavy, but he doesn’t look fat. And he’s got that kind of smile that’s infectious, and Beth always finds she’s smiling back at him, and then it feels like they’ve shared some secret or something, and it makes Beth blush, but feel good too. Beth decides that now that she’s a company member, she’ll call him Ben. She just hasn’t gotten up the nerve to do it yet.

  “I’ve heard. Prop girl, huh? Very cool.” He does that smile thing, and she feels herself grin back and blush like an idiot.

  “Yeah.”

  “Marigolds will keep you busy.” He’s talking about The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, which The Mill Street Theatre performed this past winter and which Beth saw a dozen times. It’s like her favorite play in the whole world. The stage is filled with junk. There are hundreds of props. Even the skeleton of a dead cat.

  “Here’s to Marigolds,” she says, raising her glass. She drinks the rest of her grape juice in one gulp.

  “And here’s to your mom for putting up with all of us,” Ben says. “To Myra!”

  Now Myra blushes. Beth doesn’t toast her. Her glass is empty anyway.

  “And here’s to my girl Friday!” her dad says, and refills his glass from the bottle.

  A little embarrassed but really happy, Beth lifts her empty glass up and clinks glasses with everyone except Mac, who’s on the other end of the table spooning paths through his mashed potatoes. “Thanks, Dad,” she says. Her eyes feel all hot, so she looks down at her plate. The cranberry sauce has run around the edge of her mashed potatoes. It looks like the mashed potatoes are bleeding, and she decides not to eat them. She offers them to Mac, and Myra’s eyebrows go up. Shit, she may as well not even try to be nice to Mac, if her mother’s going to treat her that way no matter what she does.

  That night, when Mac goes out to the car with the flashlight to sleep for the night, Beth imagines all the things she can do to scare him. Throwing pebbles at the car. Creeping up and making animal noises. Sneaking up and opening the door and running away. But she knows she can’t do that now. She’s part of The Company, and they wouldn’t do such things. Well, on second thought, they might, but she’d better not.

  A floor lamp casts a circle of light over Will and the high-backed chair he sits in. On the other side of the low coffee table, Ben half-sits, half-lies, on the couch. It’s one-fifteen a.m. and everyone else is asleep, but they have been talking and drinking for hours. Their voices are on the verge of being hoarse. Sometimes Ben closes his eyes while Will speaks, but he’s listening all the same. This kind of talk is what he lives for. He’s tired, but sleep, like being drunk, is just a way to pass time until the next play. Ben’s ex-wife said the theatre was his mistress. It was corny, but true. Too true, now.

  Will leans forward in his chair, his hands moving through the air as he speaks. “It all depends on the relationships we build in the first scene. A play is a series of reactions, from the first line to the last. The ending is, in effect, the result of these reactions. You, as an actor, know where the story goes, but the audience shouldn’t. They should feel it’s happening for the first time as they watch, yet—and here’s the trick—when they get to the end, they should say oh! and see that they have been on a direct path here all along; that what they knew about Lennie and George right up front has led them to this end. You see that, don’t you?”

  Ben nods, and Will goes on; his voice grows louder, words explode in the air. “You two have to be in each other’s skins, close as two people can be. Lennie and George are like two brothers. Two orphans. They need each other, they love each other. The tenderness George shows Lennie, even in this brutal world, should make us all ashamed. It’s a love story. Plain and simple. Look what George does because he loves Lennie. He kills him. To save him from suffering in jail for the rest of his life. Think of how hard that has to be. The audience needs to feel, from the minute they leave that river bank, the dream dying. Even when they make plans, we must feel them falling apart as they speak. That’s where the tension lies. But all that will work only if we set up these two characters and their relationship in that first scene by the creek.”

  “So,” Ben says, “no pressure, but it’s up to me and Lars. The success of this play depends on us.”

  “Well. Yes.” Will shrugs and smiles.

  “So why did you invite everyone else up? Maybe you should have just nailed Lars and me in the barn until we became best friends.”

  Will is silent for a minute, then nods. “Good point, Ben.”

  “Hey, Will. Lighten up. Don’t get any crazy ideas.”

  “Where would I be without crazy ideas, Ben? I’d be a bank teller.”

  “Not a chance. You ever been in budget for a production yet?”

  Will smiles. “Not yet, but I’m getting closer.”

  Ben puts out his cigarette and lights another. “The problem is, Lars is pretty hard to get to know. He’s so damn quiet.”

  “I know,” Will says, leaning forward in his chair. “I have an idea.”

  Ben grins. “What? You want us to hold hands for the next month?”

  “Couldn’t hurt. No, really what I want is for you to think about how these guys wear their hearts on their sleeves, even George, even though he’s trying to be closed and tight, he can’t help it. And Lennie is like a kid, he hasn’t learned to hide his emotions yet. Let’s go for that, that rawness, that openness. Spend the next month just opening yourself up to feeling things intensely. Let it all out. Go for broke.”

  Ben chokes on the smoke he has just inhaled. He can’t help laughing. “Shit, Will, have I ever told you how fucking nuts you are? If anyone wears their heart on their sleeve, it’s you.”

  Will stands up, puts his drink on the table, and paces back and forth like a tiger trapped in a cage. “It’s because I love this theatre, Ben. This one. Nothing else will ever be the same to me. But we have to shake the old out of us. That’s what the board’s tired of, the same old inflections, the same old expectations. New York actors aren’t better, but no one knows what to expect, so the audience will come just to find out. They’ll have bigger houses for a while, and then they’ll have to do something else, huge shows, and they’ll never break even. Then they’ll remember a show like Marigolds, with its small tight cast, and they’ll wonder what happened to us. But we’ll be gone. Norton will be doing voice-overs for carpet stores, Melinda will be a weather girl, Greg Henry will be on a daytime soap opera because of his smoldering good looks, you’ll be in some theatre thousands of miles away, and I’ll be dead. We have to make them understand now!”

  Ben doesn’t know where Will gets his energy. His own body is molded into the couch, his legs propped up on the table, his head resting against the couch’s thick armrest. Myra has set up the bed in Mac’s room for Ben, since Mac is sleeping in the car, but Ben thinks he’ll just fall asleep here on the couch. First he has to say something he’s been thinking since Will first called. It has to be said.

  “Look, Will, the idea is great, really, but a month is just too long. We’ll work it to death in a month. It’ll dry up.”

  Will’s nod freezes. Ben waits, worried how Will might take this slight betrayal. Ben has seen Will explode with anger, although never at Ben; at things usually, like a wobbly set or slow curtain, but these things were caused by
people, people who don’t quickly forget the look on Will’s face, or the sharpness of his words. Once Ben saw Will lift a concrete block and throw it right through the canvas set. Ben is not expecting a physically violent reaction right now, but he does look to see what lies near Will’s hand. A glass ashtray brimming with cigarette butts, a mostly empty bottle of bourbon, and two empty glasses. But instead of being angry, Will begins to nod.

  “Yes, you’re right,” he says. “I thought of that. But I think I’ve found a solution. What if we did workshops, acting workshops, like in college? We could try new things, take chances. I feel such a need to break out of the old mold. We could even choose a play we love and work on it. Not something popular, just something we love. What do you think?”

  Ben considers this. It’s interesting. “But that means bringing the whole company here, Will. That’s another, what, nine people at least. Myra will kill you.”

  Will leans back in his chair and smiles. “That’s the truth. So we can’t mention it to her yet. Let’s get this thing going first, give it a few days. She’ll grow to love it. Then when we suggest inviting the rest up, she’ll be happy to go along with it. But it might help if someone else suggests it.”

  Ben shakes his head. “Jesus, Will, you take the cake, you know. And who might you be thinking of to bring up this grand idea?”

  “My best buddy, Ben, of course.” Will gets up and heads up to bed. He knows a good exit line, especially when it’s his own. Ben laughs again and closes his eyes.

  Saturday

  Mac wakes up Saturday morning before anyone else because it’s hot and stuffy in the car, which makes him think of tombs and mummies, so he gets out quickly and shuts the door as fast as he can. He’s standing up, outside, before he’s really all awake. Picking up a handful of pebbles, he throws them at Beth’s window, halfway between wanting to bother her and just wanting her to come out and play. The pebbles miss her window and rattle against the house. He’d try again but then imagines what Beth would do if he really did wake her.

  He’ll go look for crayfish in the creek. Maybe it’s so early, they’ll be sleeping and he can actually catch one. He walks to the creek still wearing his red plaid slippers.

  Will wakes up impossibly thirsty, his tongue like a dead fish in his mouth. Careful not to wake Myra, he rolls out of bed to get a drink from the bathroom faucet. Out the window he sees a thread of footprints through a sea of green grass. They start at the gravel drive and lead down toward the creek. He grins at the beauty of the path his son has made for him to follow. Like a treasure map.

  Downstairs, Will throws on a flannel shirt and slips into his shoes. The air outside is chilly with the promise of warmth. He knocks three times on the wood siding.

  Will walks next to his son’s prints, not on them, making his own path. At the bottom of the hill, Mac’s prints disappear under the branches of one of the apple trees that border the creek. He knows where his son has gone: to the place where the creek bed is covered with broken shale. Last year Will showed Mac that this is where crayfish hide. Mac had been too afraid to try to catch them, and Will had gotten just a little peeved at his son’s reluctance. Sometimes Mac’s fears can be a bit exasperating—and the way Myra babies him is no help. Still, here he is, trying this all on his own.

  Will crouches low and walks in a slow, careful squat. He doesn’t want Mac to know he’s here. Now Will sees him: Mac in his Spiderman pajamas, bent over the creek, one hand hovering over the water, getting lower inch by slow inch. Finally his hand enters the water and flips over a stone.

  “Oh, shoot, shoot, shoot,” Mac says.

  Will wants to say, Try again, son, but doesn’t. Mac needs to do this on his own. Will stays crouched down, more pressure on his knees than is comfortable, and watches as Mac tries another dozen times, and even says shit once, before Will has to straighten out his legs. Will thinks it’s been about fifteen minutes. The length of an intermission.

  “Hey, there,” Will says. “Whatcha doing there, kid?”

  Mac turns, startled. “Hey, Dad. I’m trying to catch a crayfish.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Nope.”

  “Want a ride back to the house on my shoulders?”

  Mac hesitates, and Will knows Mac’s afraid to get up on his dad’s shoulders. Admittedly, that’s quite a height, but Mac should trust his dad not to drop him. Finally Mac says, “Sure,” but Will sees the shrug all the same.

  They have to go out into the open field before Will can bend over and let Mac climb onto his shoulders. Mac weighs just fifty pounds, still, he feels heavier than Will imagined he would. Will has to adjust Mac a few times until he’s balanced just right. The walk up the hill to the house is filled with hope and stumbles.

  Well, this is it, Myra thinks as she walks down the stairs to get the coffee started. This will be her last quiet morning for a long time to come. There is, though, this odd feeling of excitement, a whisper in her head that says it might be fun. She shakes her head, getting rid of the image of finger foods and chip dip. This is not going to be a party. A really long sleepover maybe. She shudders. What the hell did I let him talk me into this time?

  Ben is in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. He hasn’t shaved, and he rubs his chin as soon as he sees her. “Morning, Myra,” he says shyly, then fumbles up from the chair. “Want coffee? I think I made it a bit too strong.”

  “Sit down, Ben. I’ll get it myself.”

  “Did you sleep well?” he asks, sitting back down at the table.

  “Oh, sure. Just the normal nightmares. Nine men coming to my house for a month. Standard kind of stuff. Woke up in a sweat, then went right back to sleep.” She’s trying to joke around, but it comes out a little sarcastic. Still, Ben laughs.

  “I’ve had that dream. Women though. Dozens of them. They all turn out to be bill collectors.” Myra smiles. Ben nods to the chair across from him. “Come on. Sit down.”

  She does. She takes a sip of her coffee, and her mouth puckers. Casually, she pours in two teaspoons of sugar and gives it a good stir. Now it’s just plain undrinkable. She puts the cup down.

  “That bad?” Ben asks.

  “No, no, not at all.”

  He gives her a sheepish look. “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, maybe.” She smiles. She wants him to know it doesn’t matter, that it’s better to have bad coffee made for her once in a while than always having to make it herself. But she can’t say that. It’s not something you say to your husband’s best friend while you sit alone with him at the breakfast table. “So where is Will?”

  “Thought he was still sleeping.”

  “Nope. Not in bed. He must be in the barn. You slept on the couch, Ben? There was a perfectly good bed upstairs for you.”

  “The couch was just fine. So, you okay with this, Myra? All these people?”

  Myra looks at Ben. He looks like he really wants to know. She’s as honest as she can be. “I don’t know. I’m going back and forth on it. Back mostly. He steamrollered me, Ben, as always. Made me believe this was important for the theatre. Maybe it is. But it’s more important to him. I can tell.”

  “Steamrollered me too. But I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.” They’re quiet for a while. It’s a very comfortable quiet.

  “Too bad he didn’t think of doing this for Waiting for Godot,” Myra says. “Just the two of you up here. I could handle that. God, you were good. What a team. Did I ever tell you how proud I was of both of you? What was that? Five years ago, and I still remember every minute of it. I cried every night during the curtain call.”

  “Thanks.” He rubs at his face again. Myra could swear he was blushing. “You know, Myra,” he says, looking down at his coffee, “I’m sorry I never got to see you act. I heard you were wonderful. And that you sang like an angel.”

  Now it’s her turn to blush. No one ever mentions her acting. She is very touched that Ben has. That he doesn’t pretend she never did. “T
hank you.”

  It’s awkward now. No one is drinking coffee.

  “Tell you what, Myra. Before I go shave, show me how you like your coffee, and I’ll make it every morning. Maybe that will help mask the odor of nine sweaty men.”

  “I don’t think Norton sweats,” Myra says automatically, trying not to show how touched she is by Ben’s offer. “But thanks for reminding me how bad this place is going to smell. I think maybe I’d better buy a gas mask.”

  “Sorry. I was trying to cheer you up. Guess I’m as good at that as at making coffee.”

  “No, you did just fine. Thanks.” She pats his hand. “I’ll show you how to make the coffee. That would be very nice.”

  Before she can get up, Will comes into the house, Mac following. Their shoes, and slippers, are soaking wet and make squishing noises. “Up already?” Will says, crossing the kitchen to get to the coffeepot. Puddles follow him. He pours a cup of the black liquid and takes a large gulp. “Great coffee, Myra. Just the way I like it. Thanks.”

  Myra glances at Ben, who just smiles at her and shrugs. She smiles back.

  “Hey Ben,” Will continues. “I have this idea with the barn. Would you take a look?”

  “Sure, Will.” Ben puts his cup in the sink and waves good-bye to Myra. The two men go outside.

  “Mom, I’m hungry,” Mac says.

  Myra is left with a hungry child, a wet floor, and a pot of bad coffee.

  Chip Stark parks his white and rust Impala next to Jimmy McGovern’s yellow Cyclone GT. A handmade sign is stuck in the ground: THEATRE PARKING. The sign looks like a joke next to the old barn, but Chip bets Will made that sign in all seriousness. Will’s a great director, but his sense of humor is wanting, in Chip’s opinion.