The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  “Yes, Nate, that’s the idea.”

  Nate shakes his head again. “You and your ideas. Let me tell you, a raccoon comes walking in there, or a skunk, and I’m in your bed and you’re in blackface playing my role, got it?”

  “Sure, Nate. We’ll close the barn door at night. You’ll be safe.”

  But when they carry the bunk into the narrow front room, Will sees a large hole along the bottom of the barn floor. As a matter of fact, there seems to be fur stuck to the wood. Will doesn’t point it out.

  Nate’s trying to get the barn doors to close. They’ve been left open for years. A good-sized bush grows in front of one of the doors. The other one seems to be moving—when a squeal like a stuck pig is heard, and the door rocks forward and falls to the ground, splitting evenly in half.

  Will rolls his eyes and laughs. “Looks like we have some work to do. Let’s get the props put away, and then we can build a new door, in character!”

  “Which means,” Nate says, “you get to watch, Mr. Director.”

  Will laughs. “You caught me, Nate.” Then he thinks about it and gets an idea. “You know what? I’m going to be one of the ranch hands. We’ll make up a character, and I’ll sleep out here with you guys!”

  Nate snorts. “How about you play the part of a crazy old fool, Will? Typecasting if I ever heard it.”

  But Will is already thinking ahead. There are two extra bunks, just part of the set, so that’s no problem, although his feet are going to stick off the end a good foot. He shrugs. You have to suffer for your art. Actually, it might be fun. They’ll hang lanterns and play cards all night. By God, Will loves these guys. He will save this company if it’s the last thing he does.

  Two hours pass as Myra lies in bed, and when she gets up, there is a crease along the side of her face from the edge of the blanket; it doesn’t go away for the rest of the day. Now and then she touches her cheek and feels the indentation, but she does this absently, without care. She’s numb through and through. Dully, she notes that it is not just the possibility of acting again that has her in this fog; it is because she knows something now that she doesn’t want to know, which is: she doesn’t love Will anymore. She doesn’t know when that happened, and she doesn’t know if it’s temporary. Will loves her, but it is the kind of love he fits into the cracks, the spaces between acting, the moments between directing. Will’s love for her is something he will get to, after this play. He believes she will always be there. Maybe not, she thinks. The thought is heavy, it sinks inside her, from mind, through throat, through lungs, right past her heart, into her stomach, where it sits, fermenting and turning sour.

  Downstairs, Ben is putting away the groceries, and Myra thanks him. She fills three glass canisters with water, adds a few tea bags, and sticks them out in the sun. She yawns a lot, as if she can’t get enough air. Outside, men are working on a barn door, and Frank Tucker is practicing his golf swing in the backyard without a golf club. Actors come inside for water, and to use the bathroom, and to grab a piece of fruit from the bowl she has set up so nicely in the center of the kitchen table. They speak kindly to her, and she speaks kindly back. She doesn’t remember what they said as soon as they’re gone, but each time someone takes an apple or a plum, Myra replaces it with another one so the bowl always looks full. Will doesn’t come in for anything.

  While Myra makes egg salad, Mac comes into the house and says, “Mommy,” with an intake of air that makes her look up quickly. He has gotten a splinter from the barn door and needs Myra to get it out. This small action brings her out of the fog that has muted the afternoon so she could move through it, to now, when she is needed by her son. She comforts him and feels comforted. She takes the splinter out carefully and painlessly, then offers him a Popsicle, even has one herself. It’s the best Popsicle she’s ever had, the lime bright in her mouth. She decides she wants to take the role of Curley’s Wife.

  When Greg Henry and Norton come back from shopping for sneakers, Beth is ready. She’s leaning against the side of the barn, watching her dad, Jimmy McGovern, and Chip Stark fix the door. They’re using some old plywood from the basement that had been slung between two sawhorses to store cans of paint. Beth pretends to be absorbed in the study of fixing barn doors, so that when Greg comes up and says, “Hey, hi, Beth,” she looks up startled, as if she had no idea he was standing exactly one foot, three inches away.

  “Oh, hi, Greg. You finally got here, huh?”

  “I got here last night. Where were you?”

  “Oh, I was up in my room reading King Lear, again. Guess I was pretty absorbed.” She can’t look right at him, or she’ll blush, but she can tell anyone exactly what he’s wearing: white T-shirt with a V-neck, cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, cut-off blue-jean shorts, Birkenstock sandals, and a copper bracelet that gleams across the very tan skin of his wrist. Most of the other actors look like those blind fish that live at the bottom of the ocean. They’re inside the concrete building of the theatre all day. Somehow Greg has found time to work on his tan. Beth decides she’d better spend a little more time in the sun herself.

  “So you’re going to have the gang staying here, huh? Think you can put up with us?” Greg says, poking her in the arm with his finger. She feels flushed all over, just by that one little touch.

  “Sure, I guess,” she says.

  “Hey, it ought to be fun, don’t you think? Far out, you know? Guess we’ll all get to know each other real well by the time this is over.” He winks at her. She is so stunned, she just stands there. Greg laughs. “Well, I guess I better go show these guys how to fix a door.”

  Beth nods. She can’t believe he winked at her, like what he meant was he was going to get to know her really well. He was flirting! And she was so stupid, she didn’t know what to say! God, is she stupid! Next time she’s going to say something smart, keep the conversation going. Jesus, she stood there like an idiot! She watches Greg but pretends she’s still interested in fixing a barn door. She doesn’t know anything about construction, but it sure seems like there are enough nails in that door by now. Patting Chip Stark on his bald head, Greg says, “Guess you’ve killed it dead by now.”

  Chip puts on his heavy southern accent. “Well, big guy, we’ve just been waitin’ for you to mosey on over and carry this door over to the barn. Reckon you can do that?”

  “Wouldn’t want to hurt my hands,” says Greg, his grin wide and perfect.

  “Yes!” says Beth’s dad. “That’s the way to think, Greg!”

  Beth knows her dad is happy because Greg is acting in character, referring to Curley’s dream of being a pro boxer and not wanting to mess up his hands. And that’s when it hits her, the thing she never even thought about. If she were to play the role of Curley’s Wife, she would be playing the wife of Greg Henry’s character. Please, please, please, let her mom say no.

  Victor Peters drives up Will’s lane just after sunset. The sky is that violet blue that makes his heart skip. Stars flicker in the distance. If he had been born later, and tons smarter, he’d have been an astronaut.

  Victor sits in his car for a moment. He had to stop twice on the way here for a little shut-eye. Doesn’t sleep so well at night, but something about the daytime knocks him right out. Just thinking about the next few weeks makes him tired.

  He told Will he’d come ’cause he likes Will. Will could hire younger men—makeup can make anyone look old onstage—but Will’s never given up on Victor. Always finds a part for him. And Candy’s a great role, one of the best. Still, he’ll need a vacation after this. On the moon would be nice.

  A figure steps out of the house and stands in the doorway. It’s got to be Will. No one else in the company’s that tall and skinny. With the backlighting, Victor is reminded of that science fiction movie with the tall, spindly aliens. Okay, Helen, he says to his dead wife, gone now three years, I’m going to need your help these next couple of weeks. You stay nearby, you hear?

  No problem, I’m here, she says. She always tho
ught Will was a bit of an odd wicket, but she liked him. That was another reason Victor said yes to coming here. Helen liked Will, and Will liked Helen. That means a lot to Victor.

  Helen was his confidante, and his confidence. Not a day goes by he doesn’t miss her so bad it hurts. That’s why he’s so tired. Can’t breathe sometimes from the pain. Sometimes he thinks he ought to retire. Sit the last dance out. But Helen would get madder than hell. When he does finally kick the big one, last thing he wants is to face Helen mad. She’s a tough one.

  Wish me luck, he says. Luck, she says.

  Victor opens the car door and steps out into the night.

  Will has rounded everyone up into the living room, and the edge of the dining room, and the stairs to the second floor, where Beth and Mac sit on the bottom steps and Myra sits halfway up, watching silently. Damned if she’s going to hide in her room while everyone else is down here.

  It’s the goofiest group of men she’s ever seen. Jimmy McGovern looks like he’s trying out for Laugh-In with his Day-Glo clothes, and Norton is dressed as if he’s going out to dinner, sitting stiffly next to Lars, who needs a shave and seems soft and out of focus, like the fuzzy dog he’s holding in his lap. Victor Peters, who’s a very sweet old man, always reminds her of the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz, and then there’s Frank Tucker, standing in the corner, his posture perfect, chin held high, smoking a pipe as if he were posing for some ad—and Nate Johnson, standing in another corner, dark and distant as ever. Chip Stark sits in one chair, looking cocky, and Greg in another, his legs curled up under him like a little kid at the movies. And, of course, Will, the chief beluga, with one foot on the coffee table, one hand on the back of the high-backed chair, his dark eyes gleaming with the glory of theatre. He’s quite charismatic. She can’t deny it.

  Now Myra doesn’t know how she feels about Will. She’s mad at him, yes, but he has offered her a chance at acting again, a chance she hasn’t even allowed herself. How is she supposed to feel? She used to have a small pocket calendar for just this kind of thing. She charted her fights with Beth to see if the arguments could be related to either’s menstrual cycles. She charted Mac’s colds to see if they could be connected to high pollen days. She marked the days down when Will came home late without a good excuse. Now she needs to buy another calendar and mark a 0 for the days she doesn’t love him and an X for the days she does. Then she can measure her feelings, not make judgments from the heat of the moment. But what about a day like this, when she hated him and wanted to love him; what code can she find to represent that?

  Myra decides she will tell Will about her decision to take the part of Curley’s Wife when they are in bed tonight: see if he asks her how she came to this decision, how she feels about it. Then she’ll decide how to mark this day down.

  Will’s expounding on the state of resident companies in America, and his voice rises as he gets to the heart of his speech. “So tell me, why isn’t theatre as important as rock and roll? We need plays that get the attention of a whole new generation! New York is staging Hair! A musical with nudity! What can a small resident company do? We need to put on plays so vivid they make our audiences gasp! Let’s find those plays and bring them to life. Let’s make theatre necessary to their very souls!”

  It is a passionate speech, but Myra has heard it before. So have most of the actors, but it is always a good place to get everyone started listing their favorite plays, which is exactly what happens for the next half hour until Norton raises his hand and clears his throat.

  “Excuse me, Will, but tell me something.”

  “Yes?” Will leans over expectantly, ready to answer any question about the theatre ever asked.

  “Could you please explain this arrangement you have for allocating showers? You mentioned something about odd-numbered days for everyone under thirty-five and even-numbered days for everyone over thirty-five? Are you quite serious?”

  “Okay, okay,” Will says, as several other voices pipe in questions about the sleeping arrangements. “That plan for the showers is correct. As for beds, any actor playing a ranch hand sleeps on a bunk in the barn. Nate’s going to sleep in the front room, and he’s not to go into the main part of the barn, just like in the play. Norton will sleep in Mac’s room, since Mac is sleeping in the station wagon. Is that right, Mac?” Mac nods. “And Greg will sleep in Beth’s room. Beth and Myra will sleep in our bedroom, since I’m going to cast myself as a ranch hand for the duration of this rehearsal and sleep in the barn myself.”

  Oh, I was right after all, Myra thinks, then flinches as Greg Henry shouts, “Far out! I get a bed!” and Beth drops her empty Coke bottle on the bare wood floor. Shakes, who had been sitting quietly in Lars’s lap, yelps when Greg shouts, and begins to wheeze, spraying mucus in the direction of Norton Frye, who cries, “Oh, Mother Mary!” and jumps up to move away but trips on Victor Peters’ leg and falls in his lap. Lars pulls his dog close to his chest and murmurs, “It’s okay Shakes, it’s okay,” and Ben Walton and Jimmy McGovern start laughing so hard they can’t stop until Will shouts, “Enough!” Shakes freezes in midwhimper.

  Everyone quiets down. Norton has gotten himself out of Victor Peters’ lap and stands under the dining room arch with his arms crossed, looking sour.

  “Finally,” Will says, “there will be no smoking in the barn. It’s a fire hazard.” Everyone groans. “We’ll place cans around the outside of the barn. Please use them. Now, tomorrow at nine we will meet in the barn and make solid plans. Bring your thinking caps. I know that together we can make something important happen, something startling. Oh, Myra, did you decide to fill in for Melinda for us?”

  She didn’t see it coming. She expected he would ask her in private, that he picked up on her discomfort. She feels like a fool. She marks the day as a big fat O.

  “Yes, I will,” she says, because she wants to. She really wants to.

  At the same time as Will says, “Great,” Beth gasps. Norton announces, “I’m going to bed.” People get up. Jimmy McGovern asks where the liquor is kept, and Will points to the kitchen. Several people head in that direction. As Beth goes upstairs, she glares at Myra. Oh, Myra thinks, sleeping in the same bed with Beth is going to be so much fun.

  In less than a minute, the living room has cleared out. Myra sits on her step, halfway up and halfway down. It feels like the right place to be, so she just stays there.

  Beth feels as if she’s fallen off a roller coaster. One minute Greg Henry is sleeping in her bed, an idea full of possibilities, such as tiredly slipping into her own bed in the middle of the night, an understandable mistake. Then, boom, her mother takes the part of Curley’s Wife, a young, seductive woman. Are they crazy? And I have to sleep in the same bed with my mother? Yeah, right. Beth makes sure there is no underwear on the floor or Tampax on the bureau, gathers up her nightgown, the top quilt, and one pillow (leaving one for Greg), and stomps back downstairs, past her mother who is still on the step, and announces—not to her mother but to anyone else who might be listening, “I’m sleeping on the couch!” There is a hitch here, Beth knows. People will want to sit around the living room and talk late into the night. Well, they will just have to deal with her living right here, on this stupid old couch. Everyone else is making all sorts of decisions; she’s making hers. If she had a can of spray paint, she’d write, This Couch Belongs to Beth. It’s about all that does.

  Will returns to the living room, looking for Myra, who is still just sitting on that damn step. Why the hell doesn’t she get up? He wants to ask her if she minds him sleeping in the barn. “Myra,” he says. That’s as far as he gets. For the next ten minutes, a parade of actors file through the house asking for something. Jugs for water. Bowls. A flashlight. A long electrical cord. Is there a shotgun in case a bear comes into the barn? Will is desperate to keep everyone happy, so he answers these questions as if they made sense. How long a cord? To stretch to the barn? No, but write it on the list on the kitchen table. A gun? No, it’s been years since a bear
was seen around here. Honest. When Jimmy McGovern asks if there is a generator they can hook up out there, it’s getting pretty dark, Will tells him that’s what the three lanterns are for, but Jimmy points out those lanterns are just props and there’s no kerosene in them. Will says, “Add it to the list.” Then Jimmy tells him Greg Henry just drove off to go into town for a while, and God help him if he brings anyone back to the barn tonight, “if you catch my drift.” Will says Greg’s not that stupid, then suggests Jimmy take out the last bottle of scotch and just try and relax. Finally, when he turns to talk to Myra, she’s gone, and he hears the bathroom door close with a solid thud. Will decides to just give up. Timing is everything. He’s missed his cue.

  Turning around, Will notices Beth on the couch with the quilt pulled over her head, her feet sticking out at the other end. Just as he leaves the living room, he hears a whimpering noise and wonders if Lars’s dog is still in the house.

  They are grown men sleeping on prop beds in a dark barn for the love of theatre. But that doesn’t mean they don’t complain. They make complaining an art form. An amusement. A play:

  FRANK TUCKER. This is completely ridiculous. Absurd. Who took my pillow?

  JIMMY MCGOVERN. I saw a raccoon walk off with it, Frank. He went that-a-way. (He points toward the smaller room where NATE is making up his bed.)

  FRANK TUCKER. Oh, shut up, Jimmy. Seriously, has anyone seen it? It has blue and white strips. It’s got down feathers, for God’s sake.

  CHIP STARK. There’s mouse shit everywhere. I’m sleeping with my boots on.

  JIMMY McGOVERN. You screw with your boots on, Stark, so what’s the big deal?

  CHIP STARK. And did you see the size of those spider webs? BEN WALTON. (He sits on his bed, and it creaks like chalk across the blackboard.) This bunk won’t hold me. (He bounces up and down lightly. A spring lets loose.)