The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  But then Beth hears Greg Henry say, “I’m going to do the dishes tonight,” while her father adds, “Beth will help you.”

  Greg Henry looks at Beth. Their eyes meet. “Well, Beth?” he says. “Will you help me, pretty please?” He bats his eyelashes at her. Her stomach flips right over. She can feel it.

  “Sure,” Beth says, hoping there will be a whole lot of dishes tonight.

  Dinner ends with Jimmy McGovern telling a story about a six-legged cow that was stolen from the freak show in Indiana by a poor starving family that ate it, then mailed the bones back for posterity—but put their return address on the package. They were fined the going rate, per pound, of beef, plus five hundred dollars a leg.

  Ben starts a story about a woman he knew with one leg, but then looks at Mac and stops. He sticks the last half of his hot dog on his nose and pretends to be Pinocchio. Most everyone gets up to find another beer. Beth cups her hand in front of her mouth and checks her breath. Time to do the dishes.

  After dinner Will asks Myra if she would like to take a walk down the lane. Jimmy McGovern and Chip Stark overhear and in perfect unison say, “Awww! Ain’t that sweet!” Will loves these guys but wishes they could just back off a little, say to Pittsburgh. The thought bothers him; this closeness was his idea. He tosses that worry out and concentrates on what he needs to say to Myra.

  He knows better than to bring up money right away, nor does he want to. Mostly he would like some time alone with her, a quiet stroll. He’s surprised, when he takes her hand, how much he needs it.

  Only when they get to the end of the lane does he speak. “Want to keep going?”

  “Yes.”

  They turn left and walk down the center of the road. The last cloud in the sky reflects the red sunset, like a last hurrah. It’s a great lighting effect, and Will stores it in his memory for another play. Will and Myra don’t speak again, until the absence of their words becomes too much intentionally unsaid.

  “Did you like it? The reading? How did it feel?” Will doesn’t add, after all this time, but those words are heard by both.

  “I liked it. I’m sorry I flubbed the first lines. Something important caught my attention, but I forget what. It seemed important.” Then, after a pause, “I liked it.”

  “I think it went well, considering. The second reading felt very alive. There’s an energy you wouldn’t expect in a reading of a play they’ve already performed. I think I’m right, doing this here.” He thinks maybe this is the time to say, Maybe we should invite the whole company, but then thinks twice. Instead he says, “Maybe it was something about food. What you were trying to think about?”

  “No,” Myra says. “Not food. It was something important.” This is said stiffly. Myra walks a bit faster. Will keeps hold of her hand, slows her down. Obviously he said the wrong thing. What is the right thing?

  “Your reading was good. Curley’s Wife is not a dim bulb, just lost. I think you found that.”

  “Thank you,” Myra says. Her body slows. Will can feel her relax.

  “The actors like you. You can see it in the way they look at you.”

  Oddly, Myra stops walking. She pulls her hand from his and turns at him, not to him. Will can see by the way her eyes get shiny that he has somehow said the most wrong thing possible.

  “Are they yours, to offer me their friendship? At this late date? Let me tell you something, Will, they have always liked me. I have been around. I may not be an actor anymore, but I’m no goddamn shadow you have just cast the spotlight on. These are my friends. Of course they fucking like me.”

  Okay, he sees her point. Now he’s afraid to open his mouth, but if he doesn’t, he might as well walk to the nearest train station. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Condescending. I just … well, I guess I was feeling proud, of you … the way they look at you … even Frank Tucker. They want to please you. It makes me proud. That’s what I meant. I didn’t mean to …”

  “All right,” Myra says. “You weaseled your way out of that one. Stop before you blow it.”

  “You know I love you, don’t you?” Will says.

  “Sometimes,” Myra says. She takes his hand, but loosely, like a warning that it may not stay. They walk on. A bat swoops low across the road. Something coughs in the woods. A raccoon, probably. Will shot a raccoon as a kid. He’s felt bad about it ever since. He actually apologizes to every raccoon he ever sees. “Did I ever tell you about the raccoon I shot?”

  “Oh, come on. The kids can recite the story verbatim. What do you really want to talk about?”

  Will supposes this is the time to mention the money. If he waits any longer, she’s going to be suspicious of everything he’s said. “Okay, I’m worried about money. Everyone says they’ll chip in some, but it’s not enough. We’ve got five hundred in the checking account, and what I get from unemployment until the summer season starts, and the savings account for the kids—which I know we can’t touch. We need money.”

  They approach the foot of a hill, and not having the energy to walk up, they turn back toward the house.

  “So you want to ask my parents?” She says it simply, but he knows she’s not happy about it.

  “We’ll call it a grant. We’ll make them a plaque.” He crosses his fingers for luck.

  “Don’t be stupid. Just tell me how much?” she says.

  “One thousand.”

  “We owe them two.”

  “I know. I appreciate it. You know I do. I think you have the greatest parents alive. The fact that they’re rich, that they’re generous, that they don’t seem to mind being asked as much as we mind asking, makes me the luckiest in-law in the world. I’m not making it a habit, but it’s now or never with this theatre, I know it.”

  “Let’s say this plan of yours doesn’t work. Let’s say they disband the summer theatre, and the Mill Street follows suit. What then?”

  “I’ll start a new theatre. A small one. We’ll find a building to rent. I’ll drive a taxi or something. And maybe we’ll have to borrow another thousand, in a year. Myra, they said, ‘Just ask.’ I know you hate to. I’ll do it, if you want. But I want to make this work. I believe it will.” He says this with emphasis to help make it true.

  She’s quiet. They keep walking. Will veers over to the side of the road, spotting some purple wildflowers. He tries to tear them off, but they’re tough, and he ends up pulling them out by the roots.

  “I do love you,” he says, bowing as he hands them to her.

  “Let’s not talk love and money at the same time,” she says, but takes the flowers, the long stems like a handful of dirty green shoelaces. “I’ll ask them, because I don’t see how we can tell everyone to go home after you’ve invited them here. But this better work.”

  “It will. This is my chance to do something important.”

  The way Myra shakes her head, he wonders if he said something wrong again. They are quiet all the way back to the house.

  In the kitchen, Beth dries and puts away the dishes that Greg Henry washes, and occasionally they bump into each other, arms brushing arms, hands brushing hands, a foot bumping a foot. It’s warm in the kitchen from the hot water. Greg’s curls are slightly damp. His shirt, a soft blue, short-sleeved cotton is unbuttoned to the last two buttons. The thick curly hair on his chest peeks out. She’s pretty sure he’s doing this on purpose.

  “So,” Greg says, “you want to act, huh?”

  “Yeah. I always wanted to act, ever since I saw my first play, The Tempest. I wanted to be Ariel. It just seems like there’s nothing else worth doing. Nothing else excites me as much as acting. I take lessons at the theatre. You know, the ones for kids on Saturdays. But I’m too old for that now. I’m sixteen now. They should offer classes for the older teenagers. You know? Maybe you could do that? Teach those classes.” She takes the glass he has been holding during her whole speech and turns away before he notices how badly she’s blushing. Why did she tell him she was sixteen
? Maybe he’d think she was older if she didn’t say anything at all. She’s tall for her age. He might have thought she was eighteen. She turns back to look at him. He’s grinning.

  “Yeah, that would be cool,” he says.

  Beth has forgotten what she has said now, except for the sixteen-year-old part. “Yeah, it would be cool.”

  He hands her a pot. “I wanted to act all my life too. My first-grade teacher, Mrs. Slive, had this thing for plays. I think she was a wannabe actress or something. We put on skits every week. Little Red Riding Hood and The Ginger Bread Man. I loved first grade. I cried when they told me I had to go to second grade. I thought it was like a punishment. I wasn’t too bright, I guess.” Greg laughs. Beth laughs too.

  “Oh, I bet you’re really smart,” Beth says, and lightly punches him on his arm.

  “Smart enough to get kitchen duty with you.” He dips his hand into the soapy water and flings bubbles at her.

  Beth squeals and reaches around him to get herself a handful of bubbles. They slide into each other. Greg grabs her wrist and twists her around so she can’t get to the sink. “Now, now,” he says. “No, you don’t. I’m a guest. You can’t get me wet.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she says. She pulls out of his grip and just manages to get a bit of dishwater on her fingers, which she flicks at his face. A few drops of water cling to his cheek, and one little bubble lands on his nose. Greg looks down at it with crossed eyes. He looks so goofy (and so cute) that Beth giggles.

  “Hey, Beth,” Greg says. “You’re in charge of drying. Get this bubble off me.” He sticks his face out toward her, eyes still crossed. Beth wants to kiss his nose. Lick the bubble off. She is so high on Greg Henry, she wants to shout and dance. Using one finger, Beth touches the bubble on his nose. It bursts and is gone.

  “Back to being good little boys and girls now,” Greg says. “There sure are a lot of dirty dishes.”

  “Oh, well,” Beth says. She imagines them living together, making love on the kitchen table each night after the dishes are done, sometimes before the dishes are done. She can’t believe what he said about being smart enough to get stuck doing dishes with her. He is so sweet. And so cute. She wonders when he’s going to make a move. It’s obvious he likes her.

  When Myra and Will get back from their walk, everyone except Beth and Greg Henry are sitting in a circle on the front yard, a beer in hand. The stars are brightening in the dark sky like shy children growing bold. Myra can’t bear the thought of going inside the house; it’s a night to stay outside, the air is warm and fresh against her face, and it’s early enough in the year that there are no mosquitos. She’ll join her friends on the lawn. There is an open spot that she imagines has been saved just for her.

  But before she can sit, Will asks her to come around to the back of the house. What now? she thinks. What more can he want?

  “The garbage is piling up,” he says as they turn the corner. “I was thinking of getting some extra wood tomorrow and building a little shed right here. It’ll keep the raccoons out of the garbage until we get it to the dump. What do you think?”

  Myra sighs. He can invite nine people to their home for a month without batting an eye, but he can’t build a little shed without her approval. “That would be fine, Will.” She turns, and through the kitchen window, she sees Beth and Greg Henry laughing. It’s completely innocent—probably more innocent than Beth realizes—but it reminds Myra of what she was thinking about in the barn, during the reading.

  “I remembered,” she says. “I was thinking about Beth. All these men …”

  “Oh, come on, Myra,” Will says, rolling his eyes.

  “No, really. It makes me uneasy.”

  “No one’s going to do anything.”

  “It’s not what they might do, Will, it’s what she might do. Don’t you remember being sixteen? Maybe we should think about sending her back to stay with Debby, just for a while.”

  “I promised she could be the property assistant, Myra.”

  “But she won’t have anything to do until the season starts. Until then, she’s just going to hang out.”

  “Everything will be fine,” he says.

  She’s not so sure. They walk back around the house. Beth and Greg are sitting in the circle of actors. The space that was waiting for Myra is gone.

  Chip watches Myra and Will go off for their walk, then come back and go behind the house. There is an easy, slow manner to the way they walk, the way they look at each other, and it occurs to Chip that he has never gotten this far in a relationship: to the calm after passion. He wonders if the end of passion leads to something greater, rather than something less. His parents divorced when he was ten, and his mother never remarried. His dad did, though, three times. He married women who were thirty and divorced them before they turned forty. But to be fair, Chip knows his dad loved those women. With each successive wife, his dad had said, “This is the one. God, I love her so bad it hurts.” His father needed that hurting-so-bad love more than the women themselves. What would it be like, a one-woman kind of love? Like Myra and Will. There’s something warm and fuzzy about that idea. Then again, he’s probably just had too many beers.

  Chip’s only slept with one woman Myra’s age, but he can easily remember how great that was. Women are like beer. There are so many different kinds.

  Last night Chip dreamt about sex, and it got him hard as a rock. Not much he could do about it in a barn full of men—that is, nothing he’d dare to do. Anyone saw him do something like that, it would be the running joke for the next month. And these guys liked a good running joke. They were still needling Norton Frye about the red velvet shirt he wore six months ago. But it seems Victor Peters’ snoring is the joke this week. It’s not good enough to last much longer. Everyone’s flawless imitation of Victor’s nasal wheeze is getting old quick. Chip’s not going to be anyone’s joke, ever again.

  Myra stops just outside the circle of actors as if looking for someone. The flicker of an oil lamp lights the underside of her chin and across her neck. She holds her head so high, Chip thinks, but it’s an effort. His mom was like that, after his dad left. Chip moves over, nudging Jimmy to move, too, and waves for Myra to sit down.

  Lars watches as the group of actors shifts around to allow Will and Myra in. The actors have, for the most part, worked together for years, buddied up, shared the good times. The worst thing they’ve had to deal with was Victor’s wife dying. They were all there for him, and that was a good feeling and a bad feeling too. But the good times don’t make Lars any less nervous; they make him more nervous. He isn’t a “glass is half empty” kind of guy, he’s a “glass is going to break” kind of guy. Sometimes he wants the bad thing to happen, to get it over with, so he can relax for a few minutes. He has a bad habit of slowing down when he drives by an accident. Accidents are somehow reassuring. He’s not so crazy, just careful.

  The conversation stops as Will and Myra sit down, until Ben Walton breaks the silence with a bad elephant joke. Everyone laughs except Nate Johnson and Frank Tucker. Even Lars laughs. It’s a really bad joke, and it’s followed by dozens of really bad elephant jokes, which become really bad dumb blond jokes. Lars tries to tell one but can’t remember the punch line. Everyone knows it anyway.

  The laughter fills the dark spaces between the actors. It reaches out into the night like a flare of good hope. Lars closes his eyes and feels that, for a moment, everything is all right.

  Thursday

  Thursday is cool but clear. The morning is spent getting rid of hangovers, eating breakfast, going to the store. Ben is sure this whole idea of Will’s is nuts, until the strangest thing happens: it starts to work.

  He can feel it as Greg Henry and Jimmy McGovern fix the roof, laughing and insulting each other, but working hard and in character. He can feel it as Frank Tucker helps Lars Lyman build the new picnic table, as Nate Johnson cleans out the barn, and as Victor Peters and Will assemble the garbage shelter. Even Shakes seems to be acting his part.
The dog stinks.

  As Ben hauls the heavy stuff, he feels Lennie invade his mind; his thoughts slow, the world grows simple. He picks up heavier and heavier loads, just to make people happy. A voice inside his head says he’s going to pay for this, his back will be killing him tomorrow, but he won’t listen. Norton Frye walks around inspecting things, just like The Boss would. Myra appears with iced tea. She’s not quite the character of Curley’s Wife, she’s not openly flirting with anyone, but she’s there, on the edge of things, soft and feminine. Her smile widens when anyone talks to her, and her laugh is light and carefree. Ben, just as Lennie would, notices just where she is at all times.

  Earlier, Myra dropped off Mac and Beth in town for a matinee of In Search of the Castaways, Beth protesting loudly. Ben heard that argument, as did anyone else who came near. A private talk was impossible with all these people around. That was when Ben was thinking Will’s idea was a disaster. But right now, Ben’s carrying a five-gallon bucket of tar over to the ladder, grinning his stupid head off. “Hey, George!” he yells to Lars Lyman, “Look at me! Look at me, George!” He lifts the tar bucket up over his head and prances around. He slips on a patch of wet grass and falls on his ass.

  “Hey, Lennie, cut it out!” Lars yells, edgy but still amused, just the way George would sound. Ben puts on his bashful, chagrined look and says, “Sorry, George.” He picks up the bucket of tar and carries it with his head lowered. They know who they really are—it’s just fun to be someone else. That’s why they’re actors.