The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  Norton, who’s never had children, thinks becoming a parent makes you blind. He’s seen it over and over, parents relating glowing tales about their kids, and then, when he finally meets those children, he wonders who in heaven’s name the parents were talking about. Norton thinks, although he’s smart enough never to say it out loud, that if parents want to know the truth about their child, they should ask a stranger.

  So right now, he’s wondering what Beth has up her sleeve. If the girl brings out brownies for dessert, Norton will have to pass. As it is, he’s not touching his Kool-Aid.

  Ben watches Myra all through lunch. He can’t help it. It’s as if Lennie has stayed in a corner in his brain and keeps whispering, Look! Pretty! The conversation that Ben is having with himself is going like this:

  LENNIE. She’s pretty.

  BEN. Shut up. She’s Will’s wife.

  LENNIE. But she’s soft and pretty. I like her. She smiles nice. BEN. She’s just happy because she got to act again. And she’s good. She’s glowing right now. Yeah, she’s pretty, but this woman is Will’s wife.

  LENNIE. I’m not going to hurt her. I just want to touch her cheek. She sure is pretty. BEN. Oh, shut up.

  Ben turns to Frank Tucker, needing a conversation with someone sane. Well, maybe none of them are sane, but at least Frank’s isn’t a voice in Ben’s head trying to get him in a whole lot of trouble. “So Frank, what’s your wife doing in Texas again?” He knows full well she’s there looking after her mother, but he also knows Frank will talk for the next half hour about his wife, and that’s just what Ben needs to hear right now. About loyalty. Spousely love. Because Myra’s smile is making things move around inside him that better damn well hold still.

  Ben hears a car and turns to look. It’s not Jimmy back from fishing. It’s a blue and white Volkswagen van. Ben knows whose van it is. Apparently so does everyone else. There is an immediate reaction: everyone turns to someone else and says, “Melinda!” the murmur of her name like the chorus of a Greek play.

  At the sight of Melinda’s van, Will freezes in midbite. Melinda? What’s she doing here now? Why didn’t she call first? Will looks at Myra, although he keeps the van in view, wanting it to be Melinda, and wanting it not to be Melinda. What the hell’s he going to do now? Melinda’s the right actress for the part of Curley’s Wife. Myra’s too old, but it would have been nice for her to have a few more days. A week. Could he ask Melinda just to hang out and watch for the next week? He closes his eyes, knowing he can’t do that; she’s driven all the way here to play the role she’s already been assigned. And she needs to join in immediately, to make his idea work, to live this play, find its heart. He’ll have to tell Myra thanks for filling in, but Melinda needs to take over now. It’s what he has to do. Myra will understand.

  He’s lying to himself and knows it. Myra is not going to take this easily.

  Will opens his eyes. Melinda is really here. Why didn’t she call?

  As the actors get up and walk over to Melinda’s van, Myra is left sitting at the end of the table, holding up a fork; a nameless spear-holder, a bit player again.

  “Myra,” Will says. She turns toward him, startled. She shows him, deliberately, a flash of such anger Will feels his face pale, then she stands and walks toward the van. Will stands, too, walking slowly toward the woman he has been calling all week long to come here.

  Melinda’s wearing a very short orange skirt, a gauzy white peasant blouse, and sandals that have straps wound around her calves all the way to her knees. Her long brown curly hair is loose and wind-whipped. She’s laughing at the clamor of questions and holds up a hand giving the peace sign. The girl loves a grand entrance, he thinks, but don’t we all?

  “Whoa!” she says. “Cool out. Didn’t Beth tell you I was coming?”

  Beth is nowhere in sight. Everyone turns to Will. He looks at Myra. “I didn’t know,” he tells her, shaking his head. “Beth didn’t tell me.” He thinks she believes him, but a coldness in her eyes says it doesn’t matter either way. She knows what he will do now. The play must go on. The theatre must be saved. He wonders if he’s making a huge mistake. But he needs to be a director now, so he can provide for his family. He has responsibilities. Myra could never support them. What could she do? Sing for their supper? All she has ever done is raise kids. He needs to keep his job. How can she blame him? He’s forming a really good argument in his head, when everyone else starts talking.

  “Who told you we were here?” Ben asks Melinda.

  “Where were you?” Greg asks.

  “Are you … ?” Lars Lyman asks. “Are you going to … ?”

  “Are you going to stay for the rehearsal?” Chip asks.

  Melinda laughs. “Trent told me you were trying to find me. I was in New York City for the last week. God, it was great! Uta Hagen let me watch her classes, and I sat in on a rehearsal of Jesus Christ Superstar, and I went to hear Richard Schechner give a talk on The Living Theatre that was so fantastic. And now you guys are doing this! It’s karma! Of course I’m staying! Where should I put my stuff?”

  “In my room,” Myra says. “I’ll show you.” She turns and walks toward the house.

  Melinda pulls a carpetbag out of the backseat, and Lars Lyman takes it from her. “What have you guys been doing?” Melinda asks Lars as they walk away. Lars says something Will can’t hear, and Melinda laughs, her laugh so young and happy, Will wants to hold it in his hand like a lucky rabbit’s foot. He needs it to keep him young. And brave enough to face Myra.

  “What?” Melinda says. “You did that without me? Oh, cool! We’ll have to do it again!” When they go in the house, everyone turns and stares at Will. He notes there is some underlying humor in their supposedly somber looks. They should be able to hide those smiles. He’s taught them to act better than this.

  “Okay, so Melinda’s here,” Will says quietly, not moving a muscle. “She’ll play Curley’s Wife. We’ll call the next rehearsal in a half hour. I need to go talk to Beth. And Myra. Everything will be just fine. Clean up the mess from lunch and get ready.”

  Will heads to the house thinking Beth may be too old to spank, but all the same, his hand itches to smack something. He’s glad that stupid dog isn’t around right now. He can vividly imagine drop-kicking the old thing; then, because his imagination is so good, he becomes disgusted with himself for committing such a horrible act and promises to be nicer to Shakes from now on. He thinks about the dog as he walks toward his house, in order not to think about Myra.

  Even going fishing sounds better than going into that house.

  The boat tips to one side as Jimmy McGovern takes a sharp turn, and Nate wonders what prompted him to say he’d come along on this fool’s outing. Here he is with a freckled-faced white kid playing James Bond in a boat, and a little kid who won’t even look at him. He knows why he came, though. He felt a need to get away from that farm, that narrow room, the feeling that he was becoming a character in a play. Living the play’s no great idea if you have to be someone who doesn’t like who he is and don’t like no one else either. He is even beginning to talk and think like Crooks. Nate was perfectly happy with his life up to a few days ago, so he thought. He must have a death wish now, getting in this boat with this fool. He can’t swim neither. Either. Damn that Crooks. Then, sorry. He shouldn’t be damning nobody, specially some poor black guy who’s just a fictional character Steinbeck wrote up to represent poor black stable hands gone old and bitter.

  “Hey, Nate!” Jimmy yells from the front of the boat to where Nate sits on a hard, wet, metal box. “You can get those rods ready! There’s a place about a mile from here we caught a ton of fish last time. I’m heading her there. Hold on!”

  Nate’s already holding on, and he’s not letting go till the boat’s not moving again. “Don’t know how to get the rods ready, Jimmy!” he shouts back, which is true, since he’s never been fishing in his life. All this yelling—Jesus, he thought fishing was supposed to be quiet.

  “Woo-e
y! A fishing virgin! Why didn’t you tell me? Damn! Buddy, you are going to love this! Hey, Mac, you can teach Nate a few things yourself! And look at that sky! What a day for fishing!”

  Big white clouds march across the sky. Nate can see their shadows travel across the water like huge gray fish. The wind blows into his eyes, and he’s just figuring out how to keep them open by turning his face away, not looking directly ahead. There’s something mesmerizing about this, the way the boat rises and falls, the V of waves that follows them, the smell of the lake. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

  He wants to tell Crooks that. The world ain’t so bad. He wants to believe Jimmy asked him to come because they are friends in some way, not just because he is the only other guy not in the scene they’re rehearsing back at the farm. Hell, he’d like to believe a whole lot of shit.

  What he would have told Will that night they were all sharing their dreams was that he’d like to have a reason to believe again, in God and in people. And a friend, that most of all. But it’s not something a man can ask for. Asking for a friend isn’t the same thing as just being one.

  The sun comes out from behind a cloud, and Nate looks up at the sky. As always, he has the thought, What you doing up there, God? Hiding? But this time, his thoughts go one more step. Just like me, huh?

  The boat slows, and the sound of the engine grows softer, like the murmur of a loud heart. “Hey, Nate!” Jimmy shouts. “This is it. You are about to catch your first fish! Man, I envy you!”

  Jimmy turns off the engine. Now there is nothing but silence as the waves lap against the boat. But the silence lasts only a minute. For the next hour, as they fish and drink beer, Jimmy McGovern talks nonstop, and Nate and Mac laugh. No one catches a single fish. Nate says Jimmy’s stories are scaring away the fish, and Mac grins and nods. Mac doesn’t actually talk to Nate, but they laugh at the same jokes, and every now and then, Mac will look right at him and grin shyly. Nate wonders what they’d do with a fish if they ever caught one, but he doesn’t really care if they do.

  Beth has been watching the action from her bedroom window—it has the best view of the front yard, and it is her room, technically. She left the door open, thinking it might seem really weird if Greg happened to come up and find her in his room with the door closed. But of course, it’s not Greg Henry who comes upstairs.

  Her mom walks right by, not even glancing at Beth. A minute later Beth hears Melinda and Lars walking up the steps talking, and the scratchy-nail sound of Shakes trying to climb the stairs. Melinda does look in Beth’s room.

  “Hey, kid,” Melinda says. “Didn’t you tell anyone I was coming?”

  Beth shrugs.

  “They looked pretty surprised out there. You didn’t forget about me, did you?”

  Beth shakes her head no.

  “Oh,” Melinda says, giving Beth a wink. “I see. Just wanted to shake things up? Been boring for you? Well, I’m here now.” Melinda gives Beth the peace sign and moves on. Then Lars passes by carrying a red suitcase-kind-of-bag, and a minute later the dog scuttles by. Polite conversation is going on in her parents’ room about towels, and then Lars goes back downstairs, carrying Shakes. Next, Beth hears slow, steady footsteps coming up the stairs. Knowing who that will be, she dashes to close the door, but she’s too late. As her father comes into her room, she backs up and sits down on her bed, instinctively protecting her butt. The grin on her face from ten minutes ago is long forgotten.

  Her father has never struck her before, but she saw him punch a kitchen cabinet after getting a phone call from the board canceling the production of Lysistrata because it was too political. His hand went right through the cabinet and broke three glasses, so Beth is trying to look as small and fragile as possible. This isn’t what she planned. She planned on smirking and saying, “No, I didn’t tell you. So what?” But plans change.

  “Oh, Daddy, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just got so mad. You said I could help you, and then you gave Mom the role and kicked me out of the barn. Can’t you think about me sometimes?”

  Her father looks at her so coldly, she wants to crawl under the blankets. “You will stay in your room the rest of the day. Tomorrow you will clean the whole house, top to bottom. And you will apologize to your mother. Do you understand?”

  “But all I did—”

  “We both know exactly what you did and why. You wanted to embarrass your mother. I’m greatly disappointed in you. And ashamed. You should be too. Damn ashamed of yourself.” He leaves the room and heads downstairs. Beth feels hit. She feels something broken. She hates everyone, including herself, her father, and especially her mother. Her father was blind sometimes, and that was because he was a great actor and director and got lost in his art, but her mom was her mom, who could have said no to the role of Curley’s Wife, who knew how badly Beth wanted to act, who always used to tell her she’d step in front of a speeding train for Beth, if she had to. Cut off her own right arm. Couldn’t she have done this one small thing for her? Shouldn’t she have? She can remember loving her mom. Can’t her mom remember loving her? And what about her dad, really? Maybe the times he seemed to love her were an act, the Dad role. And he’s such a good actor, he’s just fooled her all this while. Doesn’t he know he can make her feel so great, and so bad? Crying, she puts her head down on the pillow. It smells different, and she remembers whose head was on this pillow. If Greg Henry would just hold her, she would be okay. She would be fine.

  Will’s not sure he understands his own daughter. He could swear she’s bubbly, cute, curious, and loving. But these qualities come with an image of a girl much younger, six, he thinks: they are walking down a country road, her small hand in his, and she’s asking him where the stars go in the day. Then sometimes when he looks at his daughter now, he is startled and has to think, Oh, yes, that’s my Beth, the dark eyes, the square shoulders, the long legs. But is she sweet? Is she curious? Is she loving? He doesn’t really know. A lot seems to hinge on hope.

  A day and a half. She should be able to forget a day and a half. There are whole months that Myra can’t recall, vacations she remembers only from the pictures. What’s a day and a half? Thirty-six hours. Thirty-six hours of being whole again. Thirty-six hours of believing in herself. She should be able to leave that behind like a paper bag under a hydrangea bush. She had forgotten that bag. So why not just forget today?

  Sure, she can tell herself that she can act again. Now that she knows she wants to. But no one will give her that chance. This rehearsal was different—no one will ask her to rehearse a part just for the fun of it again. Not with her history.

  She could try community theatres, where no one would know that she once froze in front of an audience, but to Equity actors, those are just people having fun—it would be like an oil painter going back to crayons. Could she enjoy that? If she weren’t seeing herself through Will’s eyes, then maybe she could. And there’s Beth’s respect that Myra has to face. It shouldn’t matter how harshly her child judges her—Beth will grow up. But Myra is flattened to her core that her own daughter hates her enough to have embarrassed her this way. Myra wonders if Beth’s anger, and Mac’s quietness, stem from the same fear: of not meeting Will’s expectations. A good mother might go to Beth now and tell her she loves her no matter what, that Beth doesn’t need to find self-worth in her father’s eyes, that kindness will get her further in life than anger. But Myra must not be that very brave and wonderful mother, because she stays in her room. She cannot face the possibility of defeat in a good gesture.

  As she skips across the lawn toward the actors who stand smoking by the barn, Melinda hums “Jesus Christ Superstar.” Will’s farm is such a great place. The air is fresh, and the green trees glow with health and happiness. She loved New York City, still loves New York City, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love the country too. Love shouldn’t have limits, she thinks, or restrictions. The more things, or people, one loves, the better. Melinda wants to learn how to love everything, even her enemies—al
though she doesn’t have any enemies, except maybe Nixon, and warmongers, and lawyers, and—well, she should love them too. At this very moment, with the sun on her face, Melinda believes a great love will grow from her very soul and save the world. She’s flying high right now. She doesn’t do drugs anymore—she has even given up alcohol and caffeine—but yoga exercises, like the ones she performed in that apple orchard before she got here, give her a better rush than any chemical ever could.

  Melinda leans over and picks up cigarette butts from the grass, watching herself from the others’ eyes, a habit she’s had since childhood. She’s aware of how she looks arching down without bending her knees, how, as she straightens up, her loose blouse catches a slight breeze and puffs open at the neck, how her unbound hair hides her face until she shakes her head. She must look like a peaches-and-cream peasant girl picking flowers in some beautiful European country, an image that makes her laugh, since she is holding a handful of cigarette butts. The imagination is a wonderful thing. She’s so glad she is part of a company directed by Will Bartlett.

  Will doesn’t talk to Myra. The bedroom door is closed, and he can’t face knocking on his own door. He’s going to go with his instinct this time, which says, Stay away.

  Back at the barn, he calls out, “Okay everyone, gather up.” He stands framed in the doorway as they cluster on the lawn, smoking.