by P. D. Cacek
“Yeah, but….” A tiny shy smile touched Trisha’s naturally pink lips. Crissy almost threw up. “She said I got Abigail.”
Crissy felt a prickling rush of heat against the back of her neck as she walked away.
“No one gets Abigail, Abigail has to be earned.”
It took Crissy only a few minutes to walk from the theater arts office to Mr. Byrd’s classroom on the second floor.
“C-Cr-Crissy. H-h-h-hi!”
Oh shit.
Blankie Frankie Stanton was sitting at Mr. Byrd’s desk and smiled so wide, Crissy could see the mashed remains of whatever he’d had for lunch in his braces. Tall, thin and resembling nothing much in particular, he always got the non-speaking, hold-the-spear parts no one wanted.
Frankie stood up and waved a stapler at her. “Hi, Crissy. I’ve been stapling.”
Jesus Louisesus.
“Duh,” Crissy said and became Lady Macbeth. “Where. Is. He?”
Frankie’s narrow eyes blinked. “Who?”
What a loser. “Who do you think, Frankie?”
Blink, blink, blink, like it was Morse code or something. “Oh. You mean Mr. B.?”
“Of course I mean Mr. Byrd.” Crissy stormed the desk, smiling when Blankie Frankie stumbled back against the wall. “I’m going to tell him what you did!”
“What did I did…do?”
Crissy stopped being Lady Macbeth – it was wasted on Frankie – as she pulled the cast list out of her notebook and slammed it down on top of the ‘theater vocabulary’ test sheets Frankie had been stapling together.
“Yeah,” he said, “okay.”
Crissy stamped her foot. “What do you mean yeah okay? Fix it.”
“Oh, gosh…did I spell your name wrong again?” He leaned closer. “No…no, it’s okay.” He picked up the list, holding it out to her as he stood up. “I spelled it right, see.”
She snatched the paper out of his hand and tore it into pieces. “That’s not what I mean and you know it!”
Blankie Frankie owl-blinked again. “Why did you do that?”
“Miss Moore,” a soft cultured voice said from the doorway. “Mr. Stanton.”
Crissy took a deep breath and reformed herself into the character of poor, fragile Blanche DuBois, minus the accent, of course, because that would have been too obvious.
“Oh…Mr. Byrd.” She turned, fluttering her lashes, a sad pout touching her lips. “I didn’t see you there.”
“So I gathered. Generally, my students save their histrionics for the stage…unless you two are rehearsing something for extra credit.”
Crissy tittered lightly, the way Vivien Leigh did in the movie.
Mr. Byrd smiled and became the most handsome man on Earth.
All of the girls in school and most of the female staff had a crush on Mr. Byrd, Crissy included…but not because he was in his early thirties and English and sounded like Rupert Everett. She appreciated him for his talent. He’d been on stage in England and done a couple ‘independent films’ here in what he called ‘the States’.
He was a real actor and only teaching because, he told them the first day of class, he liked helping talented young people achieve their goals.
Crissy lowered her chin and looked up at Mr. Byrd through her lashes. “I’m sorry I tore it up.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” he said. “Would you mind telling me what it was you tore up?”
God, she loved listening to his voice.
“It was The Crucible’s cast list.” Sigh.
“Ah.” Mr. Byrd nodded and looked at Blankie Frankie. “Mr. Stanton, would you mind making another copy and put it back up onto the bulletin board?”
Frankie scurried out from behind the desk and headed for the door. “S-s-sure. Glad t-t-to. D-d-d-do it right n-n-n—”
“Wait!”
Blankie Frankie’s outstretched hand slammed into the doorknob, but Mr. Byrd just looked at her, one eyebrow raised like Mr. Spock in the Star Trek reruns her dad watched.
“Yes?” he asked.
“He has to fix it first.”
“Fix it?”
“Blan— Frank made a mistake when he was typing out the list. I’m sure he wasn’t trying to hurt me on purpose….”
“I’d-I’d-I’d never d-d-do that!”
Mr. Byrd looked up at Frankie and smiled.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Mr. Stanton.”
“But he did!” Crissy shouted. “He put my name in the wrong place.”
“Oh?”
Crissy took a deep breath. She couldn’t think of an actress to imitate, so she just played herself. It wasn’t her best character.
“Well, yeah. I’m supposed to be Abigail and he put me down as Mary Warren.”
Blankie Frankie made a strangling noise. “I— Ah-ah-ah. N-n-n-n-no. I m-m-m-m-mean….”
“Ah, I see the problem.” Mr. Byrd nodded at Frankie. “Would you mind making that new copy? I’d like it posted before last period.”
“S-s-s-sure.”
“Wait a minute!”
But Blankie Frankie was already out the door and probably halfway down the hall by the time the door slammed shut. Mr. Byrd swept the paper bits into the wastepaper basket next to his desk and sat down.
“I’d ask you to sit down, Miss Moore,” he said in his beautiful accent, “but I’m afraid I left all the office chairs down in the audition room and I really don’t have much time right now as it is. I just came in to drop off my briefcase before heading down to set up the stage for our first read-through tomorrow morning. I can give you your parental permission slip now, if you like.” Mr. Byrd picked up a sheet of paper off his desk and held it out to her. “If you get it signed tonight you’ll be that much more ahead of—”
“I auditioned for Abigail. Only Abigail.”
“Yes, I know.” He nodded. “And you were good.”
“Better than Trisha Blaine.”
“In some ways, yes.”
“Then you have to change the cast list.”
Mr. Byrd put the permission slip on his desk and leaned back. His chair squeaked. “As a matter of fact, Miss Moore, I don’t.”
“But…I’m supposed to be Abigail.”
“No, you’re supposed to be Mary Warren. I know it might be hard for you to understand, Crissy, considering you’re a very talented young actress.”
“I know that.”
He laughed softly. “But that is exactly why I chose you to play Mary Warren.”
“But Mary Warren’s a…nothing.”
“On the contrary, Mary Warren can be a pivotal character if portrayed correctly, which is why I want you in the part. As written, Mary Warren is a gullible child, a weak-willed follower. She is a pathetic and totally forgettable creature…but you can make her into something else. You have the talent to turn Mary Warren into something rare and brilliant.”
Crissy lowered her chin. “Are you fucking Trisha Blaine?”
Mr. Byrd’s face went white. “Wh-what?”
“Everybody says you give special acting lessons to certain girls after school.”
“Did I ever attempt such a…thing with you?”
“You didn’t have to – I don’t need any acting lessons.”
“No, but it would appear that you certainly need something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Moore….”
Although he kept his voice low, Mr. Byrd’s face stayed pale as he stood up and walked out of his office.
Crissy stood staring at the empty desk until the sound of the double doors at the far end of the hall slamming shut snapped her out of it. The doors led to the auditorium/theater’s balcony level where Mr. Byrd…the high and mighty Mr. Byrd…sat like God Almighty to watch his puppets perform.
Well, not this puppet…not anymore!
/> Crissy ran down the hall and hit the right side of the double doors with enough force that it sounded like a bomb going off in her ears. It must have sounded the same to Mr. Byrd, because he stopped at the first row of balcony seats and looked back.
“Miss Moore, I believe we have already discussed the matter—”
“You wanna fuck me?”
Mr. Byrd took a step back. “Dear God.”
“Because I’m not going to.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to.”
Crissy smiled. “Then why did you bring me in here?”
“I didn’t bring you here, you followed me. But perhaps it’s a good thing since you’re obviously either hysterical or badly overacting. Either way, you’ve chosen the right place. Soundproof and with good internal acoustics. Enjoy.”
He turned and started toward the staircase at the end of the balcony. He was leaving and he was going to give the part of Abigail to Trisha Blaine.
“I’ll tell!”
He stopped at the top of the stairs but didn’t turn around.
“Tell what?”
“That you…raped me.”
“Seriously?”
Crissy waited for him to turn around, hungry to see the fear in his eyes. When he didn’t she felt something cold twitch in her belly.
“And who exactly do you think will believe you?”
“Everyone!” she yelled. “Frankie would.”
“Ah.” When he turned there was no fear on his face, just a bemused expression. “And would this be the same Frankie whom you accused of tampering with the cast list when you discovered you weren’t given the lead? Do you really think anyone will believe this is not simply your attempt to get back at me for giving you a bit part?”
He couldn’t have said a meaner thing if he’d tried.
“If it’s any consolation, this is why I want you to play the part of Mary Warren. This kind of raw, unrelenting, untrainable passion, although a bit overdone at the moment, is just what the character needs. You are Mary Warren, Miss Moore, accept that.” Turning, he walked down the stairs to the main floor. “Don’t miss your next class.”
“No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No.” And louder, “No! No! No!” And finally screaming, “NO!”
He was right about the acoustics.
“Please stop.” He turned when he reached the orchestra pit and looked up at her. “If this is really the way you feel, perhaps it’s best that you decline the role. I’ll extend your regrets to the rest of the cast and—”
When she ran to the balcony railing all she wanted to do was to stop him from saying anything else. She didn’t realize how fast she was going or how heavy her notebook was, but, mostly, she forgot about gravity.
Crissy hit the railing at waist level and the last thing she saw as she pitched over it was the large spotlight mounted to the outside of the balcony. It had been her best friend when she was on stage and she played to it.
But she never actually noticed the thick electric cable that looped under it.
Until it snapped her neck.
CHRISTINE (CRISSY) TAYLOR MOORE
April 20, 1976 – June 4, 1992
PART TWO
JULY
Chapter Nine
Henry
“And that’s the pond…not very deep, but it’s got a fountain and I like to come out after supper and sit by it and, you know, watch the lights come up in the city. Reminds me of the stream that ran behind the cabin we rented up in Big Bear that summer when Marjorie was little. You remember that?”
Nora nodded. “I remember the mosquitoes.”
Henry laughed and clapped his hands together. “Oh, that’s right…they just loved you, didn’t they? Didn’t bother with me or Margie all that much, but, man, did they take after you. I remember…you were all covered with that pink stuff.”
“Calamine lotion.”
“Right.” He wiped the laugh-tears from his eyes. “All lumpy and pink. Funny.”
Nora chuckled, not at the memory – it had been the worst summer vacation she could remember – but because Henry was having one of his Really Good Days. He’d known who she was when she walked in that morning and knew her all through lunch and his physical therapy, and he still remembered her and their life together.
On days like this Nora almost allowed herself to believe in miracles.
“Turn here,” he said, “I want to show you something.”
Henry pounded the wheelchair’s armrest with his right hand and lifted his left hand, waving like a policeman directing traffic. They were on the ‘Memory Walk’, a tree-lined meandering path dotted with benches and covered in a rubberized asphalt. The fountain, bordered by carefully tended flower beds, was at the center of the Walk and drew not only patients and their caregivers, but also the doctors and nurses. It wasn’t a big space, maybe not even as big as their front and back yards together, but it was a peaceful little oasis just a dozen or so blocks from downtown Los Angeles. Nora waved to an orderly she recognized.
“There! There!” Henry’s arm was waving like a flag. “Look!”
Nora hauled back on the wheelchair handles and squinted. She wasn’t sure exactly what Henry was pointing at.
“I’m looking, Henry, I’m looking.”
And because he was still Henry, he knew she wasn’t sure.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, woman…right there!” And his arm waved again. “You were exactly that color.”
It took another minute for her to figure out that he was pointing to the miniature pink rosebush next to an engraved marble plaque.
Remember these things for me.
Remember our talks and our silences.
Remember the nights and the days
and the shadows in between.
Remember what I was and what we were.
Remember these things for me.
– Anonymous
“You were exactly that color.”
“Oh, I was, was I?”
“Yup. I don’t think there was one square inch of you that wasn’t pink.” He laughed. “You remember what Marjorie said.”
Nora felt a chill work its way beneath the July heat searing her arms. What had Marjorie said? She couldn’t remember. Oh God. Was this how it started with Henry?
“She said, ‘Mama, make me a clown too.’” Henry pounded his legs with both hands and laughed so hard the wheelchair shook. “Funniest thing I ever heard. Man, she was bright, wasn’t she?”
“She still is.”
“True. She takes after her daddy.”
Nora forced a laugh. Please God, don’t let her take after her daddy.
They looked at the roses and watched the little golden Skipper butterflies dart from flower to flower until Henry sighed.
“You hated that trip.”
“Oh,” Nora said, “it wasn’t that bad.”
Henry’s shoulders slumped. “No, it was. It was that bad and you hated it, I know you did…but you never complained, not once. Margie was so little and you had to take care of her. All I wanted to do was fish and that’s what I did. I went fishing and left you alone and then the bugs got after you and you were all pink from that goop…but you never complained. You never asked to go home, you just cleaned the fish I caught and fried them. I ruined your summer.”
“No, Henry, it was fun.”
“No, it wasn’t! I ruined your summer and the baby’s all because I wanted to go fishing. I didn’t care about you or the bugs. I just wanted to…I wanted to….” Henry slipped down in the chair. “Wanted to go…to…you know…with the pole and things and…water, there was water and I…you know…and…and…the bugs.”
And just like that, Henry was gone.
“You know I don’t like bugs! Why did you bring me out here with all these bugs?”
“B
ut you wanted to come out and—” Nora pressed her lips together. It was useless to argue with Hank about anything. “Sorry, we’ll go back.”
“Yeah, go back! Now!”
Nora pulled the wheelchair backward and to the left. She could already feel the muscles in her arms and shoulders begin to tremble, but Hank wanted to go back and what Hank wanted he got.
But he still wasn’t happy.
“It’s hot and there’s too many bugs. I hate bugs. They should get rid of all the bugs, get that…. You, know, the stuff t’kill bugs but they won’t. They don’t care. I hate this place. Too hot and too many bugs. Hate this place, you know that?”
Nora kept her eyes focused on the path directly in front of them. “Yes.”
“Well, say it.”
“You hate this place.”
“That’s right. Hate! I see them workin’ out here, oh, I see them. Got a whole bunch of them workin’ all the time but they don’t do nothin’ ’bout the bugs. What you lookin’ at?”
Nora watched a person-shaped shadow step into her field of vision and become a pair of white shoes and pale blue pants legs.
“Hey there Mr. R., Mrs. R. Is there a problem?”
Nora looked up at Stan, the young orderly she’d waved to and who worked at the facility during the day and took classes at night to become an RN. Stan was kind and helpful and funny and a bit of a chatterer – and best of all, Henry liked him.
Hank didn’t.
“No problem ’cept you!” Hank grumbled.
Stan met Nora’s eyes and nodded, then squatted down in front of the chair so Henry…Hank wouldn’t have to look up into the sun.
“Sorry, Mr. H., didn’t mean to be a problem. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Get out of the way, too many bugs out here.”
Stan stood up and took a step back. “That there is. Sorry, Mr. H.”
“You should be. Hate this place! Gotta do something about the bugs.”
“I’ll do that, sir.” Stan looked at Nora. “Are you okay, Mrs. Rollins?”
“Don’t talk to her! Who said you could talk to her? Come on.” He grabbed the chair’s armrests and shook back and forth. “Go in. Now!”
Stan stepped to the side to let them pass.