Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

  When we plunged into the real work, the girls proved themselves more prepared than most of the professionals I’d worked with during my years in summer stock. Even the little ones knew their songs and their lines. They threw themselves into learning their choreography with such fervor that Mei-Yin exclaimed, “Give me kids ANY day. When THEY fall over their feet, it’s CUTE!”

  Staging their scenes proved more challenging. Blocking adults is dull. Blocking restless children is about as rewarding as herding cats. It required the concentration of a traffic cop and the energy of a cheerleader on crack.

  By the end of the second week, I wished I had three more wranglers and a lot more time. Two weeks of “orphans only” rehearsals worked out to less than thirty hours to teach them their staging, music, and dance numbers before the adults arrived.

  I was also beginning to worry about my two Annies. Chelsea had all the nuance of a police siren. When called upon to dry Molly’s tears in the opening scene, she seemed impatient rather than comforting, and her rendition of “Maybe” shattered eardrums instead of capturing hearts. It was Amanda who discovered the bittersweet longing of the song during the rare moments I could actually hear her.

  Chelsea’s “damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead” approach served her better in “Hard Knock Life.” Her team of orphans turned in a spirited performance while Amanda’s were as tentative as she was.

  The Cheshire Cat and the Dormouse; if I could roll them together, I’d have an Annie who would break your heart and make you cheer, all in the same scene.

  I tried to bolster Amanda’s confidence and tone down Chelsea’s. Amanda nodded and looked miserable. Chelsea nodded and looked bored.

  It was Alex who filled me in on what lay behind Chelsea’s tough facade. Divorced parents. Mom in banking. Father living overseas somewhere and hadn’t seen his kid in more than a year. No wonder she reminded me a lot of…well…me.

  “Can you help her?” I asked Alex. “Everything I try meets with a shrug or a grimace.”

  “Same here,” he replied. “We’ll just have to keep trying.”

  Rowan would have known what to do. But it seemed my rehearsals could only provide a distraction instead of the healing I hoped she would find at the Crossroads.

  CHAPTER 3

  IT FEELS LIKE HOME

  SOME PEOPLE CLAIM SUMMER BEGINS Memorial Day weekend. Traditionalists hold out for the solstice. For the citizens of Dale, summer officially began with the annual migration of actors to the Golden Bough.

  Last year’s migration had consisted of seven Mackenzies and one semi-pro actor trickling into town for The Fantasticks. This year, the line of cars crawling around the village green and clogging Main Street evoked approving nods and relieved smiles from the citizenry.

  “Now it feels like summer,” Frannie remarked during check-in. The professionals seemed surprised to find me behind the front desk. The Mackenzies were too busy trying to figure out what they were doing here to wonder why their director was doubling as a hotel clerk.

  When I heard the quavering strains of “When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano” wafting through the windows, I raced through the lobby and flung open the front door. Now it felt like summer to me. Bernie Cohen—friend, volunteer, and board member—had returned.

  My smile faded as Reinhard unloaded Bernie’s walker from his SUV. Naturally, Bernie noticed. Seventy-plus he might be, blind he wasn’t.

  “These old hips stiffen up over the winter, but a couple weeks back at the Crossroads and I’ll be doing a Highland reel. Just seeing the old barn again was a tonic.”

  A “tonic” he had first experienced during our season of summer stock and had accepted ever since without questioning how it worked.

  “Boy, it’s good to be back. Leah was driving me crazy. If she had her way, I’d spend my life playing canasta at the senior center. The whole time I’m packing she says, ‘Don’t overdo, Dad.’ I say, ‘How can I overdo? I’ll be living with Reinhard and Mei-Yin. He’s a doctor. She’s a terror.’ How’re your teeth?”

  “Once a dentist, always a dentist.” But I bared my teeth for his inspection.

  Bernie tsked. “Floss more. It’s the secret to good health. Look at Long.”

  “Must I?”

  “Okay, he’s a putz. But such teeth. How’s ticket sales?”

  “We can discuss this at the barbecue,” Reinhard said.

  “What’s the deal with that?” Bernie asked. “Some new Crossroads tradition?”

  “My secret weapon. With half the cast living off-site, I wanted everyone to get to know each other before rehearsals started.”

  “Smart. Did you get Long to pay for it?”

  “You bet.”

  “Very smart.”

  “Bernie claims to have a secret weapon, too,” Reinhard said. “One that will sell ads like pancakes.”

  “Hotcakes,” Bernie corrected. “I got a bet with Reinhard that I can sell a thousand bucks of ads for Annie. You want in?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Loser treats the winner to dinner at the Bough.”

  “Deal. But it’ll be like taking candy from a baby. Even you can’t sell that many ads.”

  “Just you wait, girlie.”

  The barbecue broke up around ten o’clock, but it was well after midnight when Janet and I crept into the Golden Bough to carry out a far older tradition.

  During my season, Helen had performed her blessing every night until her heart attack confined her to the Bates mansion. When I moved into the Bough, I carried on the tradition in her memory. Once I was no longer managing the hotel, I made do with a furtive blessing when each new wave of cast members arrived. This season, I’d decided to enlist Janet’s help to back up the blessing with some genuine Fae power.

  As we tiptoed up the stairs, I caressed the worn leather cover of Helen’s book of spells. Although I knew the words of the blessing by heart, just holding the book brought me a small measure of the comfort and reassurance that Helen had always provided.

  I knew the words on the cover page as well: “The Herbal of Mairead Mackenzie. 1817.” The woman whom Rowan had called a witch. The woman who had cursed him and bound him to this world. The woman whose collection of remedies, charms, and talismans had been passed down through generations of Mackenzie women before coming to me in Helen’s will.

  Janet rested her palm against the first door. I held the book to my breast and silently repeated the words of the blessing:

  Deep peace of the running wave to you.

  Deep peace of the flowing air to you.

  Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

  Deep peace of the shining stars to you.

  Janet and I repeated the ritual at each door, bound by our love for Helen and our blood tie to Mairead Mackenzie. Maybe that was why the blessing seemed so potent, why I felt like I was participating in an ancient rite rather than one that Helen had invented, a rite that signaled the beginning of our summer stock season.

  By the time we had bestowed our final blessing, peace flowed through me as surely as it flowed through the sleeping inhabitants of the Bough. Janet seemed to feel it, too, a rare smile curving her mouth. Then she rolled her eyes and whispered, “Let’s get the hell home and go to bed.” And the spell was broken.

  Helen’s peace and Janet’s sarcasm. Somehow, they summed up all the contradictions of the new Crossroads Theatre: a board of directors unknowingly leading a Fae-powered staff; a cast composed of professionals, community theatre actors, and bewildered Mackenzies; and a director who fervently hoped she could keep her head above water while balancing all those disparate elements.

  CHAPTER 4

  YOU’RE NEVER FULLY DRESSED WITHOUT A SMILE

  WHEN REHEARSALS BEGAN, I found myself dogpaddling furiously to keep afloat. As excited as I was to work with professional actors, I was painfully conscious of my lack of directing experience. Last season, the small casts had made staging easy, but this production of Annie was the musical theatre e
quivalent of The Ten Commandments. And I sure as hell was no Cecil B. DeMille.

  I’d resorted to a graph paper floor plan of the stage and moved tiny paper cutouts of actors around it like an interior designer planning the layout of a room. Naturally, Hal discovered my shameful secret. Reinhard put a stop to his teasing with the stern admonishment, “Every director works differently. If this technique helps Maggie, why should she not use paper dolls?”

  Which wasn’t exactly the boost I needed.

  In the mornings, I blocked scenes with the principals, leaving the chorus to the tender mercies of Reinhard and Mei-Yin. Then I gobbled lunch in the production office, fielded questions from the staff, and tried to ensure that the fund-raiser was on track. More scene work in the afternoon, then over to the Golden Bough to check in with Frannie. A quick dinner at the house, then back to the theatre to work the big musical numbers in the evening. By the time I trudged up the hill to the Bates mansion, I was too wired to sleep and spent an hour sending out e-mails and prepping for the next day’s rehearsal. While the hectic pace left me jazzed, I worried that I’d be as lively as Arthur by opening night.

  The staff was putting in the same killer hours. Every afternoon, Alex raced over from the high school for music rehearsals. Mei-Yin juggled choreography and the Mandarin Chalet. Reinhard somehow managed to maintain his medical practice during his few hours off. On the days his antique store was closed, Javier helped Catherine with set construction. And although we had rented some of the principals’ costumes, Hal had to construct the rest and enlist volunteers to alter the Depression-era drag he had scoured from area thrift stores.

  Bernie flung himself into selling ads for the program, visiting shop owners in the morning and waylaying parents every afternoon as they dropped off their daughters. He alternated between the fast-talking salesmanship of Harold Hill in The Music Man and the sad-eyed pleading of Puss from the Shrek series. Throw in “little old man in a walker” and even the most tight-fisted parents caved, convinced their daughters would suffer lifelong damage if they failed to buy an ad.

  “What a con artist,” I told him, watching yet another mother walk to her car, paperwork in hand.

  “It’s called salesmanship,” he retorted, morphing from sad-eyed Puss to keen-eyed retiree. “Know how much I’ve sold so far, Miss Smarty Pants? Five hundred and fifty bucks!”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I glanced around and hastily lowered my voice. “In four days? How the hell did you do it?”

  I scanned the papers he thrust at me. A full-page ad—lavishly adorned with stars—screamed, “Some families are dripping with diamonds. Some families are dripping with pearls. Lucky us! Lucky us! Look at what we’re dripping with! A fabulous little girl!” Another proclaimed “To a little orphan with a big heart and the talent to match! We love you!!” And yet another: “Our FILL IN YOUR CHILD’S ROLE shines like the top of the Chrysler Building!” “Break a leg!” and “We’re so proud!” messages adorned other—significantly smaller—ads.

  “It’s brilliant, Bernie.”

  Tacky, but definitely brilliant.

  “It was Sarah’s idea. That granddaughter of mine is gonna be a millionaire someday.”

  “If this keeps up…” I glanced around, frantically seeking wood to knock on, and settled for his sheaf of papers; they’d been trees once, after all.

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” Bernie executed a jig—quite a feat for a little old man with a walker. “Better up the credit limit on your MasterCard, girlie. I’m gonna order the most expensive dinner at the Bough!”

  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather dine with.”

  Bernie cocked his head in the characteristic gesture that always brought to mind a bright-eyed—if balding—sparrow.

  “You sure about that?”

  I found myself remembering a gourmet meal, a bottle of wine older than I was, and Rowan sitting across the table, angular features soft in the flickering candlelight. And as usual, everything I was thinking and feeling must have shown on my face because Bernie sighed and patted my hand.

  “Time to exchange ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ for ‘I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out-a My Hair,’” he scolded gently.

  I managed a smile. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  My crazy schedule left me little time to moon over Rowan Mackenzie or wash my hair. I was lucky to squeeze in a weekly call to my mother and to my Crossroads roommate Nancy. I kept those conversations upbeat, but sometimes found myself venting to Frannie. She possessed Helen’s boundless optimism and handled every crisis with a firm hand and a cheerful smile. My eyes and ears at the Golden Bough, she alerted me to the rift developing among the cast.

  “They’re clumping,” she confided. “Mackenzies huddled in one corner of the lounge. Professionals in another.”

  So much for the “getting to know you” barbecue. And my strategy of giving each Mackenzie a pro for a roommate to encourage mingling.

  “What about the locals?” I asked.

  “Mostly, they head home after rehearsal. The ones who stop by hang out with the pros.” Frannie clucked. “Not like the old days, is it, hon?”

  No. Our cast had been a family. An occasionally fractious, somewhat dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. Of course, we were all in the same boat: separated from our families, desperately trying to cope with the murderous schedule, and—except for me—woefully inexperienced.

  “Let’s see if movie night helps.”

  Hal shattered that hope when he stormed into the production office and declared, “Only half the cast showed up! And most of them just came for the pizza. There’s something wrong when theatre people can’t bond over Judy Garland films.”

  “I can’t require them to attend, Hal. Most of the locals are holding down day jobs. Monday’s the one night they can spend with their families.”

  Working around their schedules made rehearsals incredibly frustrating. Every evening, we had to get the strays up to speed. They felt clumsy, the pros got impatient, and the Mackenzies shot anxious looks at both groups and clumped together even more fiercely. Mei-Yin and I began reserving the first hour of the evening rehearsal to work through the big numbers with the locals and the Mackenzies, so they could perform confidently—and competently—when the pros arrived.

  Naturally, that came back to bite me in the ass.

  “The professionals are griping,” Frannie reported. “They say you don’t give them as much attention as the others.”

  “They don’t need as much attention!”

  “I’m just saying.”

  For the next few days, I gave the pros “extra attention.” End result…

  “They say you don’t trust them,” Frannie told me. “That you’re treating them like amateurs.”

  “I’d like to treat them to a swift kick in the ass.”

  Instead, I set my sights on Debra, the most experienced actor in the company. If I could win her over, the rest would fall in line.

  I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Debra was big, brassy, and ballsy—and completely set in her ways. She’d played the wicked orphanage director Miss Hannigan before and saw no reason to do anything differently this time.

  I considered it a good sign that she arrived right on time for our first one-on-one in the Smokehouse. Then she blew a hank of brown hair off her forehead, plopped onto a chair, and folded her arms across her chest. As her gaze drifted around the room, I wondered if she was studying the posters on the wall behind me, each emblazoned with the words “Directed by Rowan Mackenzie” in letters as dark and forbidding as Debra’s eyes.

  I forced a smile and praised her work in rehearsals. She nodded absently and glanced at her watch. So I cut to the chase and earnestly suggested that she consider Hannigan’s backstory and find moments to let her genuine desperation shine through—without, of course, losing the humor.

  Debra frowned. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, God. You really had me going. For a minute, I thought you were s
erious.” Her smile abruptly vanished. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “I’m not asking for Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Just pick a few moments—”

  “It’s Annie! A musical based on a comic strip! You work the laughs, try not to walk into the furniture, and accept the fact that the kids or the dog will always upstage you.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Let me guess—first season directing?”

  “No! My second.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  After favoring me with a pitying smile, she waltzed out of the Smokehouse.

  Way to win her over, Graham. Now she thinks you’re an artsy-fartsy novice.

  I glowered at the posters, but I had only myself to blame. I’d been so desperate to leave my mark on the show that I’d tried to play Rowan Mackenzie.

  Stupid.

  Had I delved into Ado Annie when I’d played the role? No. I’d learned the lines, worked the comic bits, and enjoyed a vacation in the country. Which was what Debra wanted to do.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  And even more stupid to waste time fine-tuning a perfectly acceptable performance when I had much bigger headaches.

  Like Paul, the earnest Mackenzie playing cheesy, breezy Bert Healy. He was about as breezy as one of Hal’s mannequins and sounded more like a soloist in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir than a radio show host. If you’re never fully dressed without a smile, Paul was half-naked.

  Then there was Bill, the community theatre actor playing Warbucks’ butler. You could drive a bus through his pauses. A simple “Everything is in order” required a glance heavenward, a considering frown, and a thoughtful nod before he delivered the line. His entrances and exits added a minute to every scene he was in.

  “Could he walk any slower?” I fumed to Reinhard after the Scene 5 work-through. “I swear to God, Lurch was livelier.”

  “Lurch?”

  “The Addams Family.”

  “Ah, yes,” Reinhard replied. And followed up with Lurch’s deep, shuddering groan.