“I can’t wait until he brings Arthur in at the end of the show. Talk about the slow leading the slow.”
“You are the director. You cannot allow him to control the pace. Or the scene.”
“I’ve given him the same notes after every fucking rehearsal!”
Reinhard winced a bit at my profanity. “You still want to be a helping professional. With some, you must be a dictatorial director.”
“Couldn’t you just clout him with your clipboard?”
“No. Although it is tempting. Do not worry. You will find a way to get through to him.” Reinhard sighed. “Now, if only we can do something with poor Otis.”
The entire staff had taken to calling him “poor Otis.” A sweet-natured bear of man with a brown moon face and a gleaming bald pate, I’d known from the moment he stepped onstage at auditions that he had to play Oliver Warbucks. But while he had all the warmth of the Daddy Warbucks who emerges late in Act One, he couldn’t capture the self-important, multitasking tycoon we meet at the outset. Maybe because he was cowed by Chelsea and Kimberlee, the actress playing Warbucks’ long-suffering but faithful secretary. The more he rehearsed with them, the more flustered he became. Lines and lyrics went out the window. By the time he finished butchering the lyrics to “N.Y.C.,” we were both streaming flop sweat.
I tried role-play, my old reliable “list thing,” and just talking with him, but the only thing that seemed to help was working with Amanda. Since that boosted her confidence as well as his, I gave them more rehearsals together, even if it meant reducing his time with Chelsea.
I resisted the urge to ask Alex to give him a magical nudge. Even Rowan had used his magic sparingly during rehearsals and then, mostly to reassure us.
When I tried out the reassuring voice I’d used on HelpLink calls, Otis asked if I was coming down with a cold. So I packed it away in mothballs and resumed my performance as The Calm Director Who Had Everything Under Control, even though I felt more like Chicken Little.
The sky didn’t fall during our Act One run-through. Just a lot of props. As the orphans bewailed their “Hard Knock Life,” wash buckets and mops flew around the stage as if bespelled by the sorcerer’s apprentice. A wheel fell off at the top of Scene 2, literally upsetting the apple cart. In “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here,” the efficiency of Warbucks’ army of servants was belied by the clang of dropped platters, an inner tube zigzagging across the stage, a cascade of gift boxes, and an avalanche of linens. Alex got bonus points for fielding the tennis ball that bounced into the pit with his left hand, while his right soldiered on with the tune.
Two hours later, Chelsea warbled the reprise of “Maybe” and mercifully ended things. Then we had to go through it all again on Sunday with Amanda’s team.
I quelled my fear that the show would run longer than The Ten Commandments and Ben-Hur combined and focused on the positives. As the brainless Lily, Nora proved you could chew gum and sing at the same time. Steven made a deliciously oily Rooster, winning laughs with just an artful flip of his fedora. Debra’s “Little Girls” was a comic masterpiece of defiance and disgust, her scenes with Lily and Rooster, a triumph of sleaziness.
I knew I’d had little to do with their success; I pretty much stayed out of their way and let them strut their stuff.
Unfortunately, Long didn’t do the same with me. After our second Act One run-through, he trailed me to the production office, shaking his head.
“That Otis fellow. He’s not very good, is he?”
“It’s a demanding role.”
“Pity you didn’t cast a professional.” When I bristled like an angry cat, he hastily added, “I’m sure you had your reasons. But he’s dragging down the whole show.”
“He’ll get it.”
Long turned on his megawatt smile. “Of course he will. But you understand my concern. There’s a lot riding on this show.”
My reputation. And the theatre’s. The board was counting on a crowd pleaser. Now, I had to deliver.
CHAPTER 5
ALWAYS LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE
ACT TWO WAS MERCIFULLY SHORTER and the run-through mercifully smoother. I fretted that I should have trimmed the Cabinet scene more ruthlessly as well as the dreadful finale: “A New Deal for Christmas.” Was it me or was there something creepy about the President of the United States pretending to whip his reindeer orphans?
After three weeks of giving Bill notes about pace and chiding Kimberlee for her impatience with Otis, I took Reinhard’s advice and told Bill he was failing to capture Drake’s brisk efficiency and warned Kimberlee to knock off the snide remarks. Mr. Method Actor looked stricken. Ms. Bitch looked stunned. But Bill walked marginally faster and Kimberlee kept her mouth shut—at least in front of me.
I saved my hugs for my girls who were working their little tails off—and for my Mackenzies. Paul was evolving from choirboy to radio singer. The others were holding their own in various chorus roles. Even Chelsea thawed once I abandoned my attempts to play helping professional and settled for theatre professional instead. If her emotional moments failed to resonate like Amanda’s, they were less relentlessly upbeat.
Working with Otis had nudged Amanda from a waifish Dickensian orphan to an almost-plucky comic strip one. An admittedly silly session of scream therapy had helped, too. At first, Amanda regarded me like I had lost my mind, but after a couple of minutes—and a lot of prodding—her timid squeak became a full-fledged shout. Amanda—who barely spoke above a whisper onstage and off. She looked nearly as astonished as I felt. Minutes later, we were both screeching with such abandon that Reinhard stormed into the Smokehouse, fearful that someone was being murdered.
Otis remained my biggest hurdle. During our final one-on-one before Hell Week, I led him to the picnic area for one last try at helping him discover his inner Donald Trump. He sat down opposite me, clearly dreading another scintillating discussion about his performance. When I asked why he’d come to the Crossroads, his expression shifted to surprise.
“Tell the truth, I don’t know. Just felt the urge to take a trip and somehow ended up here. Why did you cast me?”
“Because I knew you had the heart to play Daddy Warbucks.”
“Takes more than heart,” he said, his face gloomy.
“Come on, you’re a natural for this role. You started out poor like he did. And you made a good life for—”
“I’m nothing like him! All high and mighty. Buying up fancy art and big houses and looking down his nose at all the folks he’d grown up with.”
Nothing in the script indicated Warbucks looked down his nose at people. He was pretty much oblivious to everyone at the beginning of the show. Did Otis still feel the sting of growing up poor even though he was the self-proclaimed “Plumbing King of Canarsie?” He’d been married for nearly thirty years and clearly adored his wife. But he rarely spoke of his daughter, the law student, and his son, the accountant. Were they ashamed of their father’s humble beginnings? Or worse, did they make Otis feel ashamed?
Reluctant to pry, I just said, “But Warbucks changes. He realizes that—”
“‘Something Was Missing.’ I know.” Otis’ voice was quiet again, his shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t always happen in real life the way it does in the theatre, Maggie.”
“It can.”
He regarded me for a long moment. “Happened to you like that, did it?”
I nodded.
“Here?”
I nodded again, embarrassed to feel my throat tighten.
Otis reached across the table to cover my hands with his. Big, strong hands, but as gentle as the man himself.
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll do a good job for you.”
“I knew that the day you auditioned. I just…I wanted you to find something here that would help you. The way it helped me.”
“Found you, didn’t I? And little Amanda. And some of the folks in the chorus.”
“And Kimberlee. And Bill.”
Otis wa
ved them away. “Gotta pick and choose, child. Like fishing. Keep the good ones and throw the crappy little ones back.”
That astonished a laugh from me. And for the first time in days, Otis laughed, too.
As we rose to return to the theatre, I casually asked, “Are your kids coming up to see the show?”
Otis studied me. “You’re one smart lady, Maggie Graham.”
“If I was all that smart, I would have been less obvious.”
“The kids have their own lives. But Viola’s coming up. And a good thing, too. Haven’t been apart from her this long since we were married.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
As soon as his car pulled out of the parking lot, I made a beeline for the production office. I dug Otis’ contact information out of the file cabinet and dialed his home number. Viola picked up on the third ring.
It took less than a minute to discover we were both on the same wavelength. Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I reluctantly ended the call, but I was so buoyed by our conversation that I greeted Bill with a smile.
“What’s up?”
He glanced around the office, shuffled his feet, and cleared his throat. Realizing that the preliminaries could take another ten minutes, I tried to curb my impatience.
After enduring his solicitous concern about burdening me, his stirring endorsement of my directing, an even longer declaration of his work ethic, and an avowal of enthusiasm for his roles in the next two shows, he finally said the magic words: “I’ve been offered the role of Henry Higgins in our community theatre production of My Fair Lady.”
Shoot me now.
“You know what an incredible opportunity that is. A role any actor would kill for.”
Just put a gun to my head and…
“Well, long story short…”
SHOOT ME!
“How could I turn it down?”
As this was clearly a rhetorical question, I just stared at him.
“Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you in the lurch for Annie. But I’ve only got a small part in The Secret Garden. You won’t have any trouble filling that. I hate to miss out on Into the Woods, but…” He heaved a sigh. “What could I do?”
Tell them you were already committed for the summer? That you had signed a contract to that effect and had to honor it?
I rummaged through my collection of smiles and found a very sweet one. “That’s great, Bill. Congratulations! Just be sure to notify Reinhard. He’ll need to dock your salary for backing out of The Secret Garden rehearsals with less than a week’s notice.”
Still smiling sweetly, I ushered him out of the office, closed the door, and waited until the sound of his footsteps receded before pounding my fist on the wall. Then I yanked open the file cabinet drawer and pulled out my stack of resumes.
Thus beginneth Hell Week.
CHAPTER 6
WHY MUST THE SHOW GO ON?
TECH REHEARSAL WAS AS TEDIOUS as I’d expected. Yes, it was exciting to see the neon lights on Times Square, but there were only so many times I could watch those lights come up before I wanted to slit my wrists.
Hal’s set design relied largely on a series of backdrops that evoked the comic strip origin of Annie: the orphanage sketched in shades of black and gray; sepia brownstones and shanties for the street scenes and Hooverville; a brightly colored Times Square. The only fixed set was the upstage Warbucks mansion, a stylized Art Deco confection with a central staircase and two landings.
With so little moving scenery, I figured we were on Easy Street.
Naturally, I figured wrong.
Warbucks’ servants tripped up and down the stairs. Chorus members jostling for position sent shudders rippling through the painted streets of New York. The orphans’ metal bunk beds clanked and screeched as if Marley’s Ghost plodded across the stage, dragging the chains he forged in life. The crash of furniture and thudding footsteps of the unseen crew members would have worked like gangbusters in the final scene of The Diary of Anne Frank, but made it sound like the Warbucks mansion was under construction.
By contrast, our first dress rehearsal was a breeze. If Javier’s crew didn’t display ninja-like stealth, neither did they sound like storm troopers. The pit band only drowned out the performers half the time. The nearsighted actress playing the housekeeper only tripped on the staircase twice. Only one platter and two gift boxes dropped during “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here.” And Bill’s entrances and exits were nearly as smooth as those of the well-oiled bunk beds.
As the company launched into “A New Deal for Christmas,” I glanced at my scrawled notes and wondered why I had bothered. I’d reached the “Que Será, Será” stage of directing when I had to trust my actors to carry the show. Well, maybe a few reminders about pace, especially in that endless fucking Cabinet scene.
Let it go, Graham.
It was a good production. As good as I could make it, anyway. Otis was still fumbling his lyrics in “N.Y.C.,” but he’d found his inner tycoon. Kimberlee might still be a bitch offstage, but when Otis dropped the ball, she picked it up and kept their scenes moving. The audience would be too busy admiring Chelsea’s pipes to notice her lack of nuance.
Stupid to look for shades of gray in cartoon characters. Or yearn for the healing magic that Rowan Mackenzie could have brought all the actors instead of the handful I’d been able to reach. We were in the business of theatre, not healing. And Annie would do good business.
Long seemed to think so; I could hear him clapping in time to the music.
In a minute, Bill would lead Arthur onstage. Applause. Quick rehearsal of the curtain calls. A rousing speech by yours truly. Then up the hill to the Bates mansion for a very long bath and a very large tumbler of single malt whisky.
The cue for Bill’s entrance came and went. The cast forged ahead, but some shot surreptitious glances stage left.
Just when I was starting to worry, Arthur tottered on with Bill. I gritted my teeth as I watched them. Glaciers moved more swiftly. The cast appeared mesmerized, every pair of eyes monitoring the duo’s infinitesimal progress toward center stage.
Arthur stopped. Bill tugged his leash. Arthur obediently trudged forward and stopped again. Bill gave another tug. Arthur stood there.
At which point, Chelsea apparently relinquished any hope that Arthur would reach her before the end of the number and skipped toward him. The chorus’ triumphant “this year” was still hanging in the air when Arthur collapsed.
Alex’s hands froze, still upraised from cueing the cutoff to the cast and pit band. A high keening shattered the stillness. Doreen burst out of the stage left wings. Reinhard strode on from stage right, shouting, “Stay in your places!”
But by then, I was already running down the aisle.
As I pounded up the steps to the stage, two of the younger orphans burst into tears. I paused long enough to squeeze a shoulder and pat a cheek before hurrying over to Doreen.
She had flung herself to the floor next to Arthur and pulled his head onto her lap. My desperate hope that he was merely worn out vanished when I saw that his rheumy brown eyes had begun to glaze over.
And still, stupid Bill kept tugging at his leash. As I shot him a furious look, Javier and Reinhard’s daughter Bea pushed through the crowd. In their black stage crew garb, they looked like mourners at a funeral.
Javier’s fingers closed around Bill’s wrist. Bill regarded him with bewilderment. Then the leash slithered onto the floor.
As I stared helplessly around the stage, a hand came down on my shoulder. The steadying throb of Reinhard’s power pulsed through me. My galloping heartbeat slowed. My anguish receded a little—just enough for me to collect myself.
Janet and Alex drifted among the huddled orphans, pausing as I had to pat a trembling shoulder, to stroke a drooping head. Lee must have raced down from the lighting booth, because he and Mei-Yin were offering the same fleeting gestures of comfort to the adults, their magic easing grief and fear a
nd uncertainty.
Bea sat beside Doreen, one hand resting lightly on her arm. It was the first time I’d ever seen her use the power she had inherited from Reinhard, but it was clearly working. Although Doreen’s face was streaked with tears, she seemed more stunned now than heartbroken.
A strange lassitude settled over me, like the calm that had descended during the staff’s “brainwashing” after Caren nearly stumbled on Rowan’s Fae kin. With a start, I realized that tomorrow was Midsummer’s Eve. This year, disaster had struck a day early.
Reinhard released my shoulder, and my languor dissipated. I shot him a grateful glance and asked him and Mei-Yin to take the cast to the green room.
As they began herding everyone into the wings, Hal moaned, “Poor Arthur.”
Doreen’s head came up. “It was just his time. And this is how he would have wanted to go. Not lying in his doggie bed, but performing in a show he loved. Arthur was a professional.”
All of us onstage nodded solemnly.
“I should have known he didn’t have the strength for another show. But he was so excited at auditions.”
Excited? He could barely shuffle across the stage.
Guilt swamped me at that traitorous thought. When I recalled how Arthur had obediently played dead, I winced.
“I’m so sorry, Doreen. If there’s anything we can do…”
“I’ll be all right. But this will be so hard on the girls. They loved Arthur.”
Well, the little ones did. They treated him like a combination furry futon and living doll, alternately sprawling atop him and tying bows around his tail. Arthur tolerated it with only an occasional twitch. But Chelsea eyed him with ill-disguised impatience and some of the older girls took their cue from her. I might have done a better job at hiding my emotions, but I’d certainly shared their frustration.
“Don’t worry about the girls,” Janet said. “We’ll make sure they’re okay.”
I was the only one likely to become hysterical. How was I going to find another Sandy and get him up to speed before opening night?
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