It was peaceful here. Summer flowers filled Helen’s garden with color: purple iris, orange poppies, blue delphiniums, multicolored spikes of foxgloves. Early evening sunlight turned the field gold and burnished the treetops to a glossy green that looked positively unreal—like the plastic flowers in Munchkinland.
Still, Janet’s manner seemed odd. I studied the woods, already bathed in gloom although sunset was two hours away.
“Are you coming?” Janet called.
Shaking off my disquiet, I hurried to join her.
After checking in with the staff to ensure that there had been no last-minute catastrophes, I hustled down to the Dungeon. Voices echoed in the empty corridor—the normal, excited dressing room chatter you’d hear before any opening, thank God.
A chorus of greetings welcomed me to the women’s dressing room. Orphans and principals lined three banks of tables cluttered with theatrical makeup, combs and brushes, wig stands and good luck totems. The long mirrors reflected multiple images of their painted faces, making the dressing room seem even more crowded. In order to accommodate the large cast, we’d had to turn Hal’s sewing room into a makeshift dressing room for the chorus women. Not the best solution—for Hal or for them—but the best we could do.
I told them all to break a leg and murmured a few words to each of the principals. After going through the same routine in the other dressing rooms, I hurried upstairs.
6:40. Right on schedule.
I pulled the bottle of champagne from the green room fridge and wrestled the cork free. One of the few traditions I’d inaugurated at the Crossroads. Reinhard had disapproved, equating it with the bad luck that came from giving an actor flowers before a performance. I assured him we weren’t celebrating the success of the show, but the hard work that had gone into it.
One by one they filtered in: Reinhard, Javier, and Lee dressed in black; Alex in his tuxedo; the rest in summer stock casual. Hal wore a scarlet shirt in honor of Annie’s trademark dress.
As they picked up their plastic glasses, I said, “If I start listing all the ways you’ve helped me during these last few weeks, the curtain won’t go up until midnight. And besides, I’ll start crying and Janet will strangle me. So I’ll just say thank you. And I love you all.” I raised my glass. “To us! And the start of another season together.”
“To us!” they chorused.
We savored the moment for about three seconds. Then Alex took off for the Dungeon to warm up the cast and musicians, Lee headed up to the lighting booth, and the rest went to their seats in the house or their positions backstage.
To the accompaniment of muffled voices singing “Tomorrow,” I poured the last of the champagne into my glass and raised it again, this time to absent friends.
Rowan. Helen. Nancy. Mom. Nancy and Mom had called, of course. And I’d see them this weekend. Some of my old cast mates—Lou and Bobbie, Gary and Kalma, Caren and Brittany—had sent “break a leg” e-mails. But I still felt a little wistful and envied the shared excitement that was coursing through the cast.
The speaker on the wall crackled, ending my moment of self-pity. Reinhard’s disembodied voice announced, “This is your ten minute call. All cast members to the green room, please.”
I hastily cleared the empty glasses and champagne bottle. Took the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and set it on the table between the plate of orange slices and the bowl of herb tea bags. Straightened the banner that read, “You’re Gonna Shine like the Top of the Chrysler Building.”
Footsteps thudded up the stairs as the cast converged on the green room. The backstage door eased open. Janet and Reinhard slipped inside. Reinhard gave me an encouraging nod. I took a deep breath and surveyed my cast.
“I want to thank you. For your hard work. For your professionalism. And for believing in me and in each other. These last few days haven’t been easy, but tonight, we’re going to give the audience a terrific show.”
My gaze swept across every face, just as Rowan’s had on opening night of Brigadoon. And, like Rowan, I asked everyone to take the hands of the people standing beside them and close their eyes.
My voice guided them, but it was Janet’s power and Reinhard’s that filled the green room. As many times as we had performed this ritual last season, I was still surprised by the exhilaration that filled me—as if I were the one who possessed faery magic.
My hands trembled as their energy flowed into me, Janet’s strong and commanding, Reinhard’s steady and calming. I urged the cast to let that energy move up through their arms, and as I spoke, the power rippled through mine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I summoned it into my legs, and a rush of sensation shivered down my thighs and calves. As it circled back to fill my belly and my lungs, my heart and my throat, I felt like a medium, filled by the spirits she channeled.
The energy raced around the circle, linking us as surely as our joined hands, building in intensity and excitement until I could not contain it a moment longer.
“Let it go!”
The power burst free to the accompaniment of muffled groans and sighs and a couple of squeaks from my orphans. None of them had known the giddy excitement Rowan conjured or felt that uniquely powerful current zinging through every cell, raising them to a fever pitch before returning them safely to earth. And I would never experience it again.
But what we had was strong and satisfying. It was enough.
“You’re gonna shine like the top of the Chrysler building. Break a leg, everybody!”
Although I knew the show was sold out, I still shivered when I saw that packed house. I took the aisle seat that Rowan used to occupy. As usual, Janet sat beside me; I needed her calming presence on opening nights. Mei-Yin and Hal sat behind us with Catherine and Bernie.
As the lights faded to half and Reinhard’s recorded voice reminded the audience to silence their phones and refrain from flash photography, Janet handed me a copy of the program. I glanced at the piece of paper inserted into it by our volunteers—a brief paragraph I’d written honoring Arthur and announcing that the role of Sandy would be played by Fifi.
The house lights went out. A spot picked up an Armani-clad Long strolling onto the stage, white mane and teeth gleaming. His voice was particularly mellifluous as he introduced himself and welcomed the audience. As he rambled on about the theatre, the show, and the fund-raiser, I fidgeted impatiently. Finally, he flung out his arms and said, “And now, I give you Alex Ross and the overture to…Annie!”
“Good God,” Janet whispered. “It’s the Greatest Show on Earth.”
Alex briefly acknowledged the applause, then raised his hands to cue the musicians—and, apparently, my stomach, which fluttered in nervous anticipation.
A solo trumpet sounded the opening notes of “Tomorrow.” A trombone offered a soft counterpoint. They climbed slowly to the high note and held it for a breathless moment. Then the trumpet skittered down the scale, the trombone slid up, and with a crash of snare drums, the band launched into the jaunty melody of “Hard Knock Life.”
I took a series of deep breaths to control the butterflies in my stomach, but by the time the triumphal restatement of “Tomorrow” neared its conclusion, the linguine I’d had for supper had tied itself into knots.
Alex’s hands sliced the air. The final sforzando chord was greeted by polite applause. Then the red velvet curtains swished open.
CHAPTER 9
SHINE
MY ORPHANS BARRELED THROUGH the opening dialogue, but the pace settled down as the initial burst of nerves calmed. I suppressed a sigh as Chelsea blared out “Maybe.” So much for getting in touch with Annie’s softer side. But the audience creamed over her voice, chuckled at Debra’s grumpiness, and cheered the orphans’ spirited rendition of “Hard Knock Life.” When Fifi made her entrance in Scene 2 and I heard that collective “Aww…” I knew we were going to be okay.
Suddenly, Fifi’s legs wobbled, and she lurched sideways.
“It could be worse. It could have happ
ened opening night.”
Before I could do more than recall my mother’s words, Fifi regained her balance and began crawling on her belly toward Chelsea.
I slumped back in my seat, drenched by a wave of flop sweat. Maybe Fifi had stepped on something or gotten a cramp in one of her stumpy legs. It didn’t matter. She was fine now.
But Chelsea wasn’t. Instead of speaking the lead-in lines to “Tomorrow,” she just crouched there, staring at Fifi.
I’d run this scene half a dozen times with both girls. Amanda had broken down the first time Fifi appeared instead of Arthur. If Chelsea had been shaken, she’d hidden it well.
But she was clearly rattled now. She took a series of deep breaths before she finally began to speak. Her voice was so high and quavering I barely recognized it. When she broke off, unable to say the line about taking care of Sandy, my fingers closed convulsively on Janet’s arm. She shook me off impatiently, her face screwed up in a frown of concentration.
Alex signaled the band to begin the intro to “Tomorrow.” They repeated the vamp once. Twice. A third time.
Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Chelsea’s head jerked up. For a moment, she stared out at the audience. Then her dazed eyes focused on Fifi. She flung her arms around the dog’s neck and began to sing.
Her voice was halting and uncertain at first. When she scrambled to her feet for the bridge, Fifi yipped once as if to encourage her. Chelsea nodded firmly and sailed through the rest of the verse with confidence.
“Good old Sandy” hit every cue during the dialogue interlude, crossing to Chelsea when called, jumping up to place her small front paws on Chelsea’s thighs, wagging her tail as Lieutenant Ward strolled off, and obediently trotting downstage for the repeat of the bridge.
Chelsea ruffled the curly fur on Fifi’s head. Then she stuck out her chin and grinned and belted the bejesus out of the D flat.
Goose bumps rippled up my arms. The audience broke into spontaneous applause. They quieted down immediately so they could hear the rest of the song. But when Chelsea hit the final note, they began to cheer and kept on cheering long after the music ended.
As soon as the lights came up for intermission, I rushed to the women’s dressing room and drew Chelsea into the corridor.
“Are you okay?”
She stared at the scuffed linoleum floor and nodded. “I’m sorry I screwed up.”
“You didn’t. The song was wonderful. The best you’ve ever done it.”
Her head came up. “Really?”
“Really.”
“It was just…when Fifi stumbled…all I could think of was…”
“Me, too. But you kept going. That’s the important thing.”
“It was funny. All of a sudden, I felt…”
“What?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Tell me.”
“It was kind of like…an arm around my shoulders. Not a real arm. Just something telling me that everything would be okay. I know that sounds totally lame—”
“No. That happened to me once.”
Rowan’s touch before “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” as reassuring as if he cradled me in his arms.
“Maybe it was knowing there were so many people rooting for you.”
“Maybe,” she said, clearly unconvinced.
“Well, whatever happened, you were a pro out there. I’m really proud of you.”
Her expression grew thoughtful. “You were right. About the song. I always thought it was stupid. But when I sang it tonight, it felt…real.”
“I had a song like that. In Carousel.”
Chelsea grimaced. “That ‘when you walk through a storm’ song?”
“You got it.”
When I grimaced, too, she surprised me by laughing. I tried to remember if I’d ever heard her laugh before. It made her seem less of a world-weary adolescent and more like…a kid.
“Watch it,” I warned her. “Or thirty years from now, you’ll be back on this stage singing about clambakes and June bustin’ out all over. Unless, of course, you’re on Broadway. In which case, I expect you to tell everyone that working at the Crossroads changed your life.”
She laughed again, and I sent her back to the dressing room to prepare for Act Two. As I turned toward the men’s dressing room, I discovered Debra standing outside one of the bathrooms. I raised my eyebrows in silent inquiry.
“Not bad,” she admitted. “Maybe there’s something to all this touchy-feely crap you and Alex have been dishing out. For the kids, anyway.”
It was as close to a compliment as I was as likely to get from Debra, and I acknowledged it with a smile.
Janet’s seat remained vacant after the house lights went down for the “Entr’acte.” When she finally appeared, the stage lights were coming up for The Oxydent Hour of Smiles radio show, giving me no opportunity to ask about her role in averting Chelsea’s meltdown.
Both versions of “Fully Dressed” worked like a charm. Less charming was the interminable Cabinet meeting, but Otis won the restless audience back with “Something Was Missing.” His slow waltz with Chelsea standing on the toes of his wingtip shoes provoked sighs. So did Chelsea’s reprise of “Maybe” which had all the bittersweet longing I could desire.
When the Secret Service agents led off Rooster, Lily, and Hannigan, the audience cheered. They even clapped along to the horrible reindeer number. And when it was all over, they gave Chelsea a standing ovation. Of course, Annie always got a standing ovation. I was more relieved to see the cast smiling and clowning during their curtain calls.
Maybe I would never be able to heal the wounds of the Mackenzies or help people find their paths in life or create the ineffable magic that held an audience spellbound. But I had helped Chelsea and Amanda and Otis. And with the staff’s talent and dedication and just a dash of magic, the new Crossroads Theatre would be a success.
After the house lights came up, I was surrounded by board members and neighbors and parents. I made the kind of gracious remarks every director offers at such moments: “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” “The credit really goes to the cast.” “Yes, they were wonderful.” It was more professional than screeching, “We pulled off a fucking miracle!”
After a brief detour to the Dungeon to congratulate my cast, I headed to the breezeway to make the rounds of newspaper critics and theatre “Angels” and indulge in hugs with my staff. I kept an eye on the stage door, waiting for the cast to appear, eager to see the reaction of their relatives.
Chelsea looked embarrassed but proud when her mom burst into tears. Paul and his wife broke into an impromptu duet of “Fully Dressed.” Otis’ face lit up when he spied Viola, then went utterly blank when he saw his children standing behind her.
As he covered his face with his hands, the trio made their way over to him. Otis’ son awkwardly patted his shoulder. His daughter hugged him. Viola’s gaze met mine and we shared a conspiratorial smile. I didn’t know how much persuasion—or bullying—it had required, but she had gotten them up here. I just hoped that sharing their father’s triumph would help them see him with new eyes.
“Was that your doing?”
I turned to find Lee watching the family reunion, too.
“Not really. Viola and I both had the same idea.”
“I remember when my mom came up to see me in West Side Story. It was the first time she and Reinhard had spoken in…God…forty years? And when Hal’s mom dragged his dad from California to see the first show he designed.”
And when Mom broke down after listening to me sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”
“This is what the Crossroads is all about,” Lee said. “What it has to be about. For everyone who comes here—not just the Mackenzies.”
I nodded. We might be in the business of theatre, but there had to be more than just putting on good shows. The board would never understand, but the staff did. We had all been changed by our seasons at the Crossroads.
The reception broke up quickl
y, the adult performers eager to get to some real drinking and the parents vainly hoping to bring their kids down from the combined highs of opening night and sugary cake.
The board volunteered to handle cleanup. Instead of pitching in, Long motioned the staff to the far end of the breezeway. Acknowledging us with a pontifical nod, he said, “We can be proud—very proud. An excellent start to our season.”
“Thanks, Long. I’m glad you were pleased.”
“Weren’t you?”
I shrugged. “You know how it is with the director. She sees every little mistake.”
“Well, I thought most of the actors did quite well tonight. Even that Otis fellow. But next season, we really must get some higher caliber performers.”
“Then we need to start paying higher caliber salaries,” Janet noted dryly.
“Rowan Mackenzie used nonprofessionals and look what he accomplished.”
Well, duh. He’s a faery!
“Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of comparing your efforts to his, Maggie. You’re still a novice.”
I bit back my retort. He was right, after all. But I really didn’t need to hear this tonight.
A sudden gust of cold air made me shiver. Long used that as an excuse to wrap his arm around my bare shoulders.
“I don’t want you to be discouraged if the production fell a bit short.”
From “an excellent start” to falling short in fifteen seconds or less.
As I eased free of Long’s arm, another blast of cold air swirled around us. Long glanced skyward, frowning. Bernie was examining the skies as well, but the rest of the staff regarded Long with stony expressions.
I had felt the chilly blast of Rowan’s anger often enough to recognize what was happening. The staff was pissed—and some of them were unable to rein in their power.
“Do you suppose a storm’s blowing in?” Long asked, oblivious to the one that was brewing on the breezeway. “Ah, well. It’s like Twain said: ‘If you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes.’” He chuckled. “Don’t worry about the show, Maggie. You’ll reach Mr. Mackenzie’s level of excellence one day. You’re like a fine wine that only grows more—”
Spellcrossed Page 6