The staff went into “circle the wagons” mode just like the night Rowan returned. Only this time the interloper was my father. I had to plead with Lee to refrain from ripping Jack’s head off and beg Alex to stop looking at me with sad, puppy dog eyes. Hal bit his lip every time he saw me, Catherine patted me every time she passed, and Mei-Yin spoke in such dulcet tones that I wanted to scream, “I’m okay! Really!”
I knew they all meant well, that they loved me and were trying to help me deal with this situation. But I didn’t know how to deal with it, either. What I wanted most was to thrust aside my personal problems and focus on the show.
As usual, Reinhard—ever stalwart, ever silent—understood that. He must have spoken to others because the hovering abruptly ceased and we all got back into show mode.
Everyone got a much-needed lift when we saw the set for Into the Woods. The cast actually applauded.
Like the characters in Act One, it was mostly two-dimensional. Painted cutouts of two enormous trees framed the stage, their branches curving over the proscenium arch. Banks of twisted trees flanked a tiered rock formation at center. Our local Cub Scout troop had collected the leaves that Hal had laboriously added to the netting of the forest’s “canopy.”
Rapunzel’s tower and the tree that hosted the spirit of Cinderella’s mother were also trompe l’oeil miracles. Like the three giant storybooks in place at the start of the show, these were hinged and could be opened and closed by the actors or crew.
I let the cast explore a bit, then sent them off to change for the costume parade. It was the first time they’d seen each other in fairy-tale drag and there was a lot of “oohing” and “aahing” over the transformations. Jack’s gray suit looked natty if bizarrely out of place among the peasant garb, uniforms, and ball gowns. Rowan looked more like an adorable ragamuffin than a Mysterious Man; I’d have to wait until he donned his gray wig and beard at dress rehearsal to get the full effect.
Not so TweedleTom. Even without the hair pieces and ears, he looked wonderfully wolfish in his furry leggings and tail, clawed gloves, and black sequined jacket. His bare chest came in for almost as much comment as his costume, especially after his cast mates realized that the “fur” was all Tom.
“Watch out,” Debra warned. “One of the locals might skin you and set you out before a fireplace.”
Everyone was on such a high afterward that I wished we could plunge right into the run-through, but I knew we needed to work the stickier bits of business first. So we spent the next hour opening and closing the storybooks, the tower and the tree; practicing the Wife’s “fall” from the rock formation; and raising and lowering the “tree limb” on which the Baker and Jack kept watch for the giant.
We’d flown in set pieces plenty of times, but never a pair of actors. Lee had tested it for half an hour before the costume parade, and although he assured Brian and Connor that it was safe, they looked petrified the first time they descended from the flies. By the fourth time, though, Connor was having so much fun that he began rocking their narrow platform like a Ferris wheel seat.
Brian shrieked. So did I. Lee shouted, “Quit messing around! Or I’ll cut the bit and you’ll do the scene on top of two stepladders.”
We actually needed rolling stepladders so the actresses playing Rapunzel and Cinderella’s dead mother could ascend to their bowers. Mira—the aforesaid dead mother—chose that moment to announce that she was afraid of heights.
“Did she even look at my sketches?” Hal demanded in a furious whisper. “Am I supposed to put the ghost of Cinderella’s mother in a stump?”
“Let’s just deal with it.”
Even with two stagehands helping her on and off the ladder, she was still a wreck. In the end, Javier had to mount the ladder behind her and put his arms around her waist while Mira clutched the ladder’s railing in a death grip and shakily sang her solo.
Through it all, Rowan sat in the front row, silently gauging how much magical help cast and crew might need on opening night.
We held the run-through after our dinner break. There was so little seat squeaking from Long that I actually swiveled around to make sure he was still there. He gasped so loudly at the Witch’s transformation that I was glad Hal had permitted Debra to do the scene in costume.
When the run-through concluded, he shouted, “Bravo!” And as soon as I finished giving notes, he hurried onstage to praise the actors.
“The transformation worked beautifully,” he told Debra as the rest of the cast trooped down to the dressing rooms. “I don’t know how you managed it. No, don’t tell me. You’ll spoil the magic.”
The transformation was anything but magical. Shrouded in a voluminous hooded cloak, no one could tell that Debra was already wearing her younger self’s white satin gown and sequined slippers. After she drank the magic potion, she reeled upstage. While the audience was agog at the Mysterious Man’s dying revelations, Debra was ripping off her flesh-colored clawed gloves, prosthetic nose, and bushy eyebrows. She stuffed those into a hidden pocket in her cloak, slid off her gray wig, and even had time to apply the red lipstick that had been secreted in the goblet.
A flare from the flash pot. A puff of smoke. Debra dropped her cloak and voila! The crone had transformed into a glamour puss. In the few seconds before the blackout, everyone was too busy gawking at the gown and the blonde wig to notice that the glamour puss still had age lines on her face.
The most magical moment in the show and we accomplished it without any faery magic at all.
It would have been cool if Rowan could have cast a glamour across Debra’s features to make her look youthful, but it was simply too risky. Even when he had directed the production, he’d done it the old-fashioned way, unwilling to arouse suspicion.
After Long left, Debra asked, “Is that how you worked it when you played the Witch?”
“Hey! I never told you I played the role. Who spilled the beans?”
She glanced at the pit, and Alex sheepishly raised his hand.
“Sorry,” Debra said. “Didn’t mean to out you.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “And no. We used a double at Southford. I ducked offstage; she staggered on in an identical cloak. Poof. Reveal. Blackout. Applause.”
“That would be easier, you know.”
“Yes, but it was so damn obvious. At least, the audience knows you’re working hard.”
“Especially with my hooked nose hanging off my face.”
“That was only the first time. It looked great tonight.”
And would look even better during the show. If Rowan refrained from using his magic to effect the transformation, he would certainly jump in to help Debra do so.
“Did the makeup read okay?” Debra asked.
“You looked beautiful,” Alex replied.
He smiled up at her. She smiled down at him. Then Alex made a big deal about collecting his score and Debra hurried off to change.
As soon as was humanly possible, I dragged Rowan up to the apartment and demanded, “Is something going on between Debra and Alex?”
“They certainly light up around each other.”
“They do?”
“Well, you wouldn’t notice.”
“No. Of course not. I’m a mere human.”
“I only meant that there’s nothing about their behavior to give them away.”
When I filled him in on their moonlit stroll in the garden, his eyebrows rose.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“I’ve always hoped Alex would find someone to share his life. I just never imagined it would be someone like Debra.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Then again, Annie was pretty domineering.”
“You’re kidding. I always pictured her as…well…like Helen. Sweet. Kind. Loving.”
“She was. But she was also strong-minded. A match for Janet any day. Which was probably a good thing for Alex. Sometimes, he needs a push.”
“Maybe we should—”
“No.”
“You were going to suggest we give Alex a push.”
“Damn faery…”
“Let them be, Maggie.”
“You cast Lou and Bobbie opposite each other.”
“And after that, I let them be.”
“Sometimes people need a little push.”
“And sometimes they need to figure things out for themselves. As you have reminded me on more than one occasion.”
CHAPTER 40
ALL I WANTED WAS THE DREAM
THE EXTRA TIME WE SPENT WORKING THE PROBLEM AREAS paid off. We were out of tech in three hours instead of our usual five; even Reinhard was in danger of ascending to Cloud Nine. When I settled into my seat for dress rehearsal, I was filled with confidence.
The stage lights came up to reveal the open storybooks with their fairy-tale characters in a frozen tableau: Cinderella by the hearth with her broom; the Baker and his Wife preparing bread; and Jack and his Mother flanking Milky-White, the wooden cow that resembled a giant pull toy on casters. The right page of each book showed the interiors of the three cottages. On the left, Hal had painted the opening lines of the story in elegant calligraphy, each beginning with the traditional “Once upon a time.”
All that remained was for Jack to enter and utter those same words to open the show.
Although I had seen him make that entrance a dozen times, my heart still sped up when he strode out of the wings. He nodded approvingly at the tableau and crossed to his position by the stage right proscenium arch.
The spot came on.
He turned toward the darkened house.
And stood there.
For about two seconds, I thought he was milking the moment. Then I noticed his glazed expression.
He’d had his lines down the first week of rehearsal. Had performed perfectly during the final run-through. But now Jack Sinclair—the man who had boasted about his performance as Billy Bigelow, who had given acting tips to the cast of The Secret Garden, who had been a professional actor for more than ten years—Jack Sinclair had dried up.
His mouth snapped shut. His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. Alex’s head jerked stage right, his hands upraised to cue the pit band. Long’s seat gave an ominous squeak. And still Jack remained frozen, blinking like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
Rowan would never leave him hanging out to dry. Maybe Jack was simply too terrified to respond to the gentle nudge of Rowan’s power.
Seconds after the thought crossed my mind, Jack started visibly at what had to be a much stronger jolt of Fae power. He swallowed again. Opened his mouth.
“Once upon a time…”
The words came out in a strangled whisper. My heart went “da-DUM” along with the opening chords from the pit band. Instead of continuing the narration, Jack lapsed into silence. The actors forged ahead. I gripped the seat in front of me and prayed he would recover.
He did. But instead of introducing Cinderella’s Stepmother and Stepsisters, he muttered the lines he had just missed.
The number went downhill from there. At some point, he simply stopped talking and stood there with his head bowed. Although critical information was lost—like the fact that Rapunzel was the Baker’s sister—Sondheim’s lyrics held the story together.
The director in me noted that with dispassionate interest. The daughter wanted to rush onstage and lead that dejected figure out of the spotlight’s glare.
I was halfway out of my seat when he slunk offstage. As I sank down again, two hands patted my shoulders: Bernie and Catherine, silently lending their support.
The curtains parted to reveal the forest. I tried to concentrate on the wonderful maze of light streaming through the trees and the characters’ journey into the woods, but I was too conscious of the minutes ticking away until the Narrator’s return at the top of Scene 2.
I swiveled around and whispered to Bernie, “If he doesn’t come back, I’ll need you to go on.”
Bernie nodded toward the stage. I whipped around and found Jack in place. He spoke his line clearly enough, but he seemed to be in a trance. I wasn’t sure if he was grasping for words or if he was merely repeating the ones that Rowan was magically feeding him.
Three musical numbers passed before he returned to introduce Rapunzel. The glazed look had left his eyes, but only in the final moments of Act One did he seem to be in character.
I stayed away from the Dungeon at intermission, fearful that my presence would only distract him further. Instead, I hurried up the stairs to Rowan’s apartment.
Although I had just seen him in full costume and makeup, it was still bizarre to be greeted by a Mysterious Man in long gray wig, false beard, and rag picker’s motley.
When he asked, “How bad did it look?” I knew he was referring to Jack’s performance rather than his appearance.
“After the meltdown? A little…robotic. But okay at the end. How much of it was you?”
“Most of it.”
It was hard to tell if he was tired with all the age makeup. The weariness in his voice might only have been the same disillusionment I felt.
I followed him through the living area. His dining table now held an eight-bulb makeup mirror, a wig stand, and a partitioned makeup case filled with brushes and pencils, foundation and sponges, powder and rouge, vials of spirit gum and remover.
As he resumed his seat before the mirror, I asked, “Are you okay?”
“The top of Scene 2 was the worst. I had to calm Mira and feed Jack his lines. Very…schizophrenic.” He plucked a makeup pencil from his case and began retouching the age lines on his forehead. “In the past, I’ve always directed my power at a group or an individual. Same power. One focus. This is the first time I’ve had to help two people with two distinct problems at the same time.” In the mirror, his gaze met mine. “So I guess that’s what I’ve learned from doing the show.”
“And we haven’t even opened yet.” I rested my cheek lightly against his, careful to avoid smudging his makeup.
“Sorry I didn’t have any power to spare for you.”
“I’m fine. I just hope Jack makes it through Act Two.”
“The Narrator’s death occurs well before my resurrection. So I should be able to concentrate on him. If he needs me.”
I straightened with a sigh. “Of all the problems I knew I’d face with him, I never expected this one.”
“Neither did I. He seemed fine during warm-ups. No more excited or nervous than any of the others. It was only after he walked onstage that I felt his panic.”
“Will he be able to perform tomorrow?”
Again, his gaze met mine in the mirror. “I don’t know, Maggie. Maybe he’ll work out his jitters tonight.”
Jack seemed more confident in Act Two, but that might have been the effect of Rowan’s power. Much as I wanted him to have the opportunity to perform, Rowan had others in the cast who might need him. I couldn’t allow him to become Jack’s personal Energizer Bunny. If Jack needed that level of support, I would have to pull him.
As soon as Lee brought up the house lights, Long hurried down the aisle toward me. Before he could speak, I said, “I don’t know what happened with Jack.” I kept my voice low, conscious of the cast waiting onstage for notes. “But I’ll deal with it, okay?”
“I know you will. And I know you’ll do whatever’s best for the show. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. For your sake and his. I know how much it meant to you to have him in the show. And I think it meant just as much to him.”
His response was almost as unexpected as my father’s meltdown. Funny thing was, I’d dealt with that calmly. Long’s support brought me to the verge of tears.
He sighed. “I really should know better by now. When things go wrong, a lecture stiffens your resolve and kindness upsets you. Maybe one day, I’ll figure out the rules.”
“Maybe one day, I’ll be able to take either the lecture or the kindness without l
osing it.”
Long cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. The cast is waiting. I’ll say something brief and inspirational and get out of your way.”
All summer, I had dreamed of a new relationship with my father. Instead, I seemed to have stumbled into one with my board president. As we walked toward the stage, I recalled Long’s habit of popping in at unexpected moments, of attending run-throughs and dress rehearsals as well as most of the performances. I’d always suspected he was checking up on me. Maybe he was simply lonely.
Long uttered his few inspirational words. My speech was equally brief and consisted mainly of telling the cast how proud I was—and that I wanted to run the Act One opening early tomorrow afternoon. After I staged the curtain calls, I let Jack leave with the rest of the cast, unwilling to ask him to stay behind and shame him in front of everyone. He hurried off to the Dungeon, visibly relieved at his easy getaway. It was Otis who lingered.
“He’ll settle down,” he assured me.
“I hope so.”
He regarded me silently, then said, “It’s tougher when it’s family.”
Without thinking, I replied, “Tell me about it.” Then I stared up at him in shock. I hadn’t told the cast that Jack was my father. And I knew none of the staff would reveal that, either.
“How did you know?”
“Didn’t at first. Then I started noticing little things. Like the way you both stick your chin out when you’re angry. And how you took such care with him. You’re good to all of us, but it was different with Jack.”
I nodded, still a little stunned.
“He hasn’t figured it out yet, has he? That you’re his daughter.”
“He didn’t know in the beginning, but he does now.”
But only because I had told him. It revealed so much about both men that Otis—a relative stranger—had seen what my father had missed.
“Families can be one tangled up mess sometimes,” Otis said. “Or the greatest blessing in the world. Usually both.”
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