At night I sometimes wake up screaming and a nurse comes and gives me a shot and then everything is black and there are no dreams at all. And in the morning when I wake up, I don’t remember the dreams. I only remember the soft feel of cats’ fur and the sound of purring and I get dressed and go to breakfast and think that soon I will be able to go home, soon I will be back in the house with the big brass knocker and soon everything will be better and then there won’t ever be any blood again. Soon I will wake up and I will get dressed and I will go to school and it will be as if none of this ever happened, as if this is the life I always had, without any of the sounds or smells or blood. I think that if I just keep going the way I am now, if I can make everyone know that I am okay now, that I am not like the people in the crazy house, it will happen. I will get to go home.
Which is why I can’t tell them anything more about the crazy house or that day or all the days that came after. No one will ever have the answers to why there was some kind of killing there, at that house, because no one will know what came before.
No one, that is, but me.
Anything for the Theater
Clifford Henderson
I learned of Edna Powell’s death at a production meeting for Blue Moon Theater’s upcoming play The Diviners. I was running the meeting. It’s my job as stage manager to make sure the director and designers communicate. Not always an easy task. There’s a joke about the hierarchy of a production. Actors are at the bottom of the ladder, next rung up are the designers, then comes the director, on top of that is God, and the rung above that, well, that’s me, the stage manager, Hattie Parker. To meet me, you wouldn’t know I wield such power. Like most stage managers, I’m soft-spoken. But my actors never miss their entrances or forget their props, and my light and sound board-ops hit their cues dead on. I run a tight ship. When a director asks the impossible, I make it happen.
In this one show I ran, the attractive female lead had ten seconds to zip offstage and do a complete gender switch, from suit and tie to dress and heels. The director wanted red lipstick, but no matter how many times we rehearsed the change, ripping off the jacket with attached shirt and tie, yanking on the Velcro-fastened dress, we could never get to the lipstick, we just couldn’t make the time. Then I came up with a solution. I slathered lipstick on my own lips and kissed her right before her entrance.
I’m not saying the job is without its perks.
The announcement of Edna Powell’s death came while we were discussing color palette. Douglas Trent stepped into the green room. He looked shook up, his face pale, his hands fidgety. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, but he didn’t have to apologize to us—or to anyone. Douglas is president of the board, a.k.a. head fund-raiser. If it weren’t for him, there would be no Blue Moon Theater. “I just got a call from Edna Powell’s son.” He pulled a hanky from his pocket and blew his nose. “She died in her sleep last night. Her cleaning lady found her in her bed this morning.”
I was floored. Or maybe floored isn’t the right word. Ultra creeped out might be a better choice. But that doesn’t fully capture the feeling either, because along with ultra creeped out was a dash of excitement. Adrenaline. Could the pendulum of fortune for once have swung our way?
Rewind to the night before.
I was hanging out backstage with Edna. It was closing weekend of the premiere of In Your Dreams, a new play that just wasn’t getting the audiences anyone expected. Too avant-garde, I suspect. Now, a box office bomb can either draw actors together in a kind of misunderstood-artist team-spirit thing or push them apart in mutual blame and loathing. In this case it was the latter. The actors wanted the embarrassment to be over.
Edna, playing the token old-lady role, was no exception. Her part was a minor one, meaning lots of backstage time, something she’s never been fond of. I know because I’ve endured many a show with her. Edna’s swimming in the money her mogul husband left her, and donates scads of it to the theater, so there’s sort of this…obligation to cast her whenever possible. I say obligation because she’s a pain in the ass to work with. She’s a decent enough actor—uses her hands too much, mistakes volume for intensity, that sort of thing. The problem is she’s an enormous prima donna. If another actor mistakenly steps on her line or upstages her, she throws a massive fit. I’ve heard tales of her younger days when she actually lobbed hand props at actors who crossed her. And while she’s well past having the upper-arm strength to pull that off, her tongue is weapon enough. I can’t tell you how many times she’s caused one of my stagehands to break down in tears. Or quit. I wouldn’t put up with it from any of my other actors, but when it’s Edna Powell, well, you bite your tongue and remind yourself that she just donated a whopping chunk of change for new risers.
Edna was acting oddly that night. And I’m not the only one who thought so. My current stagehand and major crush, Maria Gonzales, did, too. Edna was sitting on a stool, wedged between the roll-on fireplace and the fake cow, scribbling furiously on a clipboard. The backstage lights are nothing more than clip lamps with blue bulbs, but Edna had a little book light attached to the top of the clipboard, and she was really going at it. Generally, this would not warrant much note. I’ve seen actors do their homework backstage, write bills, what have you. But not Edna. She spends all her time backstage “preparing,” which essentially means sitting stock still and glaring at anyone who walks through her “energy circle.” Naturally, I was curious. Besides, it’s my job to know what’s going on with my actors. So I asked her what was up. I had to whisper. The play was in a quiet part, and a flimsy wall is the only thing between the dressing room and the stage.
She scrutinized me briefly, then whispered back, “I’m writing an addendum to my will.”
My first thought was: Who’s pissed her off now? Edna was always pulling stunts like this. Be a nice little puppet and she’d reward you, go against her in any way and she’d make sure you felt it. “Kind of a funny time to be working on your will,” I said.
Maria, filling a brandy decanter with flat Coke, and looking super cute in her backstage blacks, gave me a look that let me know she was on the same page.
I squatted so I could get a look at Edna’s face—harder than it sounds. Her milkmaid costume included a bonnet with a ridiculously large brim. But even in the shadows of that dim blue light, I could see that something was bothering her. I prayed it wasn’t something we’d done to piss her off. Last thing the theater needed was for her to pull her money. “Is everything okay?”
“I don’t want my son, Darrell, to know I’m doing this,” she whispered.
“Why?”
She glanced briefly at Maria, whom Edna had recently decided to like, then signaled for the two of us to huddle around her. Maria placed the filled decanter onto the silver tray, then joined me squatting next to Edna. We were just minutes away from the next set change. I prayed Edna would make it quick.
“He’s in town for a visit. Of course, he won’t stay with me. Says I make his lady friends uncomfortable. His whores, is more like it. And now he’s trying to convince me I’m incompetent to handle my financial affairs. Can you imagine? Me, Edna Powell. He’s even got my lawyer on board.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Maria said diplomatically, but I’m sure she was thinking what I was. Edna was starting to get forgetful. The week prior she’d stormed into the theater and blamed the office manager for double-charging her Visa, which was not the case. There’d been other incidents, too.
Edna laid a blue-veined hand, slightly palsied, but nonetheless entitled, on Maria’s shoulder. “Thank you, dear. I appreciate your support—everyone’s here at the theater.” She generously included me with a nod, then glanced around as if someone might be listening in. “Unlike my son, you appreciate me. That’s why I’m going to bequeath the bulk of my estate to the theater. I’ve made up my mind. I’m just afraid if Darrell finds out, he’ll try to stop me. He’ll convince our lawyer that I’m being irrational.”
Maria and I exc
hanged glances. The bulk of her estate? Wouldn’t that be a boon for the theater! But I don’t think either one of us took her too seriously. You couldn’t. It would only hurt you in the end.
“Can’t you get some kind of doctor’s note,” Maria whispered, “confirming you’re of sound mind?”
“I plan to, dear. But in the meantime, I want Darrell to understand that he is no longer my beneficiary. I’ve had it.” She thrust the clipboard at me. “So, if you wouldn’t mind signing your name, I’d like you to witness my change.”
It felt slimy taking the clipboard. Who knew what little trespass her son had committed to deserve this? But there was no time to dwell on it. We were coming up on our most complicated set change. I scrawled my name, then said into my headset, “Two-minute warning on sound cue thirteen. It’s a visual. Watch for the actress to drop the vase.”
“On standby,” my sound and light op replied.
“Lights, prepare for fade to black.”
“Ready,” my light op said.
“He blames me for everything,” Edna went on. “For his failures with women, his inability to make lasting friendships. Says I was too domineering. Can you believe?”
I handed her the clipboard, envisioning a day I might actually be able to pay my staff more than stipends, then told myself not too get too excited. This was Edna Powell we were talking about. “It’s your money, Edna.”
She passed the clipboard to Maria. “I believe I need two witnesses to make it legal.”
Maria signed her name, then grabbed the broom and dustpan for the high-speed cleanup.
I got into place so I could see the actress as she held the vase above her head. “Genie! If you won’t come out on your own free will,” she roared, “I will make you come out!”
Smash!
“Music. Go,” I said, then silently began counting: One chimpanzee, two chimpanzee, three chimpanzee. “Lights. Go.”
Right before stepping onto the stage for the set change, I saw Edna take the will from the clipboard and slip it into her makeup box, a metal tackle box doubling as her footstool.
I didn’t get a chance to talk with her afterward; there were always too many actors for the small backstage, and there was that minor disaster involving an actress’s wig and a spilled soda. Maria and I were the last to leave. We had to refold the prop blankets that had been hastily stuffed onto the shelf so the actors could get to their night of partying.
“I’m kind of worried about her,” Maria said.
I’ll admit I was having trouble focusing on the conversation. Every time we completed a fold, she’d step in close to hand me her edge. “Who, Edna?”
“Hattie.” She stopped not six inches from me. “Have you even heard a word I’ve said?”
I reached for her edge of the blanket.
She jerked it back. “Have you?”
What can I say? I get distracted in the presence of sublime beauty. “Sorry.” I attempted a concerned look. “I’ll check on her tomorrow. Give her a call.” Worrying about Edna hadn’t even occurred to me. But Maria cared, so I would, too. Then, the next morning, I slept in and had to race to pick up the bagels and cream cheese for the ten o’clock production meeting. I didn’t give Edna a second thought. Not until Trent’s announcement.
Everyone, of course, was shocked by the news of her death. And there were the logistics to figure out. Who’d finish out the run of the show, and could they get off book fast enough? I listened to my colleagues prattling on, but my mind was fixed on only one thing. Getting my hands on that will. I started imagining a soundboard with no pop, a set of blacks that weren’t ripped from the negligent use of safety pins, a grid full of new lighting instruments. After an appropriately sensitive amount of time, I brought the meeting back to the production end of things. It’s what I get all those tens of dollars for, to keep a show on schedule. But I couldn’t get that will addendum out of my head. It was floating around somewhere—and needed to be found.
Before closing, I made it clear that at the next meeting I wanted to see a maquette, some costume renderings, and light plots. Then I hung around to pick up the coffee cups and bagel wrappings. Glamorous, I know. Oh yeah, and I had myself a good cry. I wasn’t crying because Edna was gone. It was more about death in general. It’s so…irreversible.
On the wall an old play poster for The Gin Game featured a photo of her with a quote from a local reviewer: “The Jessica Tandy of The Blue Moon Theater.” I chuckled. The difference there was Jessica Tandy was sweet. But it couldn’t be denied, Edna was our resident old lady, our crone, ol’ biddy, hag, witch. She’d played them all, and that’s how she’d be remembered.
The floor around the lighting designer’s chair was covered in crumbs. The slob! I opened the utility closet to grab a dustpan and broom. Someone was bumping around in the dressing room. Figuring it was the sound designer checking out the headsets, I ignored it. Then the thumping grew frantic like someone was trashing the place. I dropped the broom and strode in, planning on chewing someone a new asshole. There was no one there, but the place was thrashed. Costumes were thrown to the floor. Prop boxes dumped. This pissed me off on so many levels. It also scared the crap out of me. Who would do this? I grabbed a prop fireplace poker and crept into the theater. The ghost light in the center of the stage cast eerie shadows over the sharp angles of the set. I edged my way over to the work lights and flicked them on. The stage was empty. Poker held high, I walked the center aisle up to the tech booth in case someone was hiding out there, but whoever it was, was gone.
The door to the outside slammed, startling the shit out of me.
Forcing my now shaking legs out into the foyer and to the door, I cracked it open. A group of laughing people stood outside the adjacent restaurant. A couple of guys walked out of the hardware store. Individuals strolled down the street minding their own business. I fiddled with the outside bulletin board trying to calm myself. Who had vandalized the dressing room? And why? Then I remembered the will. I bolted inside to the dressing room to see if her makeup box was in its usual spot on the shelf. It wasn’t.
I unscrewed my thermos and poured myself a cup of coffee, then paced the length of the green room trying to decide what to do. I considered contacting the police, simply mentioning to them the conversation Edna and I had had the night before, but I couldn’t get it out of my head that if I got the police involved, the will would get caught up in some kind of legal bullshit and the theater would never see that dough. There had to be another way.
Lest you find my fixation on the money shallow, let me say this in my defense. I believe theater to be sacred. On a good night, the connection between audience and players literally changes the molecules in the room. We are transformed, however briefly, into our highest selves. That said, funding for theater is at an all-time low. The Blue Moon Theater is the only surviving live theater in our area. We work our butts off to provide our community with a solid season every year, plus we do programs in the schools and offer internships for kids at risk. We sponsor events like the Rainbow Awards for gay teens and a reading series for emerging writers. But each year we question if we can go on. And this year has been the direst yet. We’ve actually had the ugly discussion about replacing staff with volunteers. A gift like Edna Powell’s would be a godsend. And, more importantly, job security.
I stopped pacing. I had to get a hold of the will.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Maria. I’d wanted to call on her socially for weeks and could never find the right pretext. The fact that it took a possible crime for me to get up the guts tells you something about my courtship skills.
She picked up on the third ring. “Hattie?”
“Uh, yeah.” I cursed my knotted tongue. Just once I was hoping to talk to a woman I was attracted to without sounding mentally challenged.
“Is something wrong?” Her voice was full of concern, like maybe she cared.
“Yeah. Could I meet you somewhere? I need to tell you in person.”
“You’re not throwing me off the crew because of Sandra’s wig? I moved Blaze’s soda from the makeup counter like three times. I even threatened to cut his hand off if he put it there again. But you know how spacey Blaze is.”
“No. No.” Her presumption made me feel like crap. Was I really that much of a taskmaster? “It has nothing to do with the show. It’s about Edna”
“Edna?”
“Yes. She died last night.”
“Died?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That seems kind of…weird, doesn’t it? I mean…after she had us—”
“We need to talk.”
Forty-five minutes later we were sitting at a rickety table in a local coffee shop, me with a latte, her with a hot chocolate, and I’d filled her in on the situation. Oh yeah, and I’d paid for the drinks, if that makes me seem less pathetic.
It was my first time to see Maria outside the theater and I had to keep from gawking. She was stunning in her jeans and Fry boots, her long wavy black hair cascading over her shoulders. She was an amazing woman who had done a lot for theater-community relations, hosting an outreach mask-making class for the local Hispanic kids, for one thing. Over half of them were scholarships, meaning Maria let them take the class for free, using her own money for supplies. The way I saw it, it was our civic duty to get our hands on that makeup box before anyone else did.
Maria sucked a swirl of thick whipped cream from her fingertip. “It was probably her son. From the way she made it sound, he was the one with the most to lose.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
She giggled. “Too bad he doesn’t know what I do. Last night when she was leaving, I helped her load the makeup box, and the will, into her car.”
“So she didn’t leave it here, then?”
Women of the Mean Streets Page 11