Rejected Writers Take the Stage

by Suzanne Kelman

  A picture of Ethel flashed into my mind. We would need a rack and a bottle of Scotch to loosen that one up, I thought to myself.

  I saw the twins that afternoon at the library and told them about my plan.

  “I don’t really do exercise,” Lottie said as she slid a copy of A Closer Walk with God across the desk for me to check out. “I prefer to walk or garden,” she added.

  “Come on, Lottie,” said Lavinia. “It sounds like fun.”

  When I dropped by Doris’s to inform her on my way home, she and Ethel were up to their elbows in creating props for the show. Scattered all around them were glue guns, glitter, and strips of papier-mâché. Ethel, as I had predicted, looked horror-struck at my announcement.

  Gracie, who was using the time to add more glitter to a pair of pink tulle wings, clapped her hands together. “Wonderful,” she said. “I have the perfect outfit. I always wanted to be a ballerina,” she added.

  Doris looked at me through narrowed eyes that suddenly registered something. “I know,” she said. “Those hot-pink jogging pants I bought for California.” She had apparently been reviewing her wardrobe.

  Oh no, I thought to myself. I had hoped they would never see the light of day. She’d bought them for our trip to San Francisco to blend in, but the reality was, she never had a chance to wear them. Thank goodness. Now, apparently, they would be making their world debut.

  That evening, the cast arrived to warm up. We stood on the stage in a wide array of outfits. Flora obviously had nothing that resembled exercise gear, so she was in a long, flowing skirt and a blouse and still had on a pair of Victorian boots, plus many petticoats. But she did have her hair up.

  The twins were dressed in pale-blue jogging suits with white sneakers.

  Doris turned up in the infamous pink jogging bottoms. Good grief, I thought to myself. I couldn’t believe she’d left the house that way. Somehow she’d managed to squeeze her whole bottom half into very tight, shiny spandex, which popped the rest of her up into a round, layered, blobby ball. She looked like a lollipop on a Pepto-Bismol stick, a luminous balloon the day after the party, all stretched and round in one area and all saggy in the other. She seemed utterly oblivious to how ridiculous she looked.

  I had opted for a pair of black jogging pants and a white T-shirt, as I thought I might as well get some exercise. I had never tried yoga before.

  We all stood in front of little pink foam mats Ruby had rolled out onto the stage. It was obvious she was taking her job very seriously. She appeared in her leotard, tights, and bare feet. But the usual flamboyant character had calmed herself into a meditating goddess as she stood with her palms pressed together, her toes on the tip of her pink mat. We stood reverently, waiting for her to begin.

  “First,” Ruby said in a very ethereal tone, “we need to clear the room so the spirits can come and cleanse our auras.”

  “No need for that,” piped up Lavinia. “Some spirit cleared my aura last night.”

  “Lavinia,” said Lottie, exasperated. “No one needs to hear about your drinking habits.”

  Ruby seemed unmoved by the distractions. She continued to breathe deeply, encouraging us to do the same. Then she tapped a little pair of finger cymbals together, telling us to breathe with the sound of the chimes.

  This is very entertaining, I thought. Not what I’d expected for exercise.

  She then started to flap her arms in big circles, encouraging us to do the same, telling us to breathe deeply. We huffed and puffed and windmilled our arms.

  “Bring your palms back together,” she said gently. “Now, we’ll kneel.”

  “Now we’ll what?” boomed Doris, incredulously.

  Ruby ignored her and kneeled down on her mat. We all clambered down as best we could.

  “I’m getting down,” said Lottie, “but I’m not sure how I’m getting up again. Let me know what else you need me to do while I’m down here.”

  “Maybe the spirits will float back and lift you back up,” Lavinia joked.

  “First,” continued Ruby, “we will attempt downward dog.” She placed her hands firmly on the mat in front of her, bending her body so her rear end was pointing up in the air, like a dog stretches.

  Lottie looked horror-struck. “I’m not sure I want to even attempt that. I’m not sure any Southern woman should attempt that,” she added, shaking her head.

  Lavinia was already ahead of her in downward dog, her own patootie up high.

  “Come on, Lottie,” she said. “It’s fun.”

  Lottie looked at her twin and scowled at the vision before her. “As our patooties are identical, I just got a glimpse of what I would look like, and there’s no way I’m doing that. Can’t I just do upward cat?” she said and sat back on her heels and pawed at the ground.

  Annie, who was stretched neatly into the position, started barking. “It seems to work for my dogs,” she said. “They do this every morning.”

  As I looked around the room, downward dog was not what went through my mind—more like saggy old hanging cat.

  Ethel looked mortified. She was having none of it. “I think I’ll go and check on what needs to be done in the theater,” she said, clicking her tongue and leaving the room. Ernie had decided to sit it out and sat chuckling at us from the audience while Tanya made excited whooping noises every time we changed position.

  Ruby continued to direct the class as we all stretched and puffed and panted into different positions. She moved the group through several of them till she eventually told us to stand with one leg wrapped around our knees and both hands clasped together above our heads. This produced people falling over in every direction.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Lavinia. “This is called falling-down tree?”

  “I’m not sure my leg wraps around like that,” added Annie as she attempted to do it two or three times.

  Gracie just turned in circles in her ballerina costume, in her own little world.

  Flora got her boot stuck in her skirt and ended up falling flat on her face.

  Surprisingly enough, Doris was very adept at the movement and stood straight up, like a misshapen Pepto-Bismol ice cream cone. As I watched each person attempting the positions, I thought that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to do yoga before we rehearsed. We all hobbled back into the audience to recover.

  As I began organizing the scripts, a strange woman walked onstage and established herself there. I had missed her entrance, so as I looked up, it was as if she had just magically materialized. She was a tall, wiry string of a woman, wearing a long black lace dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the bride of Frankenstein. Around her shoulders hung a short silk jacket trimmed with peacock feathers. Her figure-hugging ensemble brushed the tops of glove-tight snakeskin stiletto boots. Her long fingers were adorned with bulky rings and an oversized silver charm bracelet dangled on her wrist. Her hair was arranged in heavy, rich layers—black, shiny coils rolling all the way down to her tiny waist. On her head was a peaked cap, a cross between a Victorian soldier and a costume from The Music Man. Positioned at a rakish angle, it was made of soft black leather with heavy swags of gold braiding draped around the band.

  She stood there, a quiet but commanding presence, her weight thrown suggestively onto her left hip, and her eyes firmly closed. She seemed to be there for a very long time. I waited awhile patiently and then decided to break the ice.

  “Hello,” I said, “my name’s Janet—”

  I didn’t get any further than that because she responded instantly by moving both her hands in my direction. Her long thin white fingers extended forward, displaying shiny black nail tips. She appeared to be demanding silence.

  I found myself hovering with my mouth open in midsentence, not entirely sure what to do. She continued to stand there, rooted with her hands in the air for a moment. Then she balled them into fists, slowly turned them over, and opened them, one finger at a time until they were splayed, outstretched as if she were reaching out to grab som
e external power.

  Lottie leaned forward and commented over my shoulder, “I don’t remember casting Morticia.”

  I found myself whispering back, afraid to further disrupt her odd meditation. “I think she might be the music director we’ve hired.”

  We all continued to watch, mesmerized, as the woman drew in a sharp intake of air, as though she had been woken from a nightmare. Then she balled her hands into a fist again, brought them down to her sides, and dropped her head to her chest as if she had just finished a performance.

  “What a lot of nonsense,” Doris said with a huff as she arrived back down the aisle. “What is she doing?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “But I think she may be ready to talk now.”

  We both looked toward the stage. The woman filled her lungs with air again, then said in a very ethereal voice, “Yes, this will do nicely. I feel an intense, pulsating vibration that I’ll be able to connect with here.”

  Only then did she open her eyes and acknowledge us all with a deep bow.

  She announced in a booming stage voice, “I’m Olivia. I’m here to bring music to fill this house.”

  We all just stared back, and I suddenly felt very underskilled and underdressed. The rest of the team seemed speechless.

  Olivia steepled her fingers together in front of her as her treasure trove of rings glinted and glistened in the stage lights. She pierced me with her commanding gaze. “And where is my piano?” she asked with a sharp, accusing air, as if she suspected me of hiding it from her.

  I stared up at her, feeling about ten years old, trying to remember why I hadn’t thought to bring a piano to the rehearsal with me before realizing how ridiculous that was. Suddenly, I remembered seeing one when I had been clearing costumes.

  “Um, well, there’s one on the side stage. I’m not sure if it’s a good one,” I babbled, “and I’m not sure even if it’s in tune or anything. We didn’t really get a chance to clean it yet.”

  Olivia silenced me again with her long bony white hand and floated off in a cloud of feathers to the side of the stage to find the piano.

  Doris looked at me and shook her head. “What the devil was that?”

  I shrugged at Doris just as the sound of a piano coming to life started to fill the air. The music was enchanting. The empty stage was magically transported by her exquisite rendition.

  The melody must have traveled into the foyer, because I turned to see that James and Annie had gathered at the back of the auditorium.

  Olivia broke into a beautiful rolling arrangement of “The Swan’s Theme” from Swan Lake that wouldn’t have been out of place at Carnegie Hall. Annie, the twins, and I all wandered closer to the stage, drawn by the beauty of the sound. She finished her incredible rendition with a dramatic cascade of notes, causing everyone to burst into spontaneous applause.

  As the clapping petered out, someone continued to clap heartily from the back of the room, shouting in deep dulcet tones, “Bravo! Bravo!” I looked back to see Ernie making his way down the aisle. Olivia walked back out onstage and gave a small bow in his direction.

  “Yes, I think this will do fine,” she said calmly. “It seems to be in tune and in good shape for an instrument you said hadn’t been touched for a long time.”

  James walked forward and chimed in, “Actually, I only just had it tuned this week. I thought someone might need to use it. I’m so happy to hear it making such wonderful music again.”

  “I need someone to wheel it out for me, if you please,” Olivia informed us.

  James nodded, and Ernie joined him backstage. They pulled it out onto the stage.

  Olivia took control as she stood at the piano and said, “I am your music director, and I’ll need your cast gathered on the stage here with me, please.”

  Doris, not wanting to be upstaged, announced to the cast, “Everybody, this is Olivia . . .”

  She looked to Olivia to help her fill in the blanks, but Olivia responded, “Just Olivia.”

  Doris looked as if she didn’t know what to do with that information, so she just said, “This is . . . Ms. Olivia.”

  As the cast gathered, Olivia moved to the front of the stage and addressed the production team. “I have been made aware of the nature of this endeavor, and I understand that at this point, you have no music.”

  I was just about to make up an excuse when Doris chimed in. “I have been playing with a few ideas at home.”

  Olivia paused before repeating Doris’s words with disdain. “Playing with a few ideas . . . at home?”

  Doris pulled out some scrappy-looking music pages from her bag and held them up toward the stage. Olivia took out a small pair of sparkly glasses hanging on a diamante chain and peered at the sheets Doris handed her. She screwed up her face as she read, communicating that this was not exactly the Brahms she had hoped for.

  Giving them no more than a customary glance, she handed the sheets back to Doris, saying, “I have a degree in music composition and I know of Annie’s work, and I love animals. If you would permit me, I would be willing to write music for this show.”

  “Good,” said Doris stolidly. “You can help me.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes before forming and drawing out the word “yes,” with more than a hint of disapproval etched in her tone.

  She moved back to the group that now hovered around the piano.

  “I’m not sure about her,” Doris said to me under her breath.

  “I think she’s perfect,” I said. “She’s a little odd, but most creative people are. Let’s see how she does.”

  Doris shrugged, puffing out her cheeks as if to say, We will see who’s right and sat down in her chair.

  Marcy arrived late and clicked her way toward the group in extremely high black pumps, wearing a long angora sweater and footless leopard-skin tights that accentuated her curvaceous hips. She seemed to enjoy drawing considerable attention to herself as she went. The cast, sensing greatness, parted like the Red Sea. Olivia, who’d been looking at her own music sheet, caught sight of Marcy over the top of her reading glasses. At the piano, Marcy flipped back her glossy curls, clicked her cherry-red lips together, and just posed.

  Olivia sat way back on her piano seat and said, “And who might you be, young lady?” It was obvious from her tone that she wasn’t the least bit fazed by Marcy’s need to make an entrance.

  Marcy looked over her shoulder before answering, then, placing an elegant hand to her chest, inquired in mock surprise, “Who, me?”

  Olivia just stared at her and raised one eyebrow as if to say, Who else?

  Marcy giggled and threw her head back again. “Oh, I’m just Marcy.” She then extended a hand toward Olivia, saying, “I’m pretty sure I’m playing the lead.”

  Olivia smirked a little and shook just the tips of Marcy’s fingers, saying, “Well, Just Marcy, can you sing?”

  Marcy opened her eyes wide, responding, “Of course I can.”

  Before Olivia could answer her, Flora arrived from the bathroom, out of breath and red-faced from stripping off what seemed to be the whole of the thrift store; she fell up the stairs and splayed out onto the stage. Ernie rushed to help her, saving her embarrassment by joking with her, “Hey there, Flora, don’t go falling for me just yet.” He then broke into a little soft-shoe shuffle, dancing and singing.

  Flushed, Flora was on her feet quickly and brushed herself off as she limped to the piano. Ernie continued singing and dancing beside her.

  “I’m fine,” she said dismissively as the group watched.

  Olivia was about to speak again, when suddenly an imp-like character bounded up the stairs, shouting, “I’m here. I’m here. So sorry, I was waiting in the foyer.”

  Then she collapsed into peals of laughter at her own incompetence and hopped and skipped toward the piano. It was Tanya.

  “It’s like a zoo,” remarked Doris.

  Ethel, by her side, responded, “Monkeys and kangaroos.”

  Olivia qu
ickly took control, and soon they were all warming up, singing scales that actually sounded quite good. She also took them through a number of popular songs, letting them know she was assessing their range. After an hour, Olivia stopped, placed her hands gently on the top of the piano, stood up, and took in a deep breath as she slowly made eye contact with the whole cast.

  “That was adequate for a first rehearsal,” she said. Then she turned to the production team, inquiring, “Who is doing your choreography?”

  I was dumbstruck and then glanced helplessly at Doris. There hadn’t been any discussion about choreography.

  “Do we need a choreographer?” Doris asked bluntly.

  “Of course you need one,” said Olivia. “This is a musical.”

  Stacy struggled to her feet. “I could do it,” she said calmly.

  “Splendid,” said Doris and then announced the rehearsal was over.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  STEVE MCQUEEN RIDES AGAIN

  Annie had finished exercising the dogs and was just settling down to watch her favorite soap on TV while she knitted a couple of rows when someone knocked at the door. John Meyers stood on the doorstep. Gone was all the charm of his last visit. In his hand he held out a letter.

  “Hello,” he said, abruptly, his demeanor void of any lightness; he was apparently in work mode. “I have to inform you that, because you didn’t come up with an alternative repayment plan and per the documents you signed, your property is to be acquired by developers, and they’ll be moving within the next week to start preliminary work on removing the buildings and accessing the trees to be taken down.”

  Annie just stood riveted to the spot in shock, and her whole body started to shake. Had she heard him right? Did he say that they were going to bulldoze the farm? The one thought she’d had when all this started, the thing that kept her going, was that maybe some wonderful family would buy the property. She had visualized being able to have them come and visit before they moved in, take them around and show them some of her favorite places. Maybe they would have let her stop by occasionally and take a walk in the woods. Now what was he talking about? Developers?