Audition for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  “I’ll manage, roomie,” said Maggie confidently. “You look after Paul. And Brian.”

  Ellen went back into the auditorium to see Brian, who was leaning on the back railing looking miserable and stubborn. Rob, Nick, and Lisette, troubled, stood near him. Dean Wagner and David were a little apart, despondent, watching Paul use the vac on the stage. On her way up the aisle Ellen passed Judy. She gave her the flashlight.

  “Go up and see how the rehearsal room looks,” she said. “We can’t let the actors back on the stage for a while.”

  Ellen joined Brian and the others.

  “I just don’t see how we can,” Brian was saying.

  “We’ve got to try, Brian,” urged Nick.

  “But look! No place for the audience. No place for the play. No lights. How can we?”

  Ellen said, “Brian, it’s a mess. But you’re supposed to give us until tech rehearsal to finish things.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Are you kidding?”

  “Look, it’s just a technical problem, right? Nothing’s wrong with the actors.”

  “We’re as frisky as ever,” agreed Nick.

  “So let us techies work on it a while. We haven’t given up.”

  Brian looked skeptical.

  Nick said, “You can always cancel later, Brian. But once it’s done there’s no turning back.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to Cheyenne,” Brian conceded. From the relief evident in Nick’s brown eyes, Ellen realized that it had been a close thing.

  Ellen said, “Why don’t we have a meeting in the rehearsal room in the afternoon? For everyone’s progress report?”

  Brian nodded slowly. “Okay. One o’clock. I’ll tell Cheyenne.”

  “Okay. I’ll contact everyone else.” She turned back to the ruined stage and got to work. It was two a.m.

  Eventually the sun came up. Ellen, armed with her clipboard, had started making notes. She and Paul had stripped off the painted curtains from the rods, a cold job with the fans going and their clothes and hair drenched with the sprinkles of colored drops that fell every time the curtains moved. With the help of the campus policemen, they cordoned off an area of the parking lot and spread things to dry behind the barriers. Tim had carefully dried off the new swords and the flagons, but Ophelia’s flowers and the books and other props on the prop table had been soaked. Cheyenne was everywhere—checking instruments with Maggie, ripping up the sodden floorcloth with Paul, requisitioning towels from the student union to dry the big power saws and lathes in the drenched scene shop, meeting the building custodian to arrange for cleanup of the auditorium. Brian, to everyone’s relief, had gone home.

  At about six-thirty Lisette, who had disappeared for a while, came in with a huge coffee urn and stacks of foam cups from the student union. Ellen called a recess, and they all collected in the lobby for a brief break.

  “How are we doing?” asked Ellen. Everyone looked tired and muddy and eager for the coffee.

  “No chance,” said Judy wearily.

  Cheyenne said, “Get out of here.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got no room for amateurs now. Get your ass out of here.”

  Grace said, “Come on, Cheyenne. We’re all pretty discouraged.”

  “I’m not talking about discouraged or not discouraged. I’m talking about doing what has to be done.”

  “Professional commitment?” Judy’s voice trembled. “Well, breaking your neck on a hopeless job is not professional. It’s stupid.”

  “Professionals have one goal, and they do what’s necessary,” snapped Cheyenne. “No matter what sacrifices have to be made.”

  “That’s stupid!” Judy was near tears.

  “So get out. Move.”

  “Damn right!” Judy ran out the lobby door, slamming it behind her.

  “All right, Ellen.” Cheyenne turned to her as though nothing had happened.

  “Yeah.” Ellen, who felt she suddenly understood the universe, gathered her stunned forces. “Um, let’s have a rundown on how everyone’s doing. Paul?”

  “We’re going to need a lot more of the parking lot to dry things out,” reported Paul. Like Cheyenne, he was now focused on the task, his usual friendly interest in everyone around him evaporated.

  “Okay,” said Ellen. “I’ll get some more of those barriers. Tim?”

  “Not bad. A lot of work to do, but if we can get some money it can be done. Thank God we saved those swords.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Cheyenne’s going to call New York first thing to order bulbs and gels. We may need instruments and replacement outlets too. Won’t know till it’s dry enough to test.”

  “Cheyenne?”

  “We need velours. The act curtain is shot, but we weren’t going to use it anyway, it can wait. But the teaser and tormentors can’t.”

  “A lot of stuff to get from the city.”

  “Yeah. And I don’t know about the cyc. It may stretch dry on its own pipes. Or we may need a new one.”

  Nick said, “If you can get them ordered, Lisette and I will be in the city a couple of days over spring break for auditions. We can bring them back.”

  “You don’t have a truck.”

  “We’ll rent a trailer.”

  “Okay. I’ll stay here and work.”

  “What about the house?” asked Ellen. “The carpets and seats?”

  “Gone,” said Cheyenne. “Buildings and Grounds will throw them out and bring in folding chairs.”

  “Sounds like high school again,” said Ellen. “Okay. Anything else?”

  “What about breakfast?” asked Maggie pragmatically.

  Rob, who had been standing near her silently, musing into the plastic cup he was gripping, looked up at her now, astounded. Then he broke into helpless laughter. “The ravenous Miss Ryan!” he exclaimed, and kissed her streaky forehead enthusiastically. “I volunteer for your crew, so I won’t miss any meals!”

  “Well, take a break whenever it’s convenient,” said Ellen shortly. “Remember, people, be in the rehearsal room upstairs at one o’clock for the meeting.”

  They finished their coffee, talking quietly together. Ellen caught her roommate’s eye and smiled a little. There were muddy smears all over Maggie’s face and hands and clothes, but the blue eyes were still cheerful. Maggie smiled back. Guess I look like that too, thought Ellen, touching her hair. It was stiff with slowly drying scene paint. But the coffee helped, and her sweater had dried out a bit since she and Paul had taken down the curtains, and she really did feel hopeful again.

  The others were drifting out, and Ellen quickly poured herself a last half cup and began to gather up the discarded cups in a trash bag. Maggie and Paul left together. As they pushed open the doors, Ellen heard Maggie speak quietly to him, and for the first time her roommate’s voice was grim.

  “Well, Paul. Guess we go to Plan B, huh?”

  And Paul answered, sadly but firmly, “No choice.”

  Puzzled, Ellen was looking after them when Jim came back in and said tentatively, “Ellen.”

  She turned. She owed him an explanation, didn’t she?

  He said, “You don’t have to explain. I know it was just stress. It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

  “You think I’ll be fretting because I gave you the wrong impression?” She was tired and smudged, and full of new wisdom.

  He was a little embarrassed. “No, not fretting, it’s just that I know it’s no good for you, so don’t worry.”

  “Jim, I know something now too. Cheyenne just explained.”

  “Cheyenne?”

  “‘Professionals have one goal, and they do what’s necessary,’” she quoted. “I kept thinking you were a student. Like me.”

  “I see. But that doesn’t change anything, Ellen. You’re right. I know it’s a hell of a life. I don’t want to trap you in it. I thought about quitting acting. But I can’t, it runs so deep. Don’t worry, Ellen, I understand, it’s better if—”

  “Listen
, you goddamn pro, if you quit acting you won’t be you. And it looks like nobody else will do. Hell of a life or no.”

  Jim let out a whoop and spun her around the lobby, making her spill coffee all over her soggy jeans.

  Thirteen

  “Who would these fardels bear?” called Nick through the big doors to the loading platform. Down on the main floor of the shop, Maggie looked up with a wide grin. She was stirring paint, and looked as lively as ever and much better scrubbed than the last time he had seen her.

  “Come on, everybody, it’s the fardels!” She led a small stampede up the stairs to the platform and out through the giant doors to Nick’s car and his rented trailer. With appropriate exclamations about grunting and sweating under a weary life, they carried the boxes of lighting cable and bulbs, the bundled new velours, and the enormous packages of the new cyclorama into the theatre. Cheyenne appeared in a moment or two, looking as close to pleased as Nick had seen him recently.

  “Let’s get that cyc up, Paul,” he said, and a group of them carried the bulky parcels across the shop to the stage beyond. Nick followed.

  They had made real progress in the three days he had been gone. About half the cast and crew had canceled their plans for spring break in order to stay and help. Dean Wagner had arranged to keep the dorms open for the students. He had also rushed through emergency authorization to purchase the new velours and cyclorama, a risky administrative move because the insurance report had not been completed. But it had meant that they could order the new ones in time for Nick to bring them back. The dean’s interest also was inspiring Buildings and Grounds to amazing custodial feats. The auditorium had already been stripped of soggy chairs and carpets and supplied with racks of folding chairs. Judy Allison was back, on probation, having groveled before Cheyenne. She was working hard to complete the costumes Laura had left behind, and was keeping accounts for Cheyenne, separating production expenses from those caused by the water damage.

  The set, of course, remained the biggest problem. Only now, after four hard days of work, had they finished stripping and scrubbing the units. Several wheels had rusted enough to become sticky and had to be replaced. The rampart unit, which had been covered with canvas, was back down to a scaffold on wheels. Today, Nick saw, they were almost where they had been four weeks ago.

  They had two weeks left.

  Looking around now as he walked through the stage and shop, Nick realized that ordinary responsibilities had been abandoned in favor of joining the staging crew. Maggie and Rob had been mixing paint for Paul. Chester and his wife were removing tacks from platforms. Ellen was keeping track of everything, translating Cheyenne’s curt comments into directions that willing but inexperienced hands could understand. Cheyenne was admirable; tough and wiry, he seemed to be working everywhere, encouraging and inspiring his crews far more than vocal comments ever could.

  Nick returned to his rented trailer, which had to go back that afternoon. Maggie popped out of it to perch on the bumper a moment, balancing a big box of lighting gels on her lap. “You remembered everything,” she said, patting it.

  “It’s my training as a waiter,” he said gravely.

  “Sans doute.” A breeze lifted her hair. “How did the auditions go?”

  “We’ll eat this summer. Lisette has a part in a soap, and I’ve got a slot in a musical stock company in Connecticut if I want it.”

  “You’d rather stay in New York?”

  “I’d rather stay with her. Maybe I can adjust the hours.”

  She folded down the flaps of the cardboard box on her lap thoughtfully. “It’s sad to think you won’t be around here anymore,” she said.

  “Yeah. That’s probably the worst thing about this business. You make such good friends and then lose track of them.”

  “Yeah. Unless you’re married or something.”

  “Even then, if you’re not careful.”

  Her voice was edged with a little sadness. “Listen, Nick, I still think she’s a lucky woman,” she declared, then stood up briskly, hoisting the heavy box. “Well, back to work. Thanks for all these terrific fardels.”

  “Sure. Tell everyone I’ll be back as soon as I turn in the trailer. I’ll pick up Lisette too—she’s changing.”

  It took a little longer than he expected, because when he got back to the apartment, Lisette was not ready.

  “Hello?” he called. There was a smell of gardenias today.

  “Hi, Nicky.” Muffled voice. She was in the bedroom, standing by the dresser with her back to him, tying a dark string behind her head. She was naked, the fair skin smooth over the delicate bones and thin muscles of her back and rounded hips. She said, “This is a test. Do you love me for my pretty face alone?” She turned. She had borrowed one of the anthropologist’s African masks from the wall, a painted grimace of black and yellow stripes, the bold, artful ugliness incongruous against her soft hair and light, fragrant flesh.

  He scooped her up onto the bed with one arm, unbuttoning with the other hand. The leering directness of the atavistic mask was contagious, although he lifted it after a moment from her flushed face, in order to kiss and lick and nuzzle her into a primitive enthusiasm matching his. She made him feel feral, exuberant, today. Tarzan, Dionysus, and Romeo all in one package. One balding package.

  A little later, dozing in her arms, he roused himself from a gardenia-scented stupor to mumble, “Did I pass the test?”

  “You moved the mask,” she said judiciously. “I’d say B-plus.” She giggled when he poked her.

  They dressed and went back to the theatre to work.

  That week the actors continued to help Cheyenne in the shop. Rob appointed himself chief assistant to Maggie, whose job was enormous. Nick could sometimes hear Rob and Maggie singing or talking on the catwalks as he painted platforms below, but he knew that, like all of them, they were working hard, dawn till midnight every day.

  Then spring vacation was suddenly over. Classes and rehearsals began again. Midway through the first week Brian put his foot down.

  “You people are exhausted,” he informed his assembled actors at nine o’clock one night. “Go home and sleep. And don’t let me catch you in the theatre doing technical work again.”

  Nick, who wanted to help his busy friends, knew that Brian was right. The actors also had lost time, and needed to concentrate to regain their momentum. They were all delighted when Cheyenne announced a few days later that they could rehearse on the stage again, naked though it still was. There was so much yet to do, so little time.

  Laura, they heard, was at home with her parents.

  One day only, they did not work.

  Even Paul emerged from his subterranean existence early that Saturday and joined the Hargate group and a hundred thousand other people in New York City for the peace march. The vast crowd in Central Park was old and young, black and white, blue-jeaned and business-suited. Uniformed policemen were everywhere, and daffodils, and folk music. But under the songs and flowers and warm sense of community was the somber undercurrent that was so much a part of life now, the despair of being a citizen of a country that seemed to be entangled in the wrong war at the wrong time.

  After a while the march started. Placards came out. Stop the Bombing, Children Are Not Born to Burn, and, in black groups, No Vietnamese Ever Called Me Nigger. Pete Seeger and some children were on a float, singing. Behind the Hargate group, chants began.

  “Hell, no, we won’t go!”

  “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?”

  It was not cold, but still the skies threatened, and the crowds that lined the streets were not always friendly. Some shouted “Escalate!” and some threw red paint. Maggie pushed a tissue into Nick’s hand from where she was marching behind him.

  “Better wipe off your shirt,” she said, “unless you like red.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t know we were under fire.”

  “Well, they’re worse off than we are, really.”

  “What do you
mean?”

  “They put the counterdemonstration over by the U.N. wall. The one that says ‘They shall beat their swords into plowshares’ in granite letters two feet tall.”

  Nick laughed. “That’ll make nice photos in the papers.”

  At the U.N. Plaza they heard Dr. King and others speak. Then at five o’clock the downpour finally materialized. Drenched and complaining, the massive crowd disappeared abruptly into the interiors of the city. The Hargate people ran into the jammed subways and headed for their cars again.

  They stopped for hamburgers just outside the city and sang songs during most of the dark, damp drive back to Hargate.

  The next day, Hamlet engulfed them again.

  Lisette was not yet happy with her mad scene. While the others were already overwhelmed by its power, she felt a lack, an inconsistency. Waiting in the wings near Ellen’s prompt desk one night, Lisette complained to Nick and Grace.

  “It’s so hard. It comes over her like a fever. You know, malaria or something. And then I have to push it back each time. Like waves. But it’s so exhausting.”

  “Too exhausting for Ophelia?” asked Nick.

  “I think so. When I go for the dagger it’s like a release. I stop fighting it, I’m going with it instead. I’m just riding the wave.”

  “You mean she needs to be restrained? A straitjacket?”

  “Something like that. Or something to fight it with, an opposing force.”

  Grace opened her mouth, and closed it again, and then as though she was ashamed of her indecision, she said, “Sex,” firmly.

  “What?”

  “The opposite of death. Life. Procreation. Sex.”

  The honey-brown eyes widened. “That’s why her songs are bawdy! Grace, you’re right!” Lisette looked excited. “I just discarded that earlier because this Ophelia is so political. Not like the Ophelia at Minneapolis. But you’re right! Because if she didn’t have that counterforce she’d be dead already. That’s what was wrong.” She threw an arm around Nick’s neck and rested her smooth cheek against his beard. “Nicky, I’m going to be most indecent, and you must blame Grace for it.”