Coming Attractions

by Bobbi Marolt

  “Don’t do a Chamberlain on me. I’ve had it up to here with that.” Helen drew a line across her forehead. “If you want to bail out, fine. All of you can, but I’ll be there.”

  Marty sat up. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

  “Everything and nothing.” She tossed the cane to the floor. “Not anymore, I guess.”

  “Explain.”

  “What’s to explain? Marty, I miss Cory so much.” Helen cried and Marty held her.

  “Call her, sweetheart.”

  “I’ve tried. She doesn’t return my calls.” Helen moved away. “Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to sleep alone.”

  “Sure.”

  *

  Helen moved closer when Marty snuggled against her back. Warm waves of breath relaxed her neck and she smelled a fragrance of Coco Chanel, number unknown. She wasn’t Cory, but Marty was comforting. She wondered how she’d slept alone for all those years after Chelsea.

  “Are you scared, Helen?”

  Helen laughed. “You’re the one who should be scared. You’re my fantasy woman.”

  Marty kissed the back of Helen’s neck. “I know I’m not the woman you want. I meant, are you afraid of being alone?”

  “I’ve done alone. I’m afraid of never feeling Cory’s arms around me again.”

  *

  Helen dreamed and Cory stepped toward the inferno.

  “Cory!”

  Finally, her seat belt now released, Helen rushed to her, grabbed her arm, and swung her around. The bouncing, the screaming, and the screeching stopped. The fire backdrafted. Cory looked into Helen’s eyes.

  “We’re safe?” she asked.

  Helen pulled her into her arms. “We’re safe, baby. We’re all right.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Show time.

  The night was a shelter from Helen’s thoughts of Cory. Backstage at the Stanwyck Theater, nervous excitement charged the air. The men, Helen couldn’t figure them out. To them, it seemed just another night, as they sat together in their dressing room, discussing the Knicks and the Rangers. But the women were flying. Dresses went on and came off. Jenny forgot a button and a zipper needed mending. Frazzled, Marty was soaked with perspiration, and her hair frizzed to the appearance of an aged dandelion.

  Stacey watched the commotion from a sofa, apparently entertained by their nervous energies.

  “Sure,” Helen said to her, “be amused.”

  “I’m gonna pop her one,” Kim said, sans smile, while she struggled with her panty hose. “These stupid things. Did a man develop these?”

  “Good grief, Kim. They stretch,” Stacey said. “Just pull them up.”

  “That’s it.” Kim jumped on Stacey’s lap and pinched her cheeks. “I’ve had enough of you tonight.”

  “It got you on my lap.” Stacey grinned.

  “Pig.” Kim jumped down and continued to wrestle with her panty hose.

  “Okay, ladies,” Helen announced to her clattering collection of feminine folly. “Jackie, are you finished with makeup?”

  Jackie added the last touch to Marty. “All set.”

  “The house is full and I’m shaking like a leaf.” Helen stared at Jenny. “Are you all right?”

  “I think I’m gonna throw up.” Jenny clutched her mouth and headed toward the bathroom with no time to spare.

  “I hope that isn’t an indication of the way the rest of the night’s going to end up.” Marty strutted up to each woman and kissed her cheek. “Break a leg, girls.”

  Helen held up her cane. “Don’t say that.”

  “Three minutes, ladies,” their stage manager yelled through the door. “Get to the wing, Helen.”

  Helen’s pulse quickened. “Come with me, Marty.” She took Marty’s hand and turned to the women. She looked them over. Jenny came out of the bathroom, pale. “This is it. Relax and have fun out there. We can do it.”

  It seemed a long walk to the wing. Marty was silent. Helen thought about her sonata and wondered if Cory was anywhere near the city.

  “Are you ready, Helen?” Paul asked.

  “Yes.” She peeked from behind the curtain to an auditorium whose size suddenly seemed to equal that of Shea Stadium. “Jesus,” she whispered. The lights dimmed. A man’s voice boomed throughout the auditorium. Helen flinched.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he paused, “your host for this evening,” another pause, “whose hometown is really Brewster—” The audience laughed with his added piece of trivia.

  “Who told him that?” Helen whispered hoarsely to Marty, who also laughed.

  “New York’s favorite columnist, Helen Townsend.”

  “Luck, sweetheart.” Marty kissed her.

  Helen took a deep breath and walked on stage to the dais. A burst of thunderous, rolling applause shocked her. She was never on the receiving end of such a welcome, only ever a bearer. There was no wonder left to why celebrities had egos.

  Helen couldn’t help but smile. She glanced around the now-darkened auditorium and waited for silence.

  “Thank you and welcome. This is a special night for the cast and production crew. Our show will benefit children with AIDS, and your full admission charge will be donated.” More applause. Now was the tough part. She waited once more for quiet.

  “Before we begin, we have an announcement.”

  She looked toward the wing, where everyone gathered around Marty. Family. Marty gave her a thumbs-up and a nod. Helen looked back to her audience and realized she was talking to darkness.

  “Turn up the house lights, please.” A moment later, the darkness lightened and faces brightened. “That’s better.” She scanned the auditorium and continued.

  “This show is a statement by all involved. That includes stagehands, lighting, sound, wardrobe, the entire production team. Unanimously we stand before you”—Helen found herself joined by her friends—“all members of the gay community.”

  There. It was done. Some of Hollywood, Broadway, and all of Helen stood, naked to the world. Helen gripped the dais while her words met with a dead silence. The only prominent sound was the pounding in her ears. Her palms grew sweaty and she hated the quiet. Then someone coughed and another cleared their throat. Helen’s eyes followed the sounds. People whispered to those sitting next to them. Jenny reached for Helen’s hand, Marty took hold of Jackie’s, and a chain reaction went down the line, joining the group. They became one.

  It must have been the gays in the audience who reacted first. Whistles, a few yelps from around the audience, applause from a group here and there. Those things offered little relief. A man in the eighth row stood.

  “I didn’t come here expecting to see a bunch of faggots skipping around.”

  “Sit down!” a young woman said. “Don’t be rude.”

  “The men involved with the show are gentlemen, sir.” Helen grew more confident, having mentally prepared for the worst-case scenario.

  “Nothing but a bunch of queers,” the same man muttered and headed toward the exit.

  “I’m here to see a good show, Helen,” the woman with the white scarf, third row, said.

  “And we promise you one.” She watched while seven more left their seats, some laughing. “We’re coming out tonight for community support. For the children who are not understood, for the parents who are not. For your neighbors and for some of you.” Helen watched members of the audience whisper and then suddenly a slow, but strengthening applause rang through the auditorium and delivered a feeling of relief to Helen. “I’m scared to death up here.”

  “You’re a gutsy group, Helen,” the man with the woman in the white scarf said.

  “Thank you. We have a terrific show for you. Marty would say we’re going to dazzle you. And we just might.”

  “Blair,” Kim whispered.

  “Oh,” Helen said into the microphone and blushed when she heard her voice echo. The audience laughed. “The show is dedicated to another member of our community. Blair Whitman.” The clappi
ng of hands was loud and long. Blair still commanded an audience.

  Helen introduced the first act, Nick and Phil, who had worked up a comedy sketch. Along with Marty, Helen watched them from the wing.

  “You were great,” Marty said with excitement. “I almost went after that first guy.”

  “Thanks,” she said and checked her appearance in a full-length mirror. She fussed with her sleeves.

  She wore a white, form-fitted dress. Sequins dressed the fabric from shoulders to waist, and the skirt was split up the side. The neckline dipped below her throat, where Cory’s emerald sparkled. Helen’s cane felt more like a complementing prop than a practical necessity. She looked out to the crowd again.

  “What do you suppose they’re thinking?” Marty said.

  “Who cares? They’re still here.” She peeked into the audience and was satisfied with their obvious enjoyment of the show thus far. Would Cory have found this so threatening?

  Kim was on stage next. She received an ovation and an encore. For her second number, she winged it. “Little Brown Jug” became a liberating, three-variation cello piece. Yo-Yo Ma would have been envious, if not mortified.

  Next, Helen introduced Marty. Her songs were sentimental pieces that she had trouble getting through without choking up. The first, “On the Wings of Love,” had been Blair’s favorite. The second, “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face,” she sang in memory of Blair. Behind her, a screen flashed a series of photos of Blair, from her as a baby to her stills from her final film. The tears evoked by her reminiscence would have been sufficient to water a rainforest.

  On they played, some of Hollywood’s and Broadway’s finest: dancers, a juggler, a ventriloquist, several actors and actresses. Dancers acted, singers danced, and actors tried it all. Not great sometimes, but always at least good, and often comical, they had a swell time and they charmed their audience.

  Intermission turned into fifteen minutes of backstage Keystone Cops, and the joint was jumping. Helen hugged the men and danced with the women.

  “We did it! We darn well did it. You guys were great,” she said.

  Jenny returned from the bathroom, pale after a second run-in with nerves. “I’m learning to hate porcelain. Why am I such a wreck?” She looked toward her jubilant comrades for an answer. “I only dressed you.”

  “Because tomorrow you’re going to see our program printed in every paper in town. Your name will be there in big, bold letters,” Jackie said and calmly touched up the makeup on Helen’s chin. “You’re a target now, Jenny. We all are.” She held up the mirror for Helen to give a close inspection. “Look okay?”

  “Fine, thanks.” Helen propped up her leg for some relief. She ached all over from so much standing. “Jenny, was it your girlfriend that talked to Amanda?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. She said she would make some people very uncomfortable.” She rubbed her stomach. “I’m doing a good enough job at making myself miserable.”

  Stacey gave her a big sister hug. “You’ll be all right,” she said. “All of you will.”

  “You decent?” a man yelled from the hallway.

  “Yes!” came their reply.

  The door swung open and their stage manager walked in. He handed Helen a note.

  “Do you need a doctor?” he asked Jenny.

  “No. I’m—” Marty opened the door as Jenny flung herself into the bathroom again.

  “Poor kid,” Marty said.

  Helen opened the paper and read Cory’s handwriting. “A fine job and a wonderful show. I love you.” If her entire body could audibly weep and drop a tear, this was the time. “She loves me,” she said to the note that shook in her trembling hand. “I hit her and she’s here, and she loves me. I have to go out on that stage and not scream into the microphone that I love her, too. How do I let her know that I miss her? That I’m sorry for the pain I caused her.”

  Helen tucked the note into the front of her dress. If that note was the only way she could have Cory on stage with her, then that was how it would be.

  *

  For another forty minutes, the troupe paraded their entire range of talents. Finally, the moment was Helen’s. The curtain closed behind her while stagehands wheeled a white grand piano into place.

  She addressed the audience. “As you can see from your program, I’m the next act.” She hadn’t planned on how she would move into her part of the show, so she joked. “Do I introduce myself?”

  Marty hurried onto the stage. “You’ll do no such thing.” She turned to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the woman responsible for bringing us together tonight will treat you to a lovely piano solo. Ms. Helen Townsend.” Marty clapped as loudly as the audience.

  The curtain opened and Helen leaned closer to the microphone. “This is for you, baby.”

  She walked to the grand piano and placed her cane beside her. Her jitters now gone, she felt defiantly confident. Hopefully, the music would strike memories for Cory and would answer her note. Helen knew exactly what she was doing when she began to play.

  Memories of retiring to Cory’s Jacuzzi; of laughs and long telephone calls from whatever city Cory was thrust into; of Rice Krispies and no haircuts; of Boston and no agreement. Memories of love, of making love, and then it was over. The sonata ended.

  “That was fun,” Helen said once the applause had subsided.

  “One more, Helen,” someone yelled.

  “Oh, no. One-shot deal. Thanks, but I’m glad it’s over with.”

  One by one, the cast and crew came onto the stage as they were introduced. Each name produced a person, each person voiced a declaration, and each declaration received a burst of applause.

  “I’m a member of the gay community,” Phil said as he walked out with Nick’s hand squeezed into his.

  Nick had replaced his suit jacket and shirt with a T-shirt that pointed toward Phil. The shirt read, “I’m With Him.”

  “I’m a lesbian,” Marty said. “Woo-hooo! Freedom!”

  “There go my ratings,” Mark joked.

  They went down the line, each proud to be part of the evening’s events. They strutted and grinned. Nearly wrecked with nerves, Jenny held on tightly to Marty. Kim smiled, and finally, all the members of the troupe gathered behind Helen, her cane, and her dais.

  By rote, Helen delivered a final speech, while her eyes searched for Cory.

  “…higher levels of consciousness…raise the collective conscious…” Where are you, baby? “…travel home safely.”

  Before she could blink, before the audience could stand, Helen heard another voice from the auditorium.

  “Helen.”

  There was no mistaking who owned the sound. Goose bumps erupted on every inch of Helen’s body. The audience looked around, trying to find the person who spoke. Helen knew the source but not her location. Somewhere in that dark, cavernous room sat a small, fearful woman, a knight out of armor, who allowed courage to destroy her fear.

  “Yes?” Helen asked while the house lights became their brightest.

  “May I join you on stage?”

  Helen saw all heads turn toward the woman on the end of the tenth row, left of center. Eyes that could be judging, changing their minds; eyes that could connect with Boston and change their minds as well.

  “Yes,” Helen said and looked to Marty. Marty gave an excited, quiet clap.

  Cory made her way down the aisle while a stagehand wheeled out a set of steps.

  “Cory Chamberlain,” someone said.

  The auditorium was quiet while Cory ascended the steps one by one. Helen heard only the slow clicking of Cory’s shoe heels as she made her way closer.

  Cory looked toward the group she had once been a part of and then walked to Helen. She covered the microphone with her hand.

  “The sonata was lovely. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” Helen said weakly, and wanted to cry. How could she have hit Cory and then accept her pride? Helen didn’t deserve her. Chamberlain was a sol
o act. Give her the stage. It’s always been hers.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Helen managed to say. “We have a final guest. Coryell Chamberlain.” Helen stepped away from the dais and retreated to the wing as Cory approached the mic. The applause subsided.

  “Good evening. Behind me stand my friends. What they did tonight…”

  Helen’s thoughts responded. Who did your braid tonight, baby?

  “I met Helen…”

  Met me, loved me, left me. I’m sorry I hit you. You’re wearing blue again. You know how I love you in blue.

  “…let my hair down…”

  Cory reached to the back of her head, pulled out two pins, and gracefully shook her hair free to expose a classy new shoulder-length cut. Helen smiled. You look wonderful, baby. My incredible edible. Just kind of shake it around a little for me. Cory turned her head toward Helen.

  “…and apologize.” Cory extended her hand toward the wing. “Will you be with me on stage, Helen?”

  Helen couldn’t move. She wanted to run to Cory, squeeze her tightly, smother her in kisses and say, “Hell, yeah, I’ll join you on stage, or in the Jacuzzi if you’ll have me.” In a heartbeat I would, but, baby, someone nailed my feet to the floor.

  “I deserve that,” Cory said after silence answered her. She withdrew her hand. “Then I’ll say it alone. I love you, Helen.”

  Helen’s eyes widened. What? She said it! To the entire auditorium, Cory said it. Tears filled Helen’s eyes.

  When Cory extended her hand a second time, Helen broke from her suspended animation and joined her. Applause surprised Helen, and when she came close, Cory wouldn’t allow her to stop, but instead embraced her with all the power she could conjure from her five-foot-two frame.

  “You feel so good.” Helen held tightly while the audience still cheered. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “I need you,” Cory said through the noise. “Please come home with me.”

  “I will.” Helen tightened her hold and felt a fireball of fear subside. “You’ll be safe with me.”

  With Helen in flats and Cory in heels, they stood nearly eye to eye. Cory took the night a step further for everyone. She leaned into Helen’s mouth, kissed her long, and showed them all she was not afraid of their future.