The Mechanical Theater

by Brooke Johnson

  The lift clanged down the shaft and came to a halt at the end of the hall. The occupant slammed the gates open and strode across the checkered floor until he drew even with them.

  “Damien?” said Dahlia, her voice cracking. The color faded from her cheeks.

  Solomon bristled, his muscles tensing through his back and shoulders.

  Damien drew to his full height and stared down at her. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for over an hour. Your mother says you never came home after practice.”

  Dahlia swallowed. “Well, I was just—­I was at the theater, and I—­Well, I spoke with Mr. Niles, and I—­uh—­”

  “And they lost track of the time,” finished Solomon, stepping forward.

  He snapped his gaze to Solomon and narrowed his eyes. “Who asked you?” he sneered, turning his attention back to Dahlia. “And what are you doing with him so late?”

  “Nothing,” she said quietly, her voice shaking. “I just—­He—­”

  “I walked her home,” said Solomon. “To make sure she made it all right.”

  Damien scoffed. “Why bother? Nothing would happen on those streets she doesn’t give out anyway. You know what she is, don’t you?” he sneered, glancing down at her. “The little harlot of Le Theatre Mecanique.”

  “Stop it,” she whispered. “Just stop it.” She raised her chin and stared at Damien, her eyes bright. Dark splotches spread across her face, and she shook her head, loose curls falling around her flushed cheeks. “I would never—­” She exhaled sharply and squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I—­”

  “You what?” Damien narrowed his eyes. “Don’t pretend to have dignity, Dahlia.”

  Her lip trembled, tears shining in her downcast eyes. “Why must you be so cruel?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m cruel, am I? Don’t forget what I’ve done for you.” He grabbed her arm, and she resisted for a second before letting him tug her toward the lift.

  The hairs on the back of Solomon’s neck bristled, and heat flushed through his tense muscles. “Dah—­” He pressed his lips together. “Miss Appleton, if you want me to—­”

  She shook her head without looking at him. “Just go home, Mr. Wade.”

  Damien jerked her into the lift and banged the gates shut. He slammed the lift control lever forward and the platform juddered upward out of sight, leaving Solomon alone in the entry hall. He clenched his fists. Part of him wished he knew what floor Dahlia lived on—­and what room—­so that he could help her. Standing in the middle of the Tuesenberry lobby, he was useless. But another part of him said to leave it be. It wasn’t his business.

  He turned his back to the lift, and the muscles in his jaw twitched.

  The problem was, he wanted it to be his business.

  Solomon leaned against the door to the spare bedroom and stared at Emily’s sleeping form. Her breath rattled and wheezed in her chest, interrupted by faint coughs.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  His sister Petra withdrew a damp cloth from Emily’s forehead and curled her fingers around the rag in her lap. “Worse,” she said with a sigh. Streaks of grease marred her cheeks—­another long night with her engineering work. Her amber-­gold eyes were bright with the beginnings of tears, but her cheeks were dry. “I sent word to Emmerich in Paris today.”

  Solomon straightened. “Do you think he could send us the money we need?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if he can do anything but—­” She glanced at Emily and sighed. “The truth is, we need money, and I don’t know who else to turn to.” She tightened her fingers around the damp rag in her lap. “I hate to ask him. It’s not his responsibility to take care of this family. That’s my duty.” She glanced up at Solomon. “Our duty.”

  “I’m doing what I can, Petra.”

  “I know you are. I am too, but even with your two jobs and the little bit of money I’m able to bring home, it’s not enough. She needs better medicine, proper care. If Emmerich could send us even a small bit of money, we could give her that.”

  Solomon crossed the room and placed his hand on Petra’s shoulder, but she brushed him away and dipped the rag into a bowl of cool water on the floor. She wrung the excess from the cloth and then pressed the rag to Emily’s forehead. The small girl shivered at Petra’s touch and coughed again.

  “Is her new medicine having any effect?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  Emily sprang from her pillow and retched. Solomon snatched a tin from the bedside table and shoved it into her lap. Coughs wracked through her fragile body, and she spit blue-­tinged mucus onto the aluminum tray. Petra stood and gently rubbed Emily’s back. She coughed once more and collapsed back onto the bed. Solomon removed the tray from her lap, and Petra wiped her lips with a dry towel before replacing the damp rag on her forehead. She gently brushed Emily’s hair from her face.

  Emily did not immediately fall back asleep. She glanced once at Petra and then her eyes rested on Solomon. “Is it true?” she asked quietly. “Did you really get a job at the theater?” Her voice was hoarse and feeble. She coughed again.

  Solomon set the aluminum tray on the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I did, though—­” He glanced at Petra. “—­not on the stage.”

  “Could I come see it?” Emily asked. “I’d love to watch a show. Can I? Can I please?”

  Petra leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She tapped her fingers on her elbow and frowned, fixing her gaze on the dim lantern atop the bedside table.

  Solomon clenched his jaw and laid a hand on Emily’s bony ankle. “Of course you can go, Em. The next play doesn’t open for a few months, so you have plenty of time to get better.” He drew his brows together, forcing a smile on his face.

  Emily nodded, and for the first time in weeks he saw a smile upon her thin face, but then a fit of coughs wracked through her chest and her face turned pale. Petra soothed the young girl with a gentleness Solomon didn’t know she possessed. Finally, Emily stopped coughing and lay back in her bed, looking up at Solomon.

  “I’ll get better.” She smiled weakly. “I promise.”

  He nodded firmly and stood up from the bed. “Get some sleep, Em.”

  “Good night, Sol.”

  Petra followed him into the living room and shut the door behind her. “You shouldn’t promise her things like that,” she whispered. “We can’t afford it, and she might not—­”

  “And so what?” His throat tightened and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s the good of her thinking she might die, even if it may be true?”

  “I didn’t mean—­”

  “I know.” He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But we can’t let her give up hope.” He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the door. “We can’t let ourselves give up hope.”

  Petra rested her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes shimmered with tears, though she tried to hide them by glancing away. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  She squeezed his shoulder and turned away, slipping back into the bedroom and closing the door behind her. Solomon leaned against the smooth wallpaper and closed his eyes, tears pressing against his eyelids.

  He only hoped he could keep his promise.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Sol,” said a faint voice. “Solomon. It’s late morning. Wake up.”

  Solomon blinked, and the bright gray light of the morning sun dazzled his eyes. Constance stood over the side of his cot, shaking him by the shoulder.

  He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Almost nine.”

  He jolted upright and his heart caught in his throat. “Nine?”

  “I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, shaking her head. “If I had realized, I would have
woken you an hour ago.” She pulled him to his feet. “Where are your boots?”

  “Under the cot,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  She grabbed the dirty boots from underneath his bed, and Solomon crossed the living room and grabbed his coat from beside the door, his heart beating in a panic. Constance dropped the shoes in front of him, and he shoved his stocking-­clad feet inside and tightened the laces, trying to stave off the lingering fatigue. He slipped his arms into his jacket with a yawn.

  “Hurry up,” she said. “He might still keep you yet.”

  Boots on, jacket buttoned, and hat secure on his head, Solomon stumbled out the door and down the stairs to the street. A blast of steam from the grates dampened his trousers as he walked toward the subcity entrance, the moisture freezing within seconds. His teeth chattered and goose bumps gathered on his arms, the cold of the winter morning clinging to him until he opened the door to the warmth of the boilers below. The hot steamy air washed over him as he climbed down the stairs and ladders to the boiler floor, the coal fires heating him through to the marrow of his bones until he broke out into the familiar sweat of his daily work.

  His station was empty when he reached it. He dug his gloves out of the bin next to his post, and Russell mumbled a greeting as he shoveled coal into the furnace gate in front of him.

  “Has the foreman been by?” asked Solomon, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

  Russell tugged the brim of his hat down to his eyes and ducked his head. “Coming up behind ya now.”

  Solomon quickly grabbed his shovel and dug into the scraps of coal left from the previous shift. The furnace gate snapped open and he tossed the meager coal fragments and black dust into the fire.

  The foreman’s hand clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re late.”

  Solomon slumped his shoulders and turned around, leaning on the support of the shovel handle. He avoided the foreman’s eye, scratching behind his ear. “I’m sorry, sir. I overslept. It won’t happen again.”

  “This isn’t the first time, Wade,” said the foreman. “Last week you missed an hour, and the week before that you were late two days. What am I supposed to do about that, hm? I docked your pay last time, and that didn’t seem to have much of an effect.” He sighed. “I need workers who will be here when they’re supposed to be. You don’t seem to get that.”

  Solomon bowed his head and wiped his nose. “I mean it, sir. Won’t happen again.”

  “Wade, I can’t have a worker who doesn’t stick to his shifts.” He shook his head. “I’m going to have to let you—­”

  “N-­No, sir. Please.” Solomon straightened and clenched his jaw. “I—­I’ll make it up, the hour I missed. I’ll work two extra.” He searched for kindness in the foreman’s dark eyes. “I can’t lose my job, sir.” He closed his eyes and gripped the shovel handle until his gloves creaked. “If I don’t work, my family doesn’t eat. And my sister, she—­”

  “You should have thought about them before you—­”

  “Sir, I—­” He gritted his teeth and lowered his voice. “I’ll work a double to make it up, at half pay. Two shifts for one shift’s pay if it means I keep my job.” He drew his brows together and stared into the foreman’s sooty face. “You can’t get another worker at that price.”

  The foreman narrowed his eyes. “That’s a twenty-­four, boyo.”

  Solomon exhaled slowly. “I know, sir.”

  The foreman raised his hand to his face and rubbed his temples. He sighed. “You can keep your job—­for now.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt and raised his thick eyebrows. “But this is your last chance, Wade. I mean it. If I find you missing from your station, and you aren’t somewhere between here and the coal stores, I will let you go, and without the pay I owe you, understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He grunted in reply. “Now back to work before I change my mind.” The foreman turned on his heel and strode down the row of boilers, barking at someone else down the line.

  Solomon exhaled sharply and relaxed his shoulders. It was going to be a long day—­a twenty-­four hour shift at half his wages. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he still had his job.

  Nearly a week passed before Solomon was able to transition from nights to days again at the boilers, an entire week of playacting practice lost, an entire week without seeing Dahlia. He tried practicing his lines at home, but between his twelve-­hour shifts, trying to sleep during the daylight hours, and helping Constance take care of the worsening Emily while Matron was at work, he didn’t have the time or the energy to do much of anything. When he finally switched to the day shift again and looked upon Le Theatre Mecanique, it was like seeing home again after a long time away.

  He pushed through the front doors and fetched his cleaning supplies from the closet. The theater hall echoed with actors’ voices, the stage set for Rome. Damien’s voice echoed louder than the rest.

  “The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s spring,

  And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.”

  The girl who played Octavia stepped forward and spoke louder, drowning the echoes of Damien’s voice with her own. “Sir, look well to my husband’s house; and—­”

  “What, Octavia?” asked the young man who played Caesar.

  Octavia arched an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you in your ear,” she said even louder.

  Damien drew to his full height and shouted his next lines, his voice booming across the hall like cannon fire as he glared at the young woman playing Octavia.

  Solomon carried his broom, dustpan, and bucket to the leftmost section of chairs and swept between the rows. He scanned the front theater seats and spotted Dahlia’s fair hair near the aisle. He hoped she had time to practice with him after their normal rehearsal.

  On the stage, the actors continued with their lines. Damien and the girl who played Octavia continued to speak over each other, the loudness of their voices mounting until all the actors were shouting their lines, trying to be heard.

  Finally, Mr. Niles called the scene with a rumbling bellow, “Trumpets sound. Exeunt!” He tucked his script under his arm and glared at them. “That was the worst performance I have yet seen at this theater. Miss Ferrier, you do not have to shout, and you, Mr. Creighton, do not have to—­”

  “I wouldn’t have to shout,” said the young woman, clenching her hands into fists, “if you would have given me the part I auditioned for. I wanted to be Cleopatra, not Octavia.”

  “You were cast as Octavia, Miss Ferrier,” said Mr. Niles. “And that is who you will play, or you will not be in this production at all, understood?”

  Miss Ferrier narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “And why does she get to be Cleopatra?” she demanded, pointing at Marion offstage. “She’s no better than I am. I should be the lead, not her, but you decided otherwise. I demand to know why.”

  Mr. Niles strode forward. “Because, frankly, Miss Ferrier, you do not have the poise or the grace of a leading lady. You are brash and sharp-­tongued, and you have no respect for me or this theater.” He adjusted his square-­rimmed glasses. “Now tell me—­why would I hire you as my leading lady if you cannot behave like one?”

  She scoffed. “How dare you—­”

  “Oh, I dare, Miss Ferrier.”

  “Then I’ll—­” She sucked in a deep breath and haughtily raised her chin. “Then I’ll leave. I’ll go somewhere else.”

  The other actors onstage fought the urge to snicker, and those in the front rows of the theater seats rustled nervously. Some of them giggled behind their hands or stared pointedly away from Mr. Niles and Miss Ferrier. Miss Lachance leaned over and whispered something in Dahlia’s ear, but she did not laugh or make any indication at all that she had heard her. Miss Lachance sat back in her chair, crossing her arms with a frown.

  Mr. Niles sighed
and removed his glasses. “Do you know why I hired you, Miss Ferrier?” he asked, his voice calm again.

  Miss Ferrier did not answer, her bottom lip trembling.

  He rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses on his nose. “You have the potential to be an amazing actress. I cannot deny your skill. I saw that when you auditioned.” He shook his head. “But I will not have a drama queen on my stage. I want actors—­professional actors. Even with all the acting talent in the world, a young woman with your poor attitude will not make it far in professional theater.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and examined the young actress. “Now, I want you to stay—­I do—­but you have to work on your professionalism. Otherwise . . . I’ll have to find another Octavia.”

  The actress broke the gaze between them and stared off to the back of the stage, her cheeks red.

  “Can you do that for me?” asked Mr. Niles, narrowing his eyes. “This theater could use your talents.”

  She hesitated a moment before answering quietly, “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Niles smiled. “Good. Thank you, Miss Ferrier. Treat me with respect and I will treat you equally. Any actor here will tell you the same.” He glanced at each of the other actors onstage. “Now, let’s try this again.”

  The actors ran through their lines again, and when Mr. Niles called the end of the scene, they shared a collective sigh of relief.

  “It wasn’t perfect,” said the theater director. “But it was better.” He gestured to the stairs and checked his pocket watch. “We still have time to move on to the next scene.” He reopened his script and gestured toward the seats. “Miss Kozlowski, Miss Appleton, Miss Lachance, and Mr. Blair, if you will take your places . . .” He waved them onto the stage.

  Dahlia rose from her chair and trudged up the stairs, no energy in her movements. She took her place next to Marion and stared blankly at the wall, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

  The actors began their lines, and Solomon swept his way to the stage, listening to Marion berate the poor actor who played her messenger. The young man quailed under her gaze.