“And you like animals,” Lizabett says as though that settled everything.
“I have a cat. That doesn’t mean animals. What kind of a job is that, anyway? I’m not doing a circus show. I’m afraid of heights.”
“It’s not a circus show,” Lizabett says. “It’s the Christmas pageant that’s going to be at the North Hollywood Cathedral. They’re running it just like community theatre with an open casting call and everything.”
“Oh, you should try out,” Marilee says. “Maybe you could be an angel or something.”
I see the crinkles start in Randy’s eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not sure there’s angels,” Lizabett says as she frowns at what she’s reading in the paper.
“How can it be a Christmas pageant without angels?” Randy looks away from me to ask.
“It says it’s a Christmas pageant set in the Dust Bowl of the 1930s—sort of in The Grapes of Wrath style with migrant farmworkers. It’s written by a novice playwright.”
“Really?” For the first time since Lizabett started talking, I’m optimistic. I might be able to do dust in a beginner’s play.
“If you want me to go with you to the audition, I will,” Marilee volunteers. “I can drive you.”
“It’s today at three o’clock,” Lizabett adds as she hands me the paper. “I’d go, but I have a class.”
“Okay,” I say and I’m kind of getting excited myself.
If nothing else I will get Sisterhood points for trying something new. Speaking of which, maybe I’ll take the journal with me. If I have to sit in a room with the others who are auditioning, I’d like to have something to do. I know that each actress will have to wait her turn to perform before the casting director.
Hi, this is Marilee. Carly left the journal with me while she went over to stand in the line with the other actresses, so I am sitting here and writing a bit. We made it down to the auditions in Studio City in plenty of time and were even lucky enough to find a parking space on the street. I had never noticed before that Carly does walk like royalty. It must be all the training she had when she was competing for the Rose Queen crown. I wouldn’t have known, if she hadn’t told me, all that is involved in preparing for that competition. She could have been practicing for the Olympics and not have spent any more effort on it.
Anyway, I’m glad Carly wanted me to come with her. This place is just what I would imagine they would use for something like this. It is a big metal warehouse building with those low-hanging bulbs that give off cold, blue light. It is chilly enough outside that everyone is wearing jackets or sweaters inside, but the light doesn’t make it seem any warmer than it is. Maybe they want it to be uncomfortable to weed out the people who aren’t serious about auditioning. I look around me. Lots of these people are dressed up like The Grapes of Wrath kind of people. I feel an urge to go around and hand out quarters. Or was it dimes, back then?
I’ve heard some of the people talking and, apparently, the playwright has money to pay actors even though he’s never had a play performed before. His uncle’s footing the bill. The play might not be prestigious, but it looks like a lot of people want a chance to act in it.
I look at Carly in her designer blue jeans. She doesn’t look like anything from that era. Oh, well, it’s too late for her to change. Besides, someone had to have nice clothes, even in the Depression.
They have Christmas music playing from speakers here and there. The assistants who are organizing everything are walking around with clipboards and telling people which line to stand in. I lose track of Carly for a minute while she changes lines. She was going to try to get in the angel line, but it looks like the clipboard people told her to get into some other line.
Oh, there she is again. Changing lines must have worked because Carly is walking across the stage right now. She’s stopped and is standing in front of the casting director and a few other people. I am too far away to hear what they are saying to her, but I know they’re talking because she’s nodding her head. A nod should be a positive thing, shouldn’t it?
I didn’t think I would be this nervous when I came with Carly. Maybe it’s just the combined anxiety of all of the others in this warehouse. So many people have dreams in the world and it doesn’t seem like there’s enough happy endings to go around. I’m not sure that’s exactly Biblical. I’ll have to ask Pastor Engstrom the next time I meet with his group. It’s sort of one of those how-big-is-the-goodness-of-God questions. I know God says He gives us the desires of our hearts, but is a role in a nativity pageant included? I hope so because I have the feeling Carly needs something extra in her life right now. She’s worried about something, but she doesn’t say anything about it when we ask her.
I know she’s been focused on how people see her, but I think the problem may be how she sees herself. I’ve noticed more and more how the steps we’re taking in the Sisterhood are steps we all should have taken a few years ago. We never had the luxury of the usual teenage angst and now it’s all piling up on top of us. That’s one reason why I wanted us to do this journal. We need a place to grow and, sometimes, a person grows faster when they have a place to think. I know I do and writing in the journal does that for me.
Oh, here comes Carly now. I am going to put the journal away so she knows she has my full attention. Or, better yet, maybe she’ll want to write a few words in here since I see she is holding a manila folder in her right hand and the others don’t have one. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?
Hi, this is Carly. Don’t get excited. I told Marilee I didn’t even want to write it out, but she insisted. So here it is. I got a part, but it’s such a small part it shouldn’t even be on the list. I am the understudy for Mary. The casting director told me I have the wrong look, the wrong hair, the wrong walk, the wrong everything except for the right height and body type. I’m going to be the understudy which means I get to watch the play for almost two weeks of rehearsal and three days of live performance and, of course, I get to help the director block out Mary’s moves so that the real Mary doesn’t have to strain herself by standing in one place too long. If she could ride a donkey when she was nine months pregnant, I would think she could do her own standing.
Well, I suppose the original Mary would have been able to do it. But then again, I don’t have a clue what the real Mary was like. Maybe I should find out since I’m going to be standing in for someone pretending to be her. I don’t see how Hollywood can do her justice, though, not even if the performance is going to be in a church.
At first, when they said I had the understudy part, I thought I might be on the stage some of the time. But since the play only lasts for a few days, the casting director told me they don’t expect the understudies to perform at all. It seems like if I have to do all his work, I should get some credit.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say as I give Marilee back the pen and the journal.
“You’re taking the part, aren’t you?” Marilee looks at me with her worried face.
Until Marilee asked, I was thinking of calling the number in the packet when I got home and turning down the offer. Which is probably why Marilee has that look on her face. She knows me too well.
I shake my head. “Yes, of course I am.”
When I really think about it, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Lizabett or Marilee. “I might learn more about how this is all done and have a better shot at a real part next time.”
If I’d known what I was doing, I would have come to the audition looking the part. I would have dyed my hair brown and brought a brown shirt to wear. I guess it must be the dust image, but everywhere I look in this warehouse, I see brown shirts.
“At least they’re doing the play in English,” I say as Marilee stands. I realize I don’t even know what language Mary spoke. I follow Marilee toward the exit door. “And I get a few free tickets so I can give them away to people to come see where the action is that I helped block out in rehearsal. Want to come?”
&
nbsp; “Sure,” Marilee says as we step outside. “I wouldn’t miss it. You’re my favorite blocker.”
We’re already on the 101 Freeway headed back to Pasadena when it occurs to me that I need to decide whether or not to tell my mother what I’m doing. If I do, she’ll want to invite the whole town of San Marino to the performance.
My mother has been—how shall I say it—overly anxious to promote me since I was interviewed in the Pasadena Star News when my cat ran away. It’s a long story, but the important piece is that the reporter took a picture of me in front of my uncle’s house and said it was my parent’s house. It’s a natural mistake because my parents and I have lived with my uncle and aunt for the past twelve years. The house is huge and we have our own set of rooms, but still my aunt was upset that the neighbors might think she and my uncle are the freeloaders when it’s me and my parents who are the charity cases.
I told my aunt and mother both that I would call the Pasadena Star News and ask them to print a correction, but they were both horrified at that idea. In the meantime, my aunt and my mother are defensive about who is the important one in the house and my mother wants to show that she has something my childless aunt doesn’t. Which means she wants to show me off.
My mother and I have been through all of this since the competition for the Rose Queen the fall before I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. I couldn’t help but notice that she told all of the neighbors about me being Rose Queen, but refused to tell any of them that I had cancer. Of course, everyone could see I was sick so she told them I had gotten mono from kissing some guy. In her mind, kissing makes everything more glamorous, even diseases.
I didn’t know about the mono story until I started getting these fluffy little “get well” cards and my mother told me what she’d done. I tried to tell her there was no shame in having cancer, but I could tell she didn’t really believe me. In her mind, there was shame in being imperfect and I had to admit she was right there. I could no longer even pretend to be her perfect little daughter.
I used to think my mother would become used to imperfection because of my dad’s drinking problem, but she hasn’t. As far as I know, she hasn’t told anyone, except for me and my aunt and uncle, that my dad has been in and out of an alcohol rehab center this past year. Somehow she must think that, if she doesn’t say something aloud, it won’t be true. I’m not even sure she’s completely accepted that my dad is an alcoholic and needs help.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m waiting to become perfect before I move out of my uncle’s house. I got my cat because I wanted to move out and get a place of my own. But my mother looked so horrified when I mentioned I might leave that I decided to wait a while longer, especially because my dad has been gone for a couple of months in this latest rehab phase of his. That must mean he’s getting better this time. When he comes back, maybe that will be a good time for me to move. I would hate to leave my mother alone.
Chapter Three
“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery and death.”
—Anne Frank
One day Marilee brought us this quote. She had printed it out by hand in big block letters and said she was going to put it over her desk in the diner to remind herself that everyone needs hope. The one thing we all learned from cancer was that we could only be distressed for so long. Then we had to reign in our terror and find hope somewhere. We talked about Anne Frank that night. For the first time, we felt like we were the fortunate ones. At least this thing trying to kill us was a disease and not the people we used to sit next to in school.
I don’t know that it’s a good thing this was the quote that came into my mind when I sat down to write about my new acting job. Marilee and I got back to the diner in time for us to have a salad before I needed to go home. The more time that has passed since I auditioned for the part of Mary in the play, the more I am glad that I got the understudy part instead of the real thing.
I’m torn. If I had the regular part, I might disappoint people. And there’s my secrets. I’m not sure I want to pretend to be something I’m not anymore. Besides, the audience might expect Mary to have a glow about her and I wouldn’t blame them. She had to have something special. She talked to an angel. That would make a girl stand up tall. It’s much safer to be on the sidelines watching someone else portraying the woman who gave birth to the baby who changed the world than it is to be front and center oneself.
That’s heavy-duty stuff.
I didn’t realize quite what I might have gotten into until I talked to Randy. He asked me if I had a ride home and Marilee said she would like to do some grocery shopping so, if Randy could drop me off, that would be helpful.
I know Marilee only said that so Randy would take me home. Oh, she’ll stop at a grocery store on her way home. Marilee wouldn’t lie. She’s just not above arranging her schedule so that Randy and I spend some time together.
Randy has a stripped-down white Jeep. He parked it behind the diner in the spot that belongs to Uncle Lou.
“Let me get that,” Randy says as he walks around to open the door to the Jeep.
The night is dark and cold. It feels a little damp like it might rain later. Colorado Boulevard is quiet tonight. There is a streetlamp giving off a dim light.
Randy has to move some snorkeling gear into the backseat so I can sit in the passenger seat.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles.
“It’s okay,” I say and, to tell the truth, I am kind of relieved to see the gear sitting in the passenger seat. That means this is just a casual offer to help a friend; it’s not something he had planned in advance. I never liked dating campaigns; they always make me nervous.
I have the Sisterhood journal with me and I lay it flat on my lap.
“I didn’t know you snorkel,” I say after he walks around to the driver’s door and gets in the Jeep.
“You’ll have to come with me sometime,” Randy says as he turns the ignition key and looks behind him so he can back up and turn around. “Even if you don’t snorkel, the beach is good.”
“Sounds nice,” I say and then wait a minute. “I’ll probably have to dye my hair brown for the play.”
“Makes sense,” Randy says as he turns onto Colorado Boulevard.
I smile to myself. He passed the blond test. I don’t know why guys always think blond and beach in the same sentence, but when he invited me snorkeling I wondered if he had some particular picture in his mind. But Randy doesn’t sound like he cares what color of hair I have. Which is good. Maybe he’s not like some of the other guys I’ve dated.
“I might need to get some freckles, too,” I say.
“Mary had freckles?” Randy looks over at me in surprise.
I shrug. “Maybe.” She would if she had been me.
I don’t know anything about what Mary looked like or how she felt. I can’t help but wonder, though, if she felt as cozy riding beside Joseph on that donkey of hers that starry night long ago as I feel tonight riding beside Randy in this Jeep. I’m thinking, after my conversation with Marilee last night, that maybe I should get to know Randy a little better. Marilee has found her guy in Quinn. I need to accept that. Maybe I need to stop running and give Randy a chance.
I grab the journal a little tighter as it sits in my lap. I’m going to need to write some more before tomorrow. Surprisingly, the pages are filling up even though last night, I didn’t write at all because my mother was upset when I got home. My aunt had left a note telling us that the house was going to be part of the San Marino Holiday Home and Garden tour this year, just like it has been in past years, so we would need to use the side entrance to the house next Saturday.
My parents and I always use the side entrance so my mother says my aunt just left that note to remind us of our place.
When I get a good job, I’m going to buy a house so my parents will have their own place and can use the front door.
It might not be in San Marino though. Not many people can afford to buy houses here.
I have to tell you about my uncle’s place. It’s a three-story house with forty-five hundred square feet on each level. An army could live in it. The main floor has a master bedroom suite in addition to three living rooms, a dining room large enough to fit a twenty-foot table, and a kitchen. The maid has a bedroom and bath for her use behind the pantry. The housekeeper lives out.
The second floor is mostly suites of bedrooms—there are seven suites total, each with a bedroom, bathroom and second room. The suites used by my parents and me are at the opposite end of the house from the rooms used when my aunt and uncle have company. We seldom take our meals with my uncle and aunt anyway, but we definitely do not when they have guests. We double definitely do not if my father has been drinking, which seems to be all the time when he’s home.
I wonder if my aunt and uncle will have visitors for Christmas this year. Sometimes they do. I like it when they do because my aunt scents the air with this special cinnamon and the fumes come up to my rooms. One year I learned the word redolent just to describe it. I can still remember going to sleep with that smell in the air.
My uncle’s house is always decorated for Christmas. The housekeeper puts white twinkling lights around all of the windows and hangs big pine wreaths in all of the windows in the downstairs. All of the decorations are the best money can buy; my aunt sees to that because of the tour. There’s enough gold foil and bright lights tucked around the house to make it all look like the Christmas window in Tiffany’s in New York. The whole thing glitters.
“Some place,” Randy says as he turns into the driveway of my uncle’s house. The drive goes in a half circle so that cars can drop off someone and not have to back up or turn around or anything as lower class as that.
A Dropped Stitches Christmas Page 3