by Brian Olsen
“Oh, Lidia!” Tamsin said. “That’s so sweet! Everybody loves you, you’re like the cast’s grandmother.”
Lidia winced. “You couldn’t have said mother?” she asked, chuckling.
“Can I ask you something, Lidia?” Caitlin said.
“Of course, dear, anything you like.”
“Why does McAuley call you Professor?”
“Well, I suppose because I’m a professor,” she said simply. “Or I used to be.”
“You used to teach?” Tamsin asked. “Did you teach theater?”
Lidia laughed. “Oh, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about that. No, I was a professor of physics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”
Caitlin was stunned. Tamsin stared, slack-jawed. They looked at each other in amazement.
“You taught physics? At MI-freaking-T?” Caitlin asked.
Lidia smiled. “Oh, yes. Particle physics, quantum mechanics. I did research as well. I was very busy. It was a good time.”
“How the heck did you wind up here? Running a theater in New York?”
Lidia’s smile disappeared. She sighed, stood up, and walked to the fireplace. She gently touched the face of the young girl in the portrait hanging above the mantle. Amanda Dillon was a lovely young woman, with blonde hair and a friendly, smiling face. Caitlin was twenty-seven, and she guessed Amanda was about the same age.
“I lost my daughter,” Lidia said.
“Your daughter...” Caitlin said. “Amanda Dillon is your daughter?”
Lidia turned back to them. “Yes, that’s right. You two really do remind me of her. Not just in how you look. She was outspoken, like you. She liked to shock me. Not in a mean way, she just wanted to make me blush. I told her, ‘My dear one, your grandparents were outspoken anti-Soviet agitators in Communist Poland. I spent my childhood half raising myself while one or the other of them was in prison, and then I spent my teenage years in a tenement on the Lower East Side. In the sixties! I’m not going to wilt because my daughter used the word ‘orgasm’ in a sentence.”
Caitlin laughed. “But how did you go from physics teacher to artistic director?”
Lidia returned to the couch, sitting down wearily. “There was...an accident,” she said. “And we lost her. My husband left. I was on my own. I couldn’t bear to be at the university any longer, around all the students. I resigned, and moved back home to New York. I spent some time doing private research, consulting, that sort of thing. Over the summer I saw this space was available, and I thought it would make a nice tribute to Amanda. She was an actress.”
She leaned in, conspiratorially, with a devilish grin. Caitlin and Tamsin leaned in to listen.
“I don’t know anything about plays. I don’t even particularly like them!” She chuckled. “When someone wants to rent the theater I tell them one of my boring stories and if they listen politely I give it to them!”
Caitlin thought back to when the three of them had first met. Caitlin and Tamsin had each worked with Bebe, the show’s director, before, separate from each other, and the director had been talking for ages about using them both for The Wrong Tart. Bebe had finally persuaded her theater company to produce the show, and Caitlin and Tamsin had tagged along when Bebe had been scoping out theaters. Lidia had been taken with the two actors instantly, and had told them one of those supposedly boring stories about her childhood in Poland. Caitlin had found the story uproariously funny, as had Tamsin, and the elderly impresario had offered them a generous deal on the theater rental on the spot.
Their laughter was cut off by a chilling burst of wind from the door, which had been slammed open.
“It is colder than a witch’s tit! Somebody give me a hand.”
Bebe Bennett was wheeling herself over the lip of the doorway with some difficulty. She blew an errant strand of her curly tangerine-red hair out of her face, tore off her gloves, and gripped the wheels of her wheelchair again, forcing them over the slight bump.
“Fuck me! Got it. Tamsin, get the door.”
Tamsin jumped to her feet and closed the door, locking the cold outside once again.
Bebe wheeled herself over to join Caitlin and Lidia.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, wiping her fogged-over glasses off on her blouse. “I told my boss I had an afternoon rehearsal today but he threw a pile of work at me just as I was headed out the door. Douchebag. Why aren’t you running lines? We open in a fucking week. Isn’t Aasim here? Hello, Lidia.”
“Hello, Bebe, dear,” Lidia replied.
“Time’s wasting,” Bebe said, spinning around to face the entrance to the theater. “You two are sucking all the comedy out of the second act and I have two hours to fix everything that’s wrong with you before the run tonight. Caitlin, get the curtain.”
Caitlin ran around to hold the curtain open for Bebe, who headed toward the theater. Tamsin ran quickly after her.
Lidia stood. “Well, if you’re all abandoning me, I’m going down to the basement to check on Mister McAuley.”
“What’s down there?” Caitlin asked.
“What’s that, dear?” Lidia replied, pausing on her way to the door.
“Oh, I just...it’s none of my business, sorry. I assumed it was where McAuley did whatever he does, but I noticed you’re down there a lot.”
Lidia smiled at her. “Yes, Mister McAuley has a workshop down there, but I have some equipment as well. I’m retired from teaching but I like to keep my hand in. I putter.”
“I’d love to see it!” Caitlin said. “I am not a science person at all but I love gizmos.”
“Oh,” Lidia said, her smile vanishing. “No, I’m sorry, that’s not possible. I’m very private about my work, even now. Only Mister McAuley and myself are allowed down there.”
She took a key out from a pocket in her cardigan and unlocked the door to the basement.
“And your dog,” Caitlin said.
Lidia froze, the door half open.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Your dog,” Caitlin said cautiously. “I heard a dog barking from downstairs last night, while we were rehearsing. I never heard him before, did you just get him? Or is he McAuley’s?”
Lidia looked at her. “You must have misheard. There is no dog. Perhaps it was next door? You should go, Bebe is waiting.”
Lidia quickly opened the door the rest of the way and started down the steps, pulling it shut behind her. Caitlin heard the click of the lock.
She turned and headed down the hallway towards the theater. She thought back to rehearsal last night. She had been in the lobby and had heard a dog bark. She had placed her ear right against the door to the basement – the sound had definitely been coming from downstairs. Why had Lidia lied?
Chapter Three
Alan volunteering
Alan Lennox hurried west on Christopher Street. The wind roared and he pulled his wool cap down further to protect his earlobes. He picked up his pace as his destination came into view, his heart quickening with anxiety.
He arrived at the entrance to the building and pulled at the heavy glass door. Locked. He peered through, but the lobby was empty. It was especially cold this close to the river, so he hurriedly turned to the column of buttons on the salmon-colored brick wall next to the door and scanned the list of residents. He saw a Q and almost hit the buzzer, but it was for something else, on the top floor – Qubit Technologies, whatever that was. Then he saw his destination, at the bottom – Project Q.
He buzzed, and after an endless freezing second got a buzz in return. He pulled the doors open and gave a groan of relief as he stepped into the warmth. The spacious lobby had a white tile floor and clean beige walls, but no furniture. Two flights of stairs, one on each side of the room, led up, while between them a wider set of stairs led down a half-flight. Alan descended to the lower lobby and then through the double doors he found standing open ahead of him.
The interior lobby was small and cramped, with multiple doors leading in different di
rections. The walls were covered with photographs of smiling kids, mostly in their early teens, participating in a variety of artistic endeavors. A small reception desk stood empty. On the wall above it the words “Project Q” were hand painted in a rainbow of colors.
“You need help?”
Alan turned and saw two kids, a boy and a girl, both probably about fourteen, sitting on the floor. Between them was a low table with a Scrabble board in mid-game. The boy was engrossed in his rack of letters, but the girl was smiling up at him. She had closely-cropped curly dark hair and wore a men’s tie over a white tank-top.
“Yeah, thanks,” Alan replied. “I’m a new volunteer.”
“We appreciate your service,” the boy said, not looking up. “Go get me a grape soda.”
The girl smacked him on the top of the head. “Don’t be a bitch,” she scolded him.
The boy sighed and looked up. He saw Alan and his eyes widened. The boy was tall and hefty, wearing an extra-large gray hoodie and baggie jeans. His drab clothing was offset by the sparkly blue eye shadow he was sporting. He stood and extended his hand.
“Oh, my. I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of such a fine specimen of Caucasian manhood. I’m Wesley but you can call me Leelee. What’s your name, pretty white man?”
Alan couldn’t help but grin. “Alan.”
“And do you have a boyfriend, Alan? I am presently available.”
“I don’t know if I should answer that,” Alan replied.
“You probably shouldn’t,” Leelee said. “You’ll either get my hopes up or break my heart.”
“Stop showing off, Leelee,” the girl said. She stood up to join them. “I’m Paul.”
“Paulina,” Leelee corrected snarkily.
“Paul!” the girl said fiercely. She turned back to Alan. “I use a masculine name but my preferred gender pronouns are female.”
“Female,” Alan repeated. “Got it.”
“I didn’t used to believe in labels,” Paul continued, “and Maylene – she leads group talk – Maylene says that’s healthy especially at our age, but she identifies herself as a butch dyke and I’m starting to think that maybe that’s an accurate description of my identity too. If the label fits maybe it’s okay to wear it. But I don’t want put myself in a box. What do you think?”
Before Alan could even process the question, Leelee interrupted.
“You ain’t got to ask nobody, girl,” he said. “Motherfucking astronauts in space can see you’re a butch dyke. A box is exactly where you wanna be.”
Paul punched him hard in the shoulder. “I’m taking ownership of my sexuality and showing pride in my alternative gender expression, cocksucker,” she yelled.
“Oh, hell no,” came a powerful voice from behind them. “I know I didn’t hear what I think I just heard.”
Kevin Bailey, the executive director of Project Q, was a tall, handsome African-American man in his early forties with a bald head and a dazzling smile. He was wearing a tailored black suit with a crisp white dress shirt, which was quite a change from the fuck-me red dress and waist-length blonde wig he had been wearing the last time Alan had seen him.
Kevin was a drag queen, performing locally under his professional name, Annie Hooker. Alan had first met Kevin the same night he had met his late almost-boyfriend Pete – Kevin and Pete had been long time best friends. Except for a quick exchange of condolences at Pete’s funeral seven months ago, Kevin and Alan hadn’t seen each other again until the previous Saturday.
Alan had been at Oomph, a popular gay bar in the East Village, watching the go-go boys and drowning his sorrows, when he had felt a tap on his shoulder. Kevin – Annie – was about to host a best penis contest and had recognized Alan’s melancholy mug. The two had gotten to talking and Alan had confessed that, although he had been inspired by Pete to try and make the world a better place, he had so far been entirely unsuccessful in finding a way to do so. That had led to the revelation that the drag queen had a master’s degree in non-profit management, followed by an invitation to come and work as a volunteer at Project Q, the after-school program for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth that Kevin ran. Alan had hastily accepted, and after a free shot had even entered the contest in celebration. (He came in fifth.)
“Paul?” Kevin said, folding his arms. “Do you have something to say to Leelee?”
Paul looked down at the ground. “Sorry I used a word to describe your sexual proclivities in a tone that suggested that the act carries negative connotations,” she said quietly.
Leelee stared at her for a moment, rolled his eyes, and looked at Kevin.
“Can I get that in English, please?” he asked.
“She’s sorry she called you a cocksucker,” Kevin said.
“Oh! We good, girl, we good,” Leelee said to his friend. “I’m sorry, too. I’m sure I said something I should apologize for.”
“You two get to class,” Kevin said. “Don’t you have art right now?”
“We’re waiting for Deshawn,” Paul said. “He’s late.”
“He’s never late when art’s first,” Leelee added.
“Hmm,” Kevin said. “Well, he’s late today. Go on, he’ll show up before it’s over.”
The teens looked skeptical, but they made their way towards one of the interior doors. Leelee looked back at Alan and made a “call me” gesture with his fingers before they disappeared down a hallway.
“Sorry,” Kevin said to Alan. “Hello!”
“Hi!” Alan said, embracing him.
“Come to the office,” Kevin said. “I hope they didn’t you give a hard time.”
“Not at all,” Alan replied.
“They’re a good little trio, Deshawn and them. Paul’s got a crush on the college intern who leads our group discussions and now she talks like she swallowed an Introduction to Human Sexuality textbook.”
Alan followed Kevin through a door, down a short hallway and into a small office with no windows. Three desks were jammed into the tiny space. Kevin collapsed into the chair behind the desk most cluttered with stacks of paper and tore his shiny black dress shoes from his feet, hurling them into a corner.
“Lord!” he cried. “Child, that is a relief! I don’t know how anybody walks in those things. Sorry for the corporate drag, honey. Our development director moved on to bigger and better things and I had to suck up to this rich bitch – excuse me, I mean I had to cultivate a potential donor. You ready to get started?”
“Sure. Yeah. I’m kind of nervous, but excited.”
“Nothing to be nervous about. Come on, let’s get you set up.”
Kevin rose and headed back out of the office, his socks treading silently on the thin orange carpet. Alan jumped back up and followed him down another hallway and through an open archway into a large room. A plain wooden conference table with a few folding chairs dominated the center of the room, while a large refrigerator, a microwave, a sink, and many cabinets and shelves took up the wall space. The table was covered in loose papers, and a laptop sat closed and charging.
“This is our kitchen,” Kevin said. “And dining room. And conference room. And writing classroom on Mondays and Wednesdays. And general hang out area. And whatever else we need it to be.”
While Kevin started up the laptop, Alan glanced at some of the papers covering the table. They were poems, presumably by the kids of Project Q. Alan had read on the organization’s website that writing classes were a huge part of the curriculum. He read the first poem eagerly. He didn’t know much about poetry, and he wanted to understand what kind of talent he might be dealing with. He had hoped Kevin would assign him to some kind of writing class – he didn’t have all that much experience in the subject, but it was a better fit for him than art or drama.
“All right, honey, you ready?” Kevin asked him.
“Ready,” Alan said.
“Here we go,” Kevin said, flipping the laptop around to face him. “This
spreadsheet has all the information our development director recorded about our donor outreach for the fiscal year so far, up until she left. This here is the database program we use – do you know it? It’s kind of a shitty program but it’s cheap. If you know any database software at all then you’ll pick it up quick. I need you to go through the spreadsheet and copy the info into the database for me. You can’t just copy it blindly, though, because some of it might already be in there, so you need to go through every line of the spreadsheet and make sure. When you finish that, I want you to go through the database, there’s a field labeled ‘Prospect Rating.’ Everybody who’s labeled a six or above, if they gave money to us last year but have not given yet this year, I want you to create a report of those people for me with all the info we got on them. Why are you looking at me like I just pulled out your weave?”
“What? Oh, I...no,” Alan replied. “Fine. I’m fine. This is fine.”
“Spit it out, hunty.”
“I, um...” Alan continued. “I had thought, with all the classes you offer...”
“You thought I wanted you to teach a class?”
“Well, yes. Or I was hoping, I guess,” Alan said. “I just wanted to make more of a difference, you know? I wanted to really get involved with the kids directly.”
“Right,” Kevin said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, then sat in one of the folding chairs. “Have a seat, Alan.”
Alan sat. He still had one of the poems in his hand. He avoided looking at the laptop.
“I’m gonna spill some T, okay?” Kevin said. “Project Q is a very small organization. We offer a few classes and workshops to kids who would otherwise be out wandering the West Village getting into trouble. A lot of them come over from Jersey because this is a safer place for them, this side of the river. Most of these kids have trouble at home or at school, some are sleeping on the streets more often than not. We let them come here, hang out with their friends, give them a free meal. They can paint, they can write, they can take time to be kids without worrying about somebody calling them a fag or a dyke or asking them if they’re a boy or a girl. We stay open late, most nights, later than we should, because otherwise a lot of these kids would be out drinking, or doing drugs, or hustling to find a place to sleep for the night. They need way, way more than we can give them, but we do what we can.”