by Ewens, Tracy
Chapter Five
The production was off and running. The actors and the crew were all adjusting well, with the exception of Julie. Along with Spencer, Peter had brought Julie, his neurotic, psychic, Queen of Fixing-All-Things-With-Superglue, stage manager. Julie was a handful, she was actually a pain in the ass, but she never missed a thing, and, according to Spencer, she had no life outside of the theater. That was maybe a little sad for her, but a huge benefit for him. Sam considered herself detail oriented and maybe a bit of a worrier, but Julie started stressing about things long before anyone else had even begun to think about them. Peter and Spencer fed her chamomile tea and chose to focus on her sheer brilliance at putting up any show, because otherwise she was just plain crazy.
Peter was very protective of his play. Act I had been given out at the first rehearsal. Subsequent scenes would be distributed one week before they were to be rehearsed. Spencer was the only one with the entire script. The cast and crew were given a pretty detailed overview, but Sam imagined it was tough for the actors to put together a character without all the lines. It was unorthodox, but no one seemed to mind. The cast and crew appeared thrilled at the opportunity to work with Peter. Sam had majored in acting, she’d worked in professional theaters for years, and she was well versed in the artistic temperament. Peter wrote a one-act at UCLA that had literally five lines of dialogue. It had received rave reviews, but it was a huge risk. Apparently Peter liked risk as long as he could hide behind a script.
Relegated to watching the scenes as they played out, Sam observed intently every chance she had, just to find out the story, Peter’s version of their childhood. So far, she was intrigued. His dialogue was real and he conveyed so well what it was like growing up in their little world. Peter showed the joy and the pain of his own childhood with such eloquence.
They were starting to block scenes with the three friends: Sally, Phillip, and Greg. Sam was a little confused because the Sally character seemed to be a bit of a priss. If she was Sally, Peter had definitely taken artistic license, or maybe he saw her as the type of girl who would send poor Phillip back into the house to change into a more appropriate jacket. I never did that, she thought and then reminded herself this wasn’t her life.
Spencer began walking through what looked like a high school scene. Rolled up script pages in his back pocket, his hands were flailing around showing the three principals how he wanted the hall scene entrances to go. Sam was backstage, sitting near Julie, who was at her podium barking orders into her headset before calling for a ten-minute hold while they fixed the lighting cues. She ripped off her headset in a huff, releasing her blonde, frizzy hair. Sam feigned sympathy as Julie plopped herself down into her chair as if the weight of the world was sitting right on top of her.
“You okay, Julie? Maybe it’s time for some tea?” Sam laughed a little to herself.
“No, I’m fine.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“I would give up my right arm if Gordon could get his lighting together. I mean, you’d think this was the first damn time he’s done this? When we worked on that revival of All the Way Home—did you see that one? Oh, of course not, you live here. Sometimes I forget where I am. Anyway, he pulled the same shit with that one. He’s so unorganized. Lighting guys are usually meticulous, yeah not Gordon. He’s trying to drive me crazy.”
“I’m sure that’s not it. You’re doing such a wonderful job and everything is ahead of schedule. It’ll work out.”
Sam tried to appease her. A calm and collected stage manager meant a happy cast and crew. Sam would stroke Julie’s ego all day long if that’s what it took.
“Sure, right now we’re ahead, but you know how these things can turn, Sam. I need this to go perfectly for Peter. He’s so . . . so damn brilliant and this needs to be right. I think he’s nervous about this one. Hometown, saving the theater, you know.”
She pumped tea from the little Thermos tied to her podium with a yellow bungee cord and yelled across the stage to some poor stagehand: “Stop! Just stop. You cannot run those cords through there. Back it up!”
He did as she instructed and looked like a bunny caught trying to cross a four-lane freeway.
“So, you grew up with our Peter,” she said, sipping her tea.
“I did. We like to think of him as our . . .”
Appease, Sam reminded herself.
“Yes, yes, I grew up with your Peter.”
“This is a cool little town. It’s so relaxing. Your food is pretty bad, but Peter always tells me I’m a New York food snob.”
She let out an odd pseudo-laugh that told Sam Julie didn’t laugh much.
“Do you see yourself in any of this? In the play? I mean what you’ve seen so far?”
Sam was caught off guard and looked at Julie’s crinkled little nose as she tilted her head and waited for Sam to respond. Was she serious? It was obvious Julie had no idea what “her Peter” was to Sam, and there was no need to share.
“Oh well, not especially. Peter and I were good friends, but the play seems mostly about him. You know, at least semi-autobiographical, his experiences, so . . .”
“Good friends? Christ, are you Sally? We’ve all, all of us from New York that is, been trying to figure out who he based her on. She’s so vivid and clear. She must be someone in this town. You’re the only one of his female friends so far . . .”
“Is that your headset going off?” Sam asked quickly, trying to change the subject.
“Shoot,” Julie put her headset back on, and Sam was saved. Julie waved her off and began barking at Gordy. Sam slipped away to the side stairs and walked down to sit in the front row corner. Worst seat in the house, but it was quiet and Sam needed to finish the day’s notes for Candice.
A few minutes later, Julie and Gordy were toe-to-toe onstage, still arguing while Spencer and Peter looked on in exhaustion. Rounding out the New York crew, quite literally because he was a big boy, was Gordon. Peter had met him through Julie. Gordon and Julie had actually dated at one point, which, according to Spencer, was a huge disaster. Since their breakup about a year ago, Julie had not stopped yelling at him, and Gordon seemed to be eating his feelings. Peter apparently didn’t care because Gordy—as everyone but Julie called him—was “an artist with light.” That’s the title Peter had given him in an article Sam read a week before they arrived.
“He took forever and always had powdered sugar in his beard, but no one lit a show like Gordy,” Peter had added. The New York Times went on to say that the three of them, Spencer, Julie, and Gordy, were Peter’s team, his backbone. They had started together when Peter was still in theaters with leaky ceilings and broken house seats, and he had insisted on them when he went to Broadway. Now they had agreed to return home with him.
Gordy was pointing to his lights and trying to explain the difficult angle to Julie, when Spencer called it quits: “Thanks everyone, that’ll do it for tonight. We’ll pick up right here tomorrow. Julie, please make note of area that’s still giving us trouble.”
Julie nodded and hurried off while Spencer collected his things and talked to Peter, who was on his third or forth coffee at this point. Black, three sugars. Funny the things you remember, Sam thought. She closed her notes, grabbed her purse, and walked back toward the lobby. Peter made his way through a row of seats; she saw him out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing a shirt she had given him for his birthday when they were in college. She would recognize it anywhere. It was orange, his favorite color. Plaid flannel with patches on the elbows. That shirt is five years old, why wear that shirt? Is he doing this crap on purpose?
“Sam, I want to talk to you for a minute.”
“Right now? I should get going.”
They’d been doing well, and it was late. Late and Peter’s rumpled, birthday-present shirt were not a good combination for her right now.
“If this is about the paint, I already talked to Spencer and I’ll have the samples for him in the morning, but . . .”
“It’s not about the paint. I need to, we need to talk.”
His eyes changed, and Sam knew in an instant what he wanted to talk about. It was easier if she kept moving. She wasn’t sure why they needed to talk now, things were fine. Almost two weeks had gone by, and they were making things work as colleagues. In fact, despite her past being played out every day on that stage and the realization that her nagging question—”why”—would never be answered, Sam was proud of how professional she’d been.
“Here?” she asked, making one more effort to dismiss this.
“Let’s go sit for a minute. I won’t take up a lot of your time, but, I . . . I only need a minute, please.”
Peter walked to the back of the house. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. Things were tense, and she was being so professional it was making him sick. Being near her every day and looking into the void in her eyes was painful.
“I think pretty much everything is moving along. It would be helpful if I could see a bit more of the script.”
“Sam . . .”
“I know there are issues with needing to add lights to the opening scene. I told Candice yesterday, and that supplier is in town, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Sam’s hands were now moving on their own, flipping through papers in her binder as she babbled. Peter put his hand on hers, and she froze.
“Stop, please. I don’t want to talk about the play. I want, I need, to talk about this.”
He moved his hands indicating something between them.
“This weird, awkward situation. It has to be strange for you. I know it is for me, and I really want to find a way.”
“Find a way to what?”
Sam felt her face warm and she turned to look at him. This was what she was trying to avoid. There wasn’t a discussion that would explain, so Sam saw no reason to discuss anything. The play: that was the focus. Not the actual content, because that was proving difficult, but the details of the production. Sam was choosing to stay focused on paint, lights, timecards, union breaks. She was comfortable as long as they stuck to the details.
“I want you to. . . I want to be able to . . .” Jesus, you’re a writer, man. Spit it out! Peter took in a deep breath. “I guess I want us to be able to work together and not . . .”
Spencer and Gordy walked up the aisle and Peter was grateful for the reprieve. They looked at Peter and Sam, noticed the tension, and wisely kept moving.
“Goodnight, guys. You’re the last ones here,” Spencer said. Peter nodded.
“Hey Sam, thanks again for getting me those gels,” Gordy added as they reached the back door.
“Oh sure, you’re very welcome. Have a great night.” Sam grinned as both men left through the lobby and then her smile dropped as she turned back to Peter.
“We are working together. Done. Is there something you’re not getting that we need to address?”
“No, it’s fine. The show’s getting a great start. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. If you need to hand this off to someone else, I’ll understand.”
“What? Hand it off? This is my job. I’m going to hand this off because, because you and I have, whatever you want to call it, history? I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, I thought, I don’t want you to feel . . .”
“Peter, you gave up needing to worry about my feelings years ago. As far as I’m concerned you’re a playwright, just like any other playwright, putting on a production in this theater. We grew up together and you moved away. Period. If there’s any awkwardness, it must be yours, because I’m fine.”
“I thought, since we haven’t talked about it.”
“Please! You want to talk now? No, the time for talking is over. We have a job to do, our, my theater is counting on this. All I want from you is a good show.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup, that’s it. So, unless there’s something the play needs or your staff needs, I have to get going.”
Peter looked at Sam as she stood to leave. She took a breath, looked down at her papers, and then over at the stage. Hand it off, was he out of his overly inflated mind? She tried to keep a handle on all of her feelings nagging for release. She wasn’t strong enough, and the words slid off her lips before she could pull them back.
“One question before I leave.”
“Sure,” he said, standing.
“What’s the ending? How does the play end? I mean, is everyone happy when the curtain finally drops?”
“I, Sam . . .”
“You know what, forget it.”
She turned to leave.
“No, wait. It did all work out. Didn’t it? Grady is happy and you, you’re happy, aren’t you? I’m sure after I left everything eventually . . .”
“Worked out? Yeah, sure Peter, eventually.”
Sam stared back out to the stage and Peter said nothing. So, he asked if she wanted to hand it off, he had wanted her to step aside to make things more comfortable. He had pranced back into her life without an explanation other than that he was there to save the theater, and now, now after four years, he wanted to talk? You want to talk? Let’s talk. Sam let the anger course through her, it was good to feel something other than pain.
“Are you happy, Peter?”
He didn’t know what to say. There was no right answer. He went with a gentle dodge.
“I, I’m happy that I’m able to help out the theater. Yes, I’m happy.”
Sam, recognizing a classic Peter maneuver, shook her head.
“Is that easier? Walking away, skirting around things?”
“Sam.”
He went to touch her arm, turn her to face him.
“No, don’t,” she held up her hand, still looking at the stage. “You know, you write plays, ‘words to paper’ as Mr. Keeley used to say.”
Peter noticed the reference, Keeley had been his favorite English teacher in junior high school, but the memory faded as Sam continued.
“Do you ever get onstage and read your words? Step out into the light and live in the world you create, or are you always on the sidelines? Observing, sitting in the dark theater? Critiquing. Like when we were kids, always watching me onstage, watching Grady get the dates. Ever get out there?”
Sam could feel her breath quicken, but there was no turning back.
“Oh wait, you did make a move, on me, right? Confused the hell out of me and then ran back to the sidelines. That’s right. Is that what you want to talk about, Peter?”
Peter instantly felt like he did as a child when his father took him out too far in the ocean. Shit, he thought.
“Are you ever on the stage for the whole damn thing, Peter? The good parts and the ugly parts?”
Sam turned to face him fully now. Peter decided it was best to treat this like a bear attack, so he locked onto her eyes and spoke softly.
“Sam, I was there with you, but I needed . . .”
“You, you needed. Oh wow, yes let’s talk about what you needed.” Her anger became too much and she actually let out an odd laugh.
“Peter, it’s always been about you, hasn’t it? You’re a character of your own design. How can a person be so there with me one minute and then coldly walk away. That person . . . Christ! Do you have anything to say?”
Sam laughed again, it was all she could muster.
The cleaning crew rolled in with their equipment, Peter said nothing, and Sam decided she had had enough.
“Have a good night, Peter. Good talk.”
Sam turned and left through the double lobby doors. Her heart was beating out of her chest. He wanted to talk, and then he stood there, and she did all the work.
“Typical bullshit,” she hissed as she stormed to the parking lot. By the time she closed herself into her car, she had pushed the pain back where it belonged.
Chapter Six
Sunday morning breakfast at the Cathner house was a tradition. Henry, the oldest, lived in Los Angeles but drove over on most Sundays. He work
ed as film producer for a large production company. He handled mostly art films and documentaries, carrying himself with an air of casual cool that covered his ridiculous mind for business. Henry had been recently dumped by his girlfriend Britney. This thrilled Sam because last year for Christmas she gave Sam a gift certificate to the spa for what Brit called, “seriously needed maintenance.” At Christmas, in front of her whole family. Bitch!
Sam’s parents were, simply put, great people. Like everyone else, they had their flaws and just enough dysfunction to foster a dry sense of humor and material for great stories. Sam not only loved her parents, she liked being around them. Jack, her dad, came from money, but he worked at being so much more. When someone asked him what he did for a living, he said, “I run the family business.” When asked what the family business was, he said, “Oh, we’re in tile.” There’s a sign on his desk that says CUT THE CRAP. That little piece of wood described her dad to a tee.
Sam’s grandfather, Michael Cathner, had been a tile artisan on Catalina Island. When he married her grandmother, Gwendolyn Ross, and moved to Pasadena, they became very well known within the arts community. Michael designed tile and artistic treatments for high-end homes and public buildings during Pasadena’s growth in the thirties. He worked with some of the most well-known architects and contractors, and it was hard to go anywhere in neighborhood or downtown Pasadena and not see his work.
Jack earned an MBA from UCLA and then worked closely with his father. They grew the company, Cathner Interiors, into an international corporation. Jack was a warm, humble man, with an addiction to hazelnuts and an obsession with baseball. He had even considered buying the Dodgers once or twice over the years. Jack married Susan, who was funny, independent, had a filthy mouth when anyone got her alone, and was a horrible tennis player, though she continued to try.