“What do you mean?” she cried, unable to keep the panic from her tone. “What do you mean, developers? I thought we were working together.”
“We didn’t hear back from you by the requested date as set out in the document page 732, paragraph four, that you signed last time I was here. So, we moved the farm into foreclosure, and it will be sold at auction quickly. This is prime land,” he added stiffly as he scribbled notes into a file. “We will get a good price for it, and potential developers want to come here and do an initial inspection. It’s perfect acreage for a fair-sized housing community.”
“Page 732?” said Annie, confused and desperate. “You can’t just knock down the farm. It’s over a hundred years old, and these trees are even older than that.”
“Exactly,” he said, signing something. “Good money. We’ll get a small fortune for these trees.”
Annie became protective. “I won’t allow it. This is my farm.”
“That is now in foreclosure,” he corrected her pointedly. “So this is the bank’s farm.”
“Not yet” said Annie, lacing her words with all the indignation she could muster.
“Eleven days, to be exact. Here’s the paperwork outlining the dates of the inspection and when they will be setting up their heavy moving equipment. They’ll be here within the next week.”
He started to walk away, and Annie just followed him to his car absently, saying, “You just can’t do this. Do you people have no heart?”
Apparently sensing something desperate in her tone, the dogs in the barn started barking hysterically. For a minute, John looked regretful, then the shutters were back up and he said gruffly, “I’ll see you again soon,” and drove away in his red sports car.
Annie just stood in her driveway, staring after him, the letter in her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Chapter Thirty-Two
EXPLODING WITCHES & ETHEL THE SWINGING STARFISH
Martin accompanied Stacy and me to the next rehearsal. He had been summoned by Doris to lend his expertise to some sort of a balloon contraption she was building. She had some bizarre notion of flying the cast off the stage at the end of the show.
It didn’t take much to talk him into coming. Normally giving a wide berth to any of my “projects,” from his latest comments at home, he seemed more than a little intrigued to taste the stew we were all brewing at the old cinema.
“Just what every artistic production needs,” he had joked in the car on the way there, “an aerospace engineer.”
As we entered the theater’s front doors, Stacy went off to the bathroom. Even in the foyer, the sound of the opera singer from the audition greeted us from the stage. It sounded like fingernails down a blackboard. She was screeching out her high notes as Olivia accompanied her on the piano.
Martin’s face broke into a roguish grin as he asked, “Is that what happens to cast members who don’t do what Doris wants?”
I punched him playfully on the arm. “Behave yourself,” I demanded. “This is a serious rehearsal.”
But all illusions of that were lost the minute we entered the auditorium. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Ethel was dangling about six feet off the ground from a rope hanging down in the middle of the stage, hoisted up on some sort of rigging dangling from the flies. She was encased in a hefty harness that looked like an enormous buckled leather diaper. She swung back and forth, her body splayed out like a starfish on a pendulum.
Martin couldn’t help himself. “What did that one do wrong?” he asked in a mischievous tone.
I purposely ignored him as I moved to join Doris’s side.
“Did I miss something?” I asked quizzically as I started to scan through my script.
Doris responded, overtly excited, “Isn’t it wonderful? Look what we found.”
“That you can swing Ethel back and forth for entertainment? Or are you planning on using Ethel on a string to hypnotize the audience into handing over their cash?” I asked sarcastically.
“No,” she said with obvious irritation. “We found this rigging in the prop room, and apparently James knew a person who knew how to work it. He’s backstage on the other end of that rope.”
“What are you planning to do with Ethel on a rope?” I inquired, my tongue firmly in my cheek.
“Ethel is testing it for Lottie. I thought we could fly the Pink Witch of Love and Light in and out of her scenes this way.”
I was just about to voice my disapproval when the swinging Pink Witch herself arrived, along with her twin and Gracie.
“Oh my,” remarked Lottie as she observed Ethel rocking from side to side and looking about as happy as a pig chewing on a barbed wire fence.
As we all continued to watch the hypnotic display, Martin whispered into my ear, “I don’t think it will matter how hard you hit that one with a stick. There won’t be any candy coming tumbling out of her.”
“What do you think about that, Lottie?” asked Doris enthusiastically. “How would you fancy learning to fly for this part?”
Lottie looked desperate. “Don’t I need a license or something? And how am I supposed to perform with all those straps and buckles between my legs?” she inquired. “I’m pretty sure this is very un-Southern.”
“Nonsense,” stated Doris sharply. “All the rigging will be up under your dress, with a hook under your wings.”
Lavinia started to laugh. “That will be a first for you, sister dear. You can see what it’s like to be an angel.” Then adding a huge glob of sarcasm, she said, “I’m so sorry that I get to miss out on all the fun.”
“But you don’t,” remarked Doris merrily. “Come with me.”
She marched up the stairs and pointed at a hole that had materialized in the stage. Martin trotted behind us, and I could tell he was having way too much fun at our expense.
“What is that?” asked Lavinia as we peered down into the gloomy void.
“That,” said Doris buoyantly, “is your entrance.”
“My what?!” exclaimed Lavinia. “How am I supposed to get up through that? On a rope ladder?”
“Maybe there’s a trampoline down there,” added Martin ruefully.
“No,” Doris said. “Under the floor is a trapdoor. You stand on it, and it springboards you onto the stage. Lottie will come from the flies, and you can come from down there.”
“The bowels of the earth,” stated Lottie soberly. Then she added playfully, “And then you, sister dear, can see what it’s like to play a demon. And unfortunately for you, that won’t be a first.”
Lavinia clicked her tongue in response.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked with thoughts of insurance claims and hospital visits whirring through my mind.
“I want this to be an extravaganza,” stated Doris sternly. “I want people to come from every town around to see this show, so we’re going to make it as dramatic as possible. I think the twins will be perfect as our witches. They will appear out of thin air through a detonated blaze of exploding smoke and sparks.”
“A detonated blaze of what?!” screeched Lottie.
“Ditto!” screeched Lavinia.
Gracie clasped her hands together. “Oh, can I do that?”
“You can take our places,” Lottie quipped back sharply.
Doris seemed annoyed at their lack of enthusiasm. “It’s perfectly harmless,” she stated, as if addressing small children. “People have been blowing up witches onstage for over a hundred years.”
“And where, exactly, do you get those explosives?” snapped Lavinia. “Salem?”
Ignoring her comment, Doris continued, “I want you to meet my neighbor’s son. He will be in charge of the pyrotechnics.”
Before anyone else could protest, she marched off to the side of the stage to find him.
As we stood with our mouths agape, Martin looked around our circle and shook his head. “Wow, this is some book club you girls have got yourself here. Makes me want to read more.”
“Makes
me want to stop,” snipped back Lavinia coldly.
Doris returned with a young man who was so tattooed and pierced, he was his very own walking work of art. He wore black ripped leather pants that revealed a chain attached to his belly button by a ring that then affixed to his belt buckle. A short, tight sleeveless T-shirt was stretched across his muscular chest with the words “why bother” splashed in an anarchic fashion across the front.
Doris introduced him.
“This is Jimmy.”
He had a mild and pleasant demeanor as he stretched forward and shook all of our hands. He then dove into a long and informative description about his pyrotechnic experience, but to be honest, I didn’t follow much of what he was saying. I was too mesmerized by a large silver ball stud protruding from the middle of his tongue that bounced around as he spoke. That and trying to work out how he had managed to insert a fair-sized bolt that seemed to be growing out of either side of his nostrils. He was very entertaining to watch—a glistening, studded show all of his own. He finished his spiel by announcing jocularly, “So, in a nutshell, I’m the guy who is going to be blowing you up!”
I heard Lottie suck in a breath behind me as he nodded to us, announced he had powders and potions to mix, and disappeared back into the wings.
As soon as he left, Lottie erupted. “I’m not going to be blown up in a nutshell or any other shell. That just doesn’t sound safe.”
“That’s ridiculous,” scoffed Doris. “Jimmy may look a little unusual, but he has a lot of experience in explosives. I’ll show you how safe it is. As soon as he’s ready, I’ll have him detonate under me first so you can see just how harmless being blown up can be.”
I pondered her words. I never thought I would hear that sentence in my lifetime, and I could feel Martin twitching by my side. This was going to be comedic fuel for him for a long time.
We had just finished the medieval tour of Doris’s theatrical torture chamber, with the exploding, spring-boarding witches and the dangling piñata of gloom, when the seamstress, June Horton, arrived. She had a box containing a heaving mass of fabric, tapestry ribbons, bows of every description, and plastic flowers. Everyone watched with interest as she paraded down the aisle like a towering ice cream sundae. When she got to the front, she slung the mounded heap onto the stage, saying, “Is the hippie joining me? The one from the wool shop? We need to try some of this stuff on the cast, and I’m not feeling great, so I need her help.”
We all took a step back as she punctuated the end of her sentence with a rallying, chest-wracking cough. Then, to stress the point, she blew her nose loudly on a tissue and popped a cough drop into her mouth.
Stacy arrived from the bathroom and had changed into her exercise gear. She climbed the stairs onto the stage, puffing, blowing, and saying, “I thought we could start to work out some of those dance numbers today, as I’m not feeling so sick. And they don’t have long to learn everything.”
June clambered up the stairs onto the stage as well and started fishing through her enormous pile, throwing costumes hither and thither. She pulled a pink tutu and plopped it over Stacy’s head before either of us had a chance to speak. Stacy was so livid, she was dumbstruck.
“You’re quite a pudding, aren’t you? Are you the Pink Witch?” she said as she tried to pull down the costume’s sparkly ruffle over Stacy’s belly. “You should probably think about going on a diet before the show.”
When the rest of the dress cleared Stacy’s face, she was blood red.
“How dare you!” she fumed.
I jumped to my feet to stop the flow that was about to issue forth from my offspring’s mouth. “Stacy won’t be needing a costume. She’s just helping me direct.”
“Good job, really,” muttered June. “She would have been better as Tweedledee or Tweedledum in Alice in Wonderland.”
I joined them both on the stage, saying, “She’s pregnant, not fat.”
“That would explain it,” said June, attempting to yank the costume back over Stacy’s head. “So, who is the Pink Witch then, if it’s not tubby here?”
I helped Stacy out of the constricting costume as I spoke. “The Pink Witch is just being fitted for her harness, I believe.”
“Harness?” asked June. “What is she, a horse?”
June then called the cast to line up on the stage, so she could, in her words, “kit them out.” Then she started thrusting hats on each of their heads to see what she liked. Just then, Ruby arrived down the center aisle. She had a box as well, but hers contained waves of beautiful fabric, silver braiding, and precious bracelets from her own collection. She slid the box onto the stage and seemed to ponder what June was doing.
I looked at the lineup of actors, each wearing an odd collection of hats, feathers, and plastic flowers. They looked like a police lineup from a Buster Keaton movie: hats that were too small on big heads, huge hats that were swamping tiny heads, and Flora was wearing one that was wedged down on her head so tightly that it was making her ears protrude like Dumbo. June handed a hat to Marcy, who took it reluctantly and refused to wear it, deciding instead to dangle it unceremoniously off her forefinger.
“Oh, there you are,” June sniffed at Ruby. “What do you think?”
We all looked over at Ruby. I was secretly hoping she would save me the job of saying something honest.
“Yes,” said Ruby, narrowing her eyes. “I can see where you’re going.”
To Toy Town? To the Land of Misfit Performers? I wanted to ask but bit my lip.
Ruby bounded up the stairs as June started another round of coughing. All the actors took an automatic step back.
“I’m not a well woman,” stated June as Ruby joined the group.
“Why don’t you sit down? I can do this,” Ruby said tactfully. “You can list the costumes as we decide on them.”
June huffed, unwrapped another cough drop, popped it into her mouth, thrust her hands into her mushroom-colored ribbed cardigan, and shuffled down into the audience. Ruby, now left to create, started to pull out bolts of luxurious fabric and draped them in spectacular swaths around the shoulders of the cast.
June seated herself in one of the red velvet auditorium seats and pulled out a scruffy notepad from her plastic shopping bag. “Okay,” she said, removing the extra ink off the nib of her pen by wiping it on the sleeve of her cardigan. “I’m ready.”
Ruby started with Marcy.
“I was thinking, for the Goddess of the Corn, of something in a textured azure. It’s ethereal, and I see her as the spiritual mother of the group. Blue is the color of the sky and sea. It is often associated with depth and stability. It symbolizes trust, loyalty, wisdom, confidence, intelligence, faith, truth, and heaven.”
June blinked twice, her newly cleaned nib in midair. I could tell that everything Ruby was saying was not only going over her head, it wasn’t even in the same stratosphere.
Ruby continued to drape extravagant yards of fabric as Marcy stated in an indignant tone, “Nothing too old ladyish. I want to look cute and sexy, not like a nun.”
Ruby looked a little sternly at Marcy and continued her presentation. “Then I like the idea of contrasting the cool palette of the azures with an accent of a dramatic fire color. The color of passion, strength, and power, to show determination and an energetic demeanor, emphasizing that she is a strong, ambitious woman with an unequivocal nature.”
June nodded stiffly, then commented, “Blue and red, then.”
Ruby continued down the line, each time going to great lengths to describe her thoughts behind the costumes, and each time June boiled it down to just a couple of pointed words.
This was going to be an interesting partnership, I thought to myself.
By the end of her demonstration, Ruby had draped bolts of fabric around each person and had positioned contrasting bindings and ribbon over each of their shoulders. I watched the display before me as we moved from Buster Keaton to Lawrence of Arabia.
With the wardrobe fitting appare
ntly over, we moved on with the rest of the rehearsal. Ruby moved the group through more yoga, to the great enjoyment of Martin, who couldn’t help jumping in front of a mat and joining in. Then, while the cast went through a music rehearsal, Martin went to look at Doris’s contraption.
Just as I was getting ready to wrap up the rehearsal, Jimmy arrived on the side of the stage and announced all his flash boxes were loaded, and he was ready to test them.
With those words, Doris jumped to her feet and marched onto the stage.
“I am your willing victim. Feel free to blow me up with your explosives,” she stated in her commander-in-chief voice.
The rest of the cast cleared the stage at the word “explosives,” and Martin found a seat next to me as Doris took her mark.
“It’s so exciting,” he stated impishly. “Will she make it, or won’t she?” he added with an expectant air.
Even Dan moved from the side of the stage to join the cast in the audience.
“I wish I had some popcorn,” added Martin. “How many people would love to be here for this? This is what you should have sold tickets for, to see Doris Newberry get blown up.”
“Fire in the hole!” shouted Jimmy from his command center on side stage.
Suddenly, there was a boom and a crack of white exploding light, and Doris’s bulky silhouette and wavy brown hair lit up like a Christmas tree for just a second. Then a cloud of choking black smoke issued out into the audience, and we all started to cough. We waited with bated breath for the smoke to clear as we wiped at our eyes.
“She’s still there!” cheered Martin. Then, in a quieter tone for my ears only, he said, “You missed your chance there. You could have paid that guy to send Doris out in a blaze of glory.”
As I regained my composure, I noted Doris’s face was slightly blackened, and she looked a little off-kilter. Jimmy came onstage to study his handiwork. “Maybe a little less powder? Do you think?” he inquired.
“What?” Doris shouted back. “I can’t hear a thing.”
Rejected Writers Take the Stage (Southlea Bay Book 2) Page 20