The Cul-de-Sac War

by Melissa Ferguson

  “Ohhh, that’s a doozy,” Chip said, seeing the cause. “Okay then.”

  In spite of Russell’s terrific traits—true companionship, perfect manners—he did have one teeny, tiny flaw. Russell seemed to produce his weight in saliva every thirty minutes, and with nowhere to go, it pooled in his slack, sweet-natured jowls. In today’s case, the drool was lowering from his jaw by centimeters every second, inching closer and closer to landing squarely on her face.

  It was time to take action.

  Chip straddled Russel, dug his face into the dog’s neck, reached around his ribcage, and pressed as hard as he could to one side.

  They tipped over, and Chip landed hard. His head pounded the concrete, and his back cracked under the weight of man’s best friend.

  Russell rolled off like it was a circus act and ended up back on all fours.

  Bree pulled herself up to sitting, wiping her face with the cuffs of her sweater.

  After a moment’s shake, Russell jerked his head toward Bree with steely determination in his eyes.

  “Give it—to him.” Chip wheezed his words while clutching his ribs. “Throw the—Slim Jim.”

  Bree whipped her head toward Chip, her eyes widening when she saw the dog preparing for another round.

  She started ransacking her oversized sweater for her pockets. “I don’t—” She shook her pockets out frantically, then pulled out a bit of plastic. “It’s just a wrapper!”

  “Now,” Chip wheezed, making a limp reach for Russell’s collar as the dog jumped. “Throw it now!”

  She flung the Slim Jim wrapper at the dog like a wallet toward thieves in a dark alley. For a moment Russell appeared ready to pummel her, but his massive paws skidded to a stop inches away from her upraised hands shielding her head.

  He dropped his face from her to the wrapper, sniffed, then snatched it up.

  Lifting his tail high in the air, he trotted inside.

  The porch went quiet.

  Chip had curled into a fetal position, rocking like a football player with a torn ACL as he tried to gain back his breath. Bree stared into his house as if waiting for any sign of the dog’s return.

  A moment later, the spell broke.

  She jumped up in her oversized boots. Rubbed the saliva off her face with the crook of one elbow, then the next.

  Peered down at him.

  With one painful motion, he turned to lie flat on his back. He looked up to those bright green eyes half hidden behind a mass of tangled hair.

  Holding his ribcage with one hand, Chip lifted the other like the wounded traveler waiting for the Good Samaritan to reach down and save his life.

  She tilted her head. Frowned.

  Then, with one giant step over his body, Bree moved across the porch and marched down the porch steps.

  Chapter 5

  Bree

  “I know, hate is a such a strong word. But honestly, Cass. I think I’m starting to hate him.”

  Bree’s bare arms shivered as she paced on the grass outside the Barter’s rehearsal building. She felt the damp earth soaking through the thin cloth of her handmade fairy slippers.

  Given how things were going of late, she could predict the consequences: back at the house, Evie would yell at her for twenty minutes about ruining theatre property, and Bree would casually pick up Evie’s new book, Minimalist Secrets to a Peaceful Life, and begin flipping through. Evie would see it. Pause. Do some sort of closed-eye meditation while her mouth parted like a surfaced trout. Then, looking like she was making a great sacrifice, Evie would silently put out her hand and Bree would surrender the slippers.

  Right now, Bree didn’t care. All she wanted was a fifteen-minute chat with her busy best friend. When the best friend had six kids, you didn’t complain about poor timing when the phone rang. You just picked it up. Always. And you wore your fairy slippers outside if it was the only place you could find some peace and quiet.

  Beyond the small row of cars along the gravel entrance was an aged fence and a slew of Hereford cows dotting a field. One stood close to the parking lot, sniffing the March air with its pearly white nose as though smelling the storm coming in. It was a fiercely cold day, temperatures in digits so low the schools had been shut down. Everybody was out stockpiling goods at the only Kroger in town, hoarding all the milk, eggs, bread, sweet tea, and tobacco they could get. Everyone but Bree and the cows.

  “Angela, quit pulling on your tights,” Stephen shouted inside the warehouse.

  “But they’re riding up,” a voice retorted.

  “Then let them ride!” Stephen said. “’Cause you’re sure not going to fix them in the middle of Theseus’s wedding. Where’s Mustardseed?”

  At the sound of her cast name, Bree moved past a trailer hitched to the Barter van, toward the single, nondescript door of the 7200-square-foot warehouse. Surely no one would spot her there.

  “So this guy tailed your car and ran over your water pipe, and his dog knocked you over for a Slim Jim, and he may or may not have accidentally turned your housemate into a hippie.” Bree could hear Cassie’s knife chopping in the background, could practically see her standing over the row of potatoes, slicing them in perfect half-inch blocks. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I believe you ran across more terrorizing eight-year-olds every day during your last job at the aquarium. I don’t know if I’d start shooting off the H word yet.”

  The H word. Hate. Cassie was such a mom.

  “No, no,” Bree said, pausing midstep. “That’s just what he wants you to think. That it was all done in innocence. That he’s just this nice, handsome—”

  “Handsome?”

  “—guy who can waltz into your life and screw up everything about it. He knows we’re inconvenienced, but I know he’s enjoying it. I see the smile in his eyes when he looks at my greasy hair. And the way he laughed when Evie mentioned how much energy we’d save by doing without a hot-water heater. He thinks it’s all so amusing. Like I just shouldn’t take it so seriously.”

  There was a pause.

  “Bree, you act that way too. With everyone. Every day. Of your life.”

  “Do you know how long I’ve gone without water?” Bree raked a hand through her hair, feeling the grease coat her fingers. “A week. A week, Cass.”

  “You backpacked the Appalachian Trail for three months. I’m not understanding the problem here.”

  Bree clenched her fist. “I chose to, yes. But right now I’m going through three cans of hair spray a week and tubs of green foundation for this role. Do you know how hard it is to get hair spray and foundation off without water? Do you know how hard it is to get dog drool off without water?” She was starting to pinch her words. Was she on the verge of losing her mind? “That dog’s started following me. He waits for me by the front door. Every day. Like a serial killer.”

  “Can we go back to the part where you called this guy handsome?”

  Bree kicked at the gravel. “You know who he’s like? Jesse. You remember Jesse.”

  Cassie’s sigh was audible above the chopping. “Jesse Hicks? From elementary school?”

  “You remember him in music class. The one with all the recorders. And the way he walked around, humblebragging to everyone when he was voted Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.” Bree started to kick at the gravel again but turned at the sound of tires crunching. A Lincoln Town Car was pulling into the lot, and Bree quickened her steps toward the warehouse door.

  “In our mock vote during history class?” Cassie continued.

  Bree could practically hear Cassie setting the knife down with the delicate touch of a psychiatrist about to explain things to her patient. “Unfortunately, Bree, I don’t recall the fifth grader taunting you with recorders and imaginary careers from twenty years ago. You’ll have to remind me.”

  “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t remember,” Bree whispered, quietly slipping through the door. “Okay, Cass. Gotta go.”

  She slipped the phone into the hip of her fairy costume as she
entered the dark warehouse, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The only brightness came from the makeshift stage in the center of the open floor, where the restless cast fidgeted. Pole-mounted lighting and curtains hanging from portable rods surrounded the stage, making it seem small in the vast space. The warehouse ceiling was at least forty feet high, covered in the kind of material even cell phone signals had trouble penetrating. Though the ceiling was high and vast, the floor was covered. Abandoned props and old sets lay in shadowed corners: racks of armor and medieval frocks, bedazzled flapper dresses, the drooping form of a human-size candlestick. Dozens of costumes lay around one entire section of the building, tulle and lace and polyester strewn about.

  In the middle of it all, Evie held pins between pursed lips as she tucked and fitted a glittering skirt around one of the fairies. Evie was a short woman, but her hair alone was a foot tall—a style somewhere between a 1950s twist and an owl’s natural habitat. Her horn-rimmed glasses (without prescription lenses) tipped the picture more toward the owl side of the scale.

  Bree paused for a moment to enjoy the view.

  “And what are we looking at now?” came a whisper at her side.

  She grinned at Theo’s presence but didn’t move.

  “Oh, I’m just enjoying watching my roommate turn into a tree,” Bree replied, keeping her position with crossed arms.

  He crossed his arms too, a cuff link glinting beneath the low lights.

  Together they watched as Evie rose on the tiptoes of her tan ballet flats, in her tan tights, to pin together the extra fabric on the fairy’s shoulder.

  Theodore nodded toward the set. “Aren’t you in this scene?”

  Bree shrugged. “I’d rather wait for the owl to pop out of her hair.”

  For several more seconds they watched.

  Disappointed when no nocturnal birds materialized, Bree turned to face him. “What are you doing here anyway? Don’t you have a job to get to?”

  By the stage, Stephen tapped on his clipboard with his pen. “Come on, someone work with me. Has anyone seen Mustardseed? I don’t want to move on from this scene until it’s ab-so-lute-ly perfect.”

  Theodore’s brows rose with a challenging twinkle in his eye. “Don’t you? Mustardseed?”

  Bree met his challenge with a smile, but after several seconds, the pressure became too much. She waved a hand in the air. “Fine. Fine. I don’t see how they could possibly go on without me, but fine.”

  She moved around a rack of Elvis and Johnny Cash costumes, popped into Stephen’s view, and hopped onstage. Bree nudged Birdie a few inches over and slipped into her lounging position by a mossy tree.

  There was silence for a few moments.

  Stephen stared at her. Appeared to be contemplating a lecture. Then flung his hands in the air like an orchestra conductor as he settled into the director’s chair. “Right. From the beginning.”

  Bree’s eyes flicked over to Theodore’s with the silent words, See? Look how critical I was. I’m upstage left, hidden behind six actors and Titania’s bed.

  As much as she noticed, and enjoyed, the way Theodore’s gaze kept turning to her through the scene, other pieces of a puzzle caught her attention.

  Like how Theodore was not alone.

  It wasn’t easy to miss Mr. Richardson—the theatre’s chief administrator—standing behind Stephen’s chair. Just as it wasn’t easy to miss that his rare presence meant something important.

  Stephen grew more and more irritable at the cast’s distracted missteps and bungled directions until finally, following Birdie’s gaze, he looked back over his shoulder. Up.

  The sight of Mr. Richardson and Theodore less than three feet away startled him like a kid caught in the candy jar.

  “Mr. Richardson, I didn’t know to expect you,” he said, tripping over the director’s chair to shake his hand. “So sorry I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Mr. Richardson gave an uncertain glance around Stephen. “Is Don here?”

  “Uh, no.” Stephen scratched the back of his head. “No, I believe he’s out.”

  And by “out” he meant absent for the past five years.

  Don was a brilliant director, or so Bree had heard. But he’d lost enthusiasm for the long and erratic hours of theatre life after decades in showbusiness. He showed up for performances but left the actual work in the competent hands of the stage manager. For Stephen, the compulsive man who followed the “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself” mantra to the point that it was a plaque on the wall of his closet-sized office, this arrangement worked well. The director took it easy and got credit, and the stage manager got to see the shows done precisely how he believed they should be.

  Either Mr. Richardson wasn’t aware of this, or he was the good administrator they all claimed and feigned ignorance.

  “You’ll see to telling him the news then, I’m sure,” Mr. Richardson said, doffing his black Stetson Chatham and taking a step toward the stage.

  “Telling him what, sir?” Stephen said, trailing after Mr. Richardson as he took a few steps toward the group.

  The cast gathered around.

  Mr. Richardson played with the brim of his hat before raising his voice. “We’ve had a bit of a . . . a snag regarding next season’s Much Ado About Nothing. Seems somebody purchased the wrong license.”

  He sent a furtive glance to Stephen, who started meticulously straightening the pencil attached to his clipboard.

  “But despite that grave mistake”—again, sly glance—“this problem can be amended.” There was silence, and Mr. Richardson managed a smile. “With a little sacrifice.”

  Invested despite herself, Bree leaned in with the rest of the actors.

  Whereas those around her had been here for years, sometimes decades, she was nothing in this company, after all. A jobbed-in actor, not even qualified enough to get temp housing in the Barter Inn, their exclusive cast dorms. Played nothing but the backdrop fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been casted for Ursula, yet another stand-by-the-main-character-nodding-and-bowing-for-three-hours personality in Much Ado About Nothing. Really, how could her part possibly get any more dull than Ursula?

  “The production for the March to May lineup at Stage One will now be a musical,” Mr. Richardson continued, turning the Stetson in his hands. “And, by happy coincidence, one of my favorite musicals.” He paused momentously. “Singin’ in the Rain.”

  Bree smiled as his words started to register.

  No more Ursula.

  No more silent, bored lady in waiting.

  Now, she’d seen Singin’ in the Rain on-screen before. She just had to think.

  Who were some characters in that? Some nice characters who stood beside the planters, watching Don Lockwood and Kathy Selden tap-dance into the night and applauding on cue? Oh, she’d love those costumes. Something bright and floral, the 1950s at their finest. No more sixteenth-century Renaissance clothing. No more green face paint.

  “Now, what that does mean for you all, unfortunately, is a smaller cast. I’d say a loss by”—he paused, lifting his eyes to the rafters as though calculating—“Forty percent.”

  Bree blinked.

  Wait.

  What?

  Eric spoke up. “But we’ve already been cast for our slots in Much Ado.” He scratched a spot under his heavy goat’s-head wig. “What’ll happen to those who get cut? It’s too late to get in on anything at Stage Two, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Richardson paused, knowing just as well as they did the plays located in the adjacent building—the lesser-known plays, and those aimed for kids—were already taken by the second strings.

  “Yes. Well, it seems those at Stage Two have already signed their contracts.”

  “And so have we,” Eric retorted. “We signed them . . . well, we were going to sign them . . .” His words stalled out. He practically choked out the whispered words. “Next week.”

  Mr. Richardson nodded, grim-faced.
“Those in Barter Two have signed their yearlong contract. But for everyone else, everyone here . . .”

  The silence in the room finished his sentence.

  “So, as such, Don”—Mr. Richardson hesitated, then turned to give Stephen a slap on the back—“or if by some circumstance Don is unavailable, Stephen will be doing auditions as soon as possible. Those who fill those slots, fill them. As for the rest . . . I’m sorry. We’ll just have to welcome you back for our fall lineup.”

  “But that’s months without work!” someone whispered furiously.

  Murmuring began around the room, hushed tones turning frenetic. Birdie glanced to Bree, her eyes wide.

  “What’ll we do?” she whispered. “There’s no way we can compete.” Her eyes were on the leads, now huddled together like they were District 1 in the Hunger Games.

  Birdie began muttering to herself, phrases like “forty percent” and “Daddy is going to kill me” and “should’ve married Billy.”

  As the hum of the group’s murmuring grew to the point of sniffles and tears—Bree knew for a fact at least two cast members were trying to expand their résumé skill set with cry-on-cue talent—Bree’s attention turned to Theodore, who was walking her way.

  Behind him, Bree saw Mr. Richardson turn to Stephen. His words were muffled, but she read his lips all the same. “I want this sorted out by the end of April. And see what you can do about reaching out to the other playhouses about temp work that may line up. This town’s too small for a bunch of actors cooling their heels for three months.”

  And with that he rested the fedora back on his head.

  Theodore stopped beside her. He leaned in, whispered low in her ear, “Wipe that look off your face, fair fairy. If anyone’s a shoo-in for the next show, it’ll be you.”

  Bree leaned back, looking into his eyes with the question in hers. The question, however, got no answer.

  “Off to lunch then, Theo?” Mr. Richardson called. “The salmon’s not going to eat itself.”

  Bree felt a quick, subtle squeeze of her hand before he left her to fall into step beside Mr. Richardson.

  There were so many things Bree wanted to say as she watched them walk out into the gravel parking lot. But the tingle on the tips of her fingers as his hand left hers, the settling realization of the new situation at hand, the sudden Hunger Games stares as the remaining cast members warily watched each other—it was all a bit much for a witty retort.