The Calling

by Jeffrey Hancock

  “Are you Nathan?” I nodded. “Nice to meet you. My name is Matt, I am the backstage manager. I need a hand. Come with me.” I followed Matt to the backdoor of the theater. “Okay, before each performance a delivery man arrives with flowers for Isabella. I need you to wait here for him then take the flowers to her dressing room. Knock once and call for her through the door. You have to say ‘Flowers for you, Ms. Isabella’ exactly and wait for an answer. Do not enter her dressing room unless she calls you to come in. After she takes the flowers, follow any instruction she may give you. Can you do all that?”

  “Sure. You say she receives flowers every night?”

  “Yes, it’s in her contract. She likes to pretend they are from her admiring fans. It seems strange to me, but you know theater folks are kind of strange. I know they’re strange because I’ve been working with them all my working life. I still don’t understand them with their fragile egos and flamboyant personalities,” Matt stated.

  “I hear you, and the flowers are no problem. It seems a little odd to me having the janitor delivering flowers.”

  “You will find lots of odd things in this production,” Matt said. “The assistant stage manager usually takes them, but he left without notice so, you are my pinch hitter. Anyways, after you are done, you’re free to go home. Say, you know if you want too, you can catch the show before heading home. Once the overture starts, take an empty seat in the back. Watching the shows are about the only perk to working here.”

  “Do you think there will be any empty seats?

  “Yep. After opening night, a reviewer hit us hard. We haven’t sold more than a quarter of the seats since. I can’t blame her. This production is crap,” Matt said as he walked away.

  Everything was done in time, so I staked out my place at the backdoor. Standing there waiting, I started to feel uneasy. I sensed someone’s eyes on me. The hair on the back of my neck started standing on end. Quickly, I spun my head around only to glimpse a shadow fleeing my vision. Spooky. Could it be the ghost Mr. Roberts talked about or my imagination? Theaters can be creepy places with all the shadows left by poor backstage lighting. Curtains, bits of scenery, and the catwalk above give lots of recesses someone can take up to spy on the goings-on. It’s enough to creep you out and a half.

  The flower delivery truck showed up after about ten minutes. I signed for the two-dozen long stem red roses and took them to Ms. Isabella. As instructed, I knocked once on her door and said, “Flowers for you, Ms. Isabella.”

  “Come in. Come in.” Holding the flowers in front of me, I walked in the dressing room. I felt a sudden twinge of a headache on my right side behind my eye. “Oh, good. I was beginning to worry. I have to have my flowers before the performance!”

  “Where would you like me to put them?” I need to nip this headache in the bud before it develops into a full-fledged migraine. Losing control over the monster in my mind would not do.

  “Wait a minute. You’re not the regular gentleman who brings my flowers. Who are you?”

  “My name is Nathan, Ma’am. Where do you want me to put the flowers?”

  “First, let me get a look at you to see if you’ll do. I’m a good judge of people. Tell me, what do you do here?” she asked this as she stood up to look at me. Immediately she closed her flimsy see-through robe.

  “I am the janitor. I just started today.” Ms. Isabella is a taller than average woman at about five-foot-nine or ten. Her raven hair is quite large as it had been teased out in a chaotic, but fashioned hair style. Under her robe, which hid nothing, she wore a push-up bra which managed to squish the girls into excessive cleavage. She came across as older than her apparent age, which is somewhere in her early thirties. It’s hard to judge with all the stage makeup on. She stated, “I guess you’ll do. Put those on my dressing table and please dispose of the old flowers.”

  I placed the flowers as instructed and grabbed the old flowers which still looked fresh to me. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  Letting her robe fall open, Nice, I thought as she pushed by me and sat at her dressing table. “Nathan, was it? I don’t care. You can throw them away or give them to your sweetie.”

  A single knock came to the door with a voice saying, “Five minutes until curtain, Ms. Isabella.”

  “Oh, dear. My dresser isn’t here. You’ll need to help me with my costume. My goodness, you’re blushing. Nathan, no need to be embarrassed. We are all theater people here. If you work here long enough, you’ll see all of us in our underwear or less,” she took off her robe and lifted her arms above her which made the ladies jut out a little further. “On the hanger behind you is the outfit. Come on, come on we don’t have long.”

  This is a new experience for me. In the past, I helped women out of their clothes, not into them. After setting the old flowers back down, I pulled the blouse off the hanger and helped her put her arms through. It was a tight fit. No wonder she needed help. Next, I opened the skirt so she could put her legs into it. She placed her hand on my shoulder for balance. My headache grew stronger. I must throw some aspirin down my throat quickly. Together we shimmied the skirt up to her waist. She turned around, and I zippered and tied where needed. Last, I held out each of her shoes while she placed her feet in them.

  She sat back down at the dressing table to apply some makeup. Once satisfied, she stood, smoothed her costume, and gazed into the full-length mirror. She said, “As always, the perfect kitchen slut.”

  “Not as Don Quixote saw her,” I stated.

  “What? Oh, yes, you’re right. So, you are familiar with the production. Well, I need a minute to myself before we start, so off with you.”

  I retrieved the old flowers and made my exit. My need for aspirin is growing quite acute, so I pulled out my stash of pills and downed a couple. The relief was immediate, and the headache lessened as I returned to the Janitor’s closet. I began to toss the flowers in the trash bin as I left for the day, but thought, Why let them go to waste? Char will like them, so, I kept them. There is enough time before the next bus to catch the overture and first song and I thought, why not? Standing there watching from the back, dumbfounded is the only word that comes to mind. The production is crap, and the cast played it like they knew it. Uninspired performances one and all. When the male lead sang the first song, “Man of La Mancha,” I had never heard such a bland rendition. He sang the right words and hit the right notes, but he didn’t feel the part. As I snuck out of the performance, I could only shake my head in disbelief. If opening night played like this, It amazed me it didn’t close right there and then.

  Quiet and uneventful is how I would describe the ride home. I tried to be quiet as I entered the house being it’s so late. To my surprise, I found Charlene waiting up for me. She was on the couch with her back to me as I entered. “Char, you didn’t need to wait up for me.”

  “I’m anxious to hear about your new job and the first day. So, tell me,” Char said as she stood and turned to face me. She must have seen the flowers in my hand, because her left eyebrow shot up, “Are those flowers?” She asked in tones of accusations aplenty.

  “Fear not! Nothing bad happen this day. These are just because,” I proceeded to hand my wife the bouquet. “You said I never give you flowers unless there is bad news. Well, you can’t say it anymore.”

  Char took the flowers and started to head to the kitchen. “Let me put them in a vase.” As she started to arrange them, “Ouch! These roses still have their thorns,” she proclaimed all the while sucking the booboo on her thumb. “Two dozen beautiful red roses. How could we afford this extravagance? Did you hit the lottery?”

  “Cute. No, we didn’t hit the lottery. I would have come home in a new car if that were the case. The female lead in the production of Man of La Mancha receives fresh flowers daily. She told me I could have the old ones. So, there you go.”

  “You mean to tell me the first time my husband,” she emphasized husband, “gives me flowers, they are used flowers!”

/>   “I don’t understand. What is wrong with the flowers?”

  “You don’t understand! You can be the sweetest, kindest, most romantic man I have ever met. But you are so oblivious to how a woman would feel. Why didn’t you lie to me about where you got them?”

  “You know I don’t lie.”

  “Well, in this case, you should have broken your missed placed code of honor.” Hurriedly she grabbed the flowers out of the vase, “Ouch! Damn thorns,” and threw them in the trashcan. After which, she stomped to the bedroom.

  Paralyzed with inaction I stood there, then I felt a tugging on my pants. Moiraine was gently trying to attract my attention. “Mo, it’s late. You should be in bed.”

  “Mommy’s yelling woke me up.”

  “Yea, I think your mommy was trying to wake me up, too. Okay, go back to bed.”

  “Can I have some water?” With a glass of water in her hand, Moiraine returned to her bed. After she took a sip of water, she set the glass down on her nightstand. As I tucked her into bed, I bid my daughter goodnight. “I’m not sleepy, Daddy. Can you sing me a night-night song?”

  “Always.” Standing there at her door, I couldn’t think of any songs then it hit me. I remembered a song I heard by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. He sang his take on the child’s song Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Singing has never been my forte, but I gave it my best shot.

  Holding the memory of his singing in me, I began. Mo settled down in her bed and closed her eyes. The smile on her face is precious and more than covered the cost of the song. About halfway through the song, Charlene came out of the bedroom and stood next to me as I finished. She leaned her head on my shoulder. It felt like tender love. Mo was fast asleep, so I whispered goodnight and so did Charlene. As we backed out of the room, I closed the door. It won’t be long until Moiraine tells me she no longer needs a night-night song. She will say she is a big girl now, and while I will agree with her, my heart will be a shattered lump in my chest. My heart will remain shattered until that future night when Mo has children of her own, and I can sing them a night-night song and mend my heart.

  As we escaped to our room, Char, in a tender voice, said, “Nathan, I am sorry about the flowers. It was silly of me to be upset. You meant well, and your voice is beautiful. Have you been taking voice lessons behind my back?”

  “All is forgotten about the flowers and my voice? Don’t be silly. I can’t sing, never could.”

  “It sounded like you can sing to me.”

  “What you heard was the love a father has for his child. With that powering the voice in their throat, anyone would sound beautiful.” The bed is beckoning, and we heeded its call.

  Chapter Seven

  Early in the morning, I realized my eyes are staring at the ceiling, and I am wide awake. The clock read about an hour before we normally make ready for the day. The final moments of last night came to the forefront of my thoughts. Char’s simple gesture of leaning her head on my shoulder made me feel like her husband again. My nether region started stirring. A slow, burning desire to be with my wife started. No other woman ever had made me feel like this. Curling up next to my Charlene, I spooned her.

  A soft, gentle purring came from my wife as she snuggled in return. Caressing her form in the quiet of our room, my yearning for her, for us to be together, intensified. I began kissing her neck in the way which drives her nuts. Charlene began to stir.

  “Nathan, stop it. I want to sleep.”

  “I don’t want to stop. I want you,” I whispered in her ear as I reached over and cupped her breast. It is restrained by the all too big man-style pajamas she had taken to wearing. The most welcomed firming of the cherry on the top of her delicious large sundae greeted my hand. Spidering my hand to the topmost button of her top, I began to undo this first barrier to the prize. Charlene’s hand bolted to mine and slapped it away.

  “Nathan, I said no. Now, move to your side of the bed!”

  In my best seductive voice, I asked, “Why? We have plenty of time, and it has been so long.”

  “I have a headache, Moiraine may hear us, or it’s that time of the month. Pick whichever reason gives you the most comfort and bother me no longer.”

  Rolling to my side of the bed, I questioned myself, I don’t get it. How am I screwing this up? The thought hung in my brain as I stepped out of bed. I would never fall back to sleep again, so making ready for work sounded like a plan. Puttering around the house, I burned up the time before I had to leave. Charlene would soon be up, so I started the coffee for her. With no Diet Pepsi in the house, I made myself some tea. It didn’t take long before Char was up. She came into the kitchen and pour herself a cup of liquid ambition. I started pulling out the fixings for my lunch.

  “Nathan, what are you doing?”

  “Getting the stuff for my lunch.”

  Char answered my statement with, “I can do it.” I told her not to bother I had it. “Move out of the way. I’ll do it.” When I didn’t move, she exploded, “I CAN MAKE MY HUSBAND’S LUNCH.” Throwing my hands up, I backed out of the way. In a softer voice, Char said, “I do little enough for my husband. I can do this,” tears started flowing freely as she finished making my peanut-butter and mayonnaise sandwich. She finished the rest of my lunch and put it in a bag. Handing it to me, she said, “Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.” As she finished her statement, the crying turned into full-on balling, and she went running out of the kitchen to our bedroom.

  This whole episode left me scratching my head. Whatever is causing her to act this way, I’m sure it’s my fault. It usually is.

  I made it to the theater and began my work. It was eerily quiet inside. The sounds of my tasks echoed. Something is unsettling about an empty theater. Eyes were upon me again. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Spinning around quickly, again, I only got a fleeting glance.

  “Come on out. I could use the company.” Nothing. Tomorrow I’m bringing a radio. I thought to myself.

  In my ear, a voice spoke, “Get out.” Years before I could talk with the dead, I had consciously made the decision to “Get out” if ever a disembodied voice told me so. There was no desire in my heart, at the time, to confront a spirit that wanted me gone.

  “Please, tell me your name. I can call you forth, and we can have a proper conversation. I assure you I am a friend to the dead.” Listening, I heard nothing. “Alright, have it your way.” The floors and trash bins are calling, so I went about my job. Nothing happened for the next few hours until I started in on the dressing rooms.

  Mr. Creepy kept following me from room to room, but I paid him no mind. He started being brave by letting me have longer and longer looks. Finally, I did get a decent look at him, for all the good it did me. He is a shapeless shadow changing in height from a small child to a giant eight-foot dark mass. The edges of his form were in constant motion like a writhing mass of worms with tendrils of smoke radiating away from the whole. The air started chilling, and I could see my breath. He was pulling out all the stops for me. I felt honored. “Thank you for letting me have a decent look at you. If you thought you could scare me away from this job, you are wrong. I fear not the dead.”

  In a whisper in my ear while I watched his writhing mass, “You’ll fear me.” This shadow charged me, and its visage grew in my vision. Like a storm cloud murky and dark, it boiled toward me.

  It stopped short of me. I heard a voice in the theater calling out to me. “Mr. Embers, where are you?” The mass of shadow disappeared as it turned sideways. I recognized the voice calling out to me. It was Matt, the stage manager-director. Calling back to him, I told him where I am. It didn’t take long before Matt was there. “Mr. Embers, I am glad I caught you before you finished and left for home.”

  “What can I do you for?”

  “Well, you made quite an impression on Ms. Isabella. She has directed me to make sure you and only you bring her flowers each night. She also informed me you will be her dresser.” Matt’s eyes seem to widen as he made the last p
ronouncement. “What did you do to impress her?”

  “I think she enjoyed seeing me blush when she had me assist her in dressing.”

  With a half chuckle, Matt said, “That has to be it. She has a perverse sense of humor. But what Ms. Isabella wants Ms. Isabella gets, and she wants you. There is a weekly fee paid to you for the service, and you will have to join the union.”

  “What is the salary?” So many things to consider, but when Matt told me what I’ll be paid, those concerns all seem to melt away. “Do I continue to do the cleaning?”

  “Please! We can’t keep anyone here for more than a day or two. They say the place is haunted. You’ll still earn the janitor’s wage as well. So, can I count on you?”

  “This theater is haunted, but it doesn’t bother me. What about Ms. Isabella’s current dresser? Are they getting the boot? I wouldn’t want to take anyone’s job.”

  “Her job is secure. She is the production’s seamstress. Not to mention, she will be happy she doesn’t have to deal with Ms. Isabella anymore.”

  The production is only for a couple more days. I can handle both jobs for a while. We need the money. Hesitating only long enough to complete my thought train, I said, “You have a dresser.”

  “Great. You are saving me from a couple of huge headaches. Follow me to the stage office, and we can start the paperwork.”

  After about a half-hour of red-tape and a pointless phone call, I am officially a member of the Theatrical Wardrobe Union. Yay! Now, it will be my pleasure to pay union dues. I’m glad ghost-talkers don’t have a union. The back dues would put me into bankruptcy. After all the rigmarole, I went back to work. As I finished the cleaning, the cast started to file in. Friendly and engaging as yesterday calling out “Hello” and “How are you doing?” They are a merry band, but not like Robin Hood’s merry band, although some of them do wear tights.

  The last duty I have while wearing my janitor hat is cleaning the queen bee’s dressing room. As I entered Ms. Isabella’s room, a headache twinge hit me. It wasn’t overwhelming, but I stopped my work long enough to take some aspirin to head off a worse one. Dusting the furnishings, sweeping the floors, and cleaning the mirror is all that needed to be done.