The programs were printed on expensive paper, and I wondered where David found the money in the budget. On the cover, a decent photoshop attempt—David had clipped an old-timey photo of a woman who looked like Annie Oakley, even though our characters were not flinty-eyed sharpshooters. He didn’t bother removing her shotgun or her dirty cowboy hat. The sepia-toned woman had been carefully clipped with scissors, and behind her, in vivid color, a collage of fire. Admittedly, some of the flames in the collage had been stolen from our local forest service fire season pamphlet, some were not photos but cut from oil paintings that probably depicted the devil in hell, and the remainder seemed ripped from fireplace scenes in one of his Martha Stewart Living magazines. At the tip of a corner, he had missed a tiny piece of red fabric, a tiny bit of a Christmas stocking.
Satisfied, I opened the program, and my jaw dropped. After all those months, after my copious notes, David still hadn’t bothered to learn the real first names of his actresses. I knew if I questioned him, he would claim it was an artistic decision.
The Soiled Doves of Gabardine:
A Play in Three Acts
Written by Tiffany Templeton
Directed by David Alexander Muscarella
Produced by Vy Templeton
MISS JULIE . . . MRS. GABRIAN
MISS JOANNA . . . MRS. WHIPPLE
MISS LESLIE . . . MRS. MCQUILKIN
JUDITH . . . MRS. HICKEY
INGA LISZAK . . . MRS. VANEK
MISS NEVA . . . MRS. SMETANKA
MISS CONNIE . . . MRS. LAMBERT
MISS AIMEE . . . MRS. BARDSLEY
Featuring the singing of “Waterbed” Fred Hakes
By six forty-five, almost every seat was taken. From backstage, I squinted as something sparkled and caught my eye, something shiny, so out of place among the beaten-up folding chairs and the sawdust-covered floor. Peering closer, I saw a small cluster of empty folding chairs, second row, right on the aisle. A silver ribbon tied the chairs together, and I had spent enough time suffering through David’s gift wrap station that I recognized it immediately.
I wish I could say the entire crowd gasped at the appearance of my mother, but I think they were all still pissed about the gas station. Regally, she paused at the top of the aisle, and the silver ribbon suddenly made sense. A shiny blouse, smooth as aluminum foil, the collar and the long tails flared with detail work. From this distance, I couldn’t tell if it was beaded, but it didn’t look cheap. Underneath, a familiar black skirt, the usual jersey material, but ending just above a pair of high-heeled ankle boots, and I couldn’t help but think of David Bowie, or an astronaut. Her hair, her achingly practical hair, was sprayed in waves that flew from her forehead and snaked around her neck. Long necklaces, three in total, different lengths, all silver chain. The blouse did not billow, did not blow around her body like a cape or a curtain. It actually fit her, and I could see that it clung to what used to be love handles and now were just small mounds of loose skin. I’m not sure why she decided that this was the night to debut what David called “body conscious.” We made eye contact from one hundred feet, and I don’t know what kind of reaction she was expecting. I was just happy she was out of her goddamn nest. Her eyes met mine, and there was some kind of pride there. Not sure if it was pride for her outfit, or pride for finally leaving her bedroom, or pride for the new theater. I don’t think it was pride that her daughter wrote a play. My mother detested the arts, because for a Libertarian, spending that much time engaging in self-indulgent creation was the same as smoking three packs of cigarettes, an addiction for weak minds. She didn’t read books or watch movies, didn’t have the time, and I think she had decided long ago that artists deserved consequences for smoking their minds away, not cancer, but a life of poverty and social alienation.
I realized my mother was not alone. Kelly stood beside her. I was pretty sure that Kelly hanging out with my mother was some kind of conflict of interest, but before I could get indignant, the air above the middle section of seats began to flicker, as a thin shower of dust descended slowly, reflected in the lights. The audience stilled, quieted, and we could hear a commotion on the roof. My mother, sensible as always, placed a protective arm in front of Kelly; they would wait to take a seat until the danger had passed. The dust came down in waves, and hair and faces were covered by T-shirts raised over heads. It was Gabardine, so nobody except my mother, my probation officer, and David got dressed up for the theater. No clothes would be ruined. The commotion continued, and I could see the galvanized metal buckle in places. A few seconds passed as we all craned our necks, then the metal snapped back into place. The dust dissipated until it was just a few motes, the usual ambient sawdust that David and the shop vacuum could never eradicate, despite his daily attempts.
Reluctantly, I left backstage and moved onto the floor of the auditorium. Although I had never been given the official title, I knew David considered me to be the stage manager. I stopped a few feet away from my mother, but close enough to smell Kelly’s familiar perfume.
“Pack rats,” called out an old man at the card table stacked with programs. “Sounds like a whole crew.”
“On the roof?” Kelly was clearly alarmed, perhaps imagining an attack from above, like the rats were paratroopers.
“You’re safe, lady. Pack rats won’t eat you. They’ll eat fiberglass, but they ain’t going to eat someone like you.”
“Are you being racist?”
The old man stammered. “That’s not what I meant.”
Another old man came to his rescue. “Your people make great pie crusts,” he said.
“Jesus,” said Kelly, and she and my mother began their descent toward me, to the specially marked seats. I ignored them both and bolted for backstage. There really wasn’t anything for me to do, but I wanted to look important.
* * *
* * *
AT TEN AFTER SEVEN, DAVID was satisfied with the attendance. Three empty chairs, but still kind of standing room only, because a group gathered against the far wall, refusing to sit close to my mother.
The curtains parted, and Waterbed Fred stood in the center of the stage. People applauded before he even did anything, because Waterbed Fred had a fan club. Because he was handsome, and because he carried snack foods.
He looked nervous, but stared off into the distance, opened his mouth, and sang.
“Abilene” filled the entire room, and it was absolutely gorgeous. David feared a copyright lawsuit, as if the crowd contained entertainment lawyers or some Hollywood star whose car had broken down in our town and who just happened to stumble across an amateur theater production. The lyrics were not changed, but I think the crowd was just entranced and didn’t really question why Waterbed Fred was singing about a town in Texas.
In the second act, a special guest star. It began with a titter, really. That’s the best way to describe the sound. The audience was too polite to laugh out loud, but they made enough sound for me to poke my head out from backstage.
I followed their eyes and a few pointed fingers. A pack rat had stopped center stage, apparently soaking up the limelight. The actresses continued, ignoring the creature, which probably weighed eight pounds. Most pack rats would scurry around, looking for food or anything to chew on, really. They made their nests out of the weirdest stuff, and right now, I just hoped the pack rat would not choose to pull at the cord of an oxygen tank or make a dash for the bullets we had carefully scattered across the credenza. David had actually done the careful scattering, and I mean really careful, arranged them for close to ten minutes.
Pack rats are like regular rats, except they have freakishly human hands, like a tiny baby. I cringed, hoping the old men in the front row would not start tossing candy. Miss Julie continued her lines, but Judith, always the most capable of the women, ignored the script, lifted her dragging skirt, and made her way to center stage. The pack rat stared at h
er, made no move. And now the audience couldn’t hold it back. They cackled at the standoff, and Judith’s eye contact was not enough to frighten the animal, maybe because she was developing glaucoma. The laughter had caused the entire cast to pause, and I knew that Betty Gabrian had the next line, and I just hoped she would continue, and eventually the pack rat would lose interest, and dash back up into the rafters.
No such luck. Judith did not like being laughed at. With one practical shoe, she kicked the rat, thankfully not into the audience. Instead it flew stage right, where David stood with his clipboard and his copy of the script, ready to feed lines to any of the actresses with dementia. I watched the trajectory of the rat, as it sailed across the set of the brothel and into the curtains.
David shrieked. Rightfully so. The curtains buckled and shook, and over the laughter, I heard the clatter of the clipboard falling, followed by a series of exclamations, and to his credit, he did not use one profane word. He never did. Even the shock of a pack rat flying at his face would not excuse tackiness.
“I refuse to burn to death,” said Miss Julie. “I was destined for a bigger demise. I was destined for a showstopper. Maybe a guillotine.”
“Uff-da,” said Inga, and drew a finger across her neck. In Hungary, they had guillotines. I was pretty sure.
The three blonde sisters removed folding fans from a side table, and their wigs barely moved, no matter how much they fluttered.
Backstage, David threw a garbage bag of empty tin cans against the metal wall. It was supposed to be thunder, but it sounded like a raccoon in a dumpster.
“Calamity!” Judith leapt to her feet. “That noise! Gunfire! This brothel cannot withstand a gunfight. We’ve only got one gun and little hope to create a tactical defense!”
“We’re surrounded by flames,” Betty Gabrian reminded her. “A literal wall of flames.”
“It must be Indians,” said Judith. “They are the only enemies brave enough to attack at a time like this!”
“Native Americans,” muttered Eileen Lambert. This was not in the script.
Again, David hoisted the garbage bag over his head and threw it against the wall with all his might.
“It can only be our lord and savior,” said Judith. “He has sent a message. We will die, but we will die as pious women.”
David rushed behind the hanging set, yanked the blind behind the window, replacing the painted flames with a gray blind bought at Shopko that nobody had bothered to paint. The factory color was turgid enough.
“A storm!” Miss Julie rushed to the window, and pretended to peer out. Backstage, I began pouring jugs of water into a metal tub. It sounded like somebody running a bath, but we hoped the audience would be so enraptured that they could mistake it for rain. Thank god, I had nine gallons of water, all lined up.
“As usual, I will be the bravest whore in Gabardine!” Eileen Lambert exited stage left, slowly, her walker pushed toward backstage, where I was waiting. I dumped an entire gallon of water over her head, and she was not pleased. Dripping, miserable, she whispered to me: “You little asshole.” I pointed back to the stage, and she returned to the scene. “A deluge from the sky! A sudden summer storm!”
Miss Julie craned her neck, taking stock of the imaginary yard and the cord from the blind caught on her necklace, and the blind snapped upward, taking Miss Julie’s neck with it. This is what you get for buying crap from Shopko. Thankfully, Miss Julie remained calm, yanked her necklace apart, beads scattering across the stage. The blind hung crooked, and I’m sure the audience could see the metal wall backstage. As long as they didn’t see David, I was okay with this. “It’s a miracle!” Miss Julie stepped back from the crooked blind and addressed her employees. “I’ve never seen so much precipitation!”
“What about that really fat gunslinger? He sweated so much that he slipped right off me.”
“The rain!” Miss Julie clasped her hands together. “God has saved our unfortunate souls. God is good!”
“Where is the whiskey?” Miss Leslie searched behind a throw pillow on the couch.
“We shall live on in history,” declared Miss Julie. “This shall forever be known as The Last Stand in Gabardine!” Backstage, I choked up a bit, knowing this was untrue. The real last stand of Gabardine happened three weeks ago, when my mother turned off the fuel pumps.
Miss Julie stepped to the center of the stage, and Kaitlynn lit her petticoats with four plastic flashlights, two held in each hand. It was supposed to seem like a spotlight, and it had worked in rehearsals, but today, the beams shone through the lace and revealed her panties and fresh tubing, a recent colostomy bag.
“This town shall forever persevere,” declared Miss Julie, center stage, addressing the audience directly, and then there was applause, especially hearty from the front row, the old men overwhelmed by either civic pride or Miss Julie’s panties. We had expected some applause, and David instructed Miss Julie to milk it, wait for it to die down so her next line would not be lost. She waited a little too long, and the audience began to shift in their seats, looking at each other, wondering if this was the ending. Finally, Miss Julie raised her fist in the air. A thump from backstage, as Kaitlynn dropped one of the flashlights, and the beam shot across the dirty stage floor, but picked up the glitter on all of the scattered beads. Maybe this was better.
The audience was enraptured once more, as Miss Julie pumped her fist, something that was not in the script. “This town shall rebuild! This town shall always rebuild! We shall not fear flood, nor famine, nor fire!”
“Only venereal diseases,” muttered Eileen Lambert.
Undaunted, Miss Julie conjured up her best stage tears. “Gabardine shall survive!”
At this, Kaitlynn and Caitlyn unhooked the bungee cords, and the red curtains swept across the stage but did not close entirely. An oxygen tank stuck out too far.
Applause, even some shrill whistles. I peeked around the curtain, and the entire audience had risen to their feet.
I knew what to expect. The actresses gathered in a group, nearly identical to the same lineup David had commanded months earlier, minus the stars and the stripes. From backstage, I watched as they reached to each other, grasped hands and bowed in unison. Normally, the actresses would take a step backward and pretend to beckon the director onto the stage, but David strode to the center without being asked, and he bowed so deeply that his shellacked hair broke free from the carefully combed part, and a hunk of hair fell across his sweaty forehead. I knew he was overwhelmed with his success, because he didn’t bother tucking it back into place when he stood. I think he was expecting somebody to rush up to the stage with roses.
This was not that type of town.
I heard my name, heard Betty Gabrian call out for me, trying to get me to join David at center stage. I shook my head, refused.
I was not that type of girl.
From backstage, I could see the entire audience, as the old men flicked on the fluorescent lights that never were replaced, but even that harsh blue light was beautiful to me, and all of those people did not look garish, but beautiful. I knew Ronnie would not show up to such a thing, but my breath caught in my chest when I examined the crowd and did not see Bitsy. This was not surprising, either. What blew me away were the people I didn’t expect: TJ, the two men from the garage, Sheriff Schrader, and Lionel from the Ben Franklin.
A familiar refrain, a thought that had haunted every single day I left our trailer house and encountered people who knew my family, knew my reputation, knew exactly what I did. That litany, the roster I could not shake, no matter how I tried. I know all of your names.
It was a familiar refrain, but tonight it felt different.
I know all of your names, and I am thankful for it.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, I KNOCKED. I had precious cargo in my hand, and by precious, I mean dangerous. Who could know how
this would turn out? Inside the house, I could hear Janelle call for David. Answering the door would be his job, even though Janelle was most likely sitting on the couch. David probably insisted on this—I’m sure he was the one that dealt with salesmen, bill collectors, the errant Jehovah’s Witness.
Even though it was a weekend morning, David was fully dressed, and well. Like he was waiting.
He stared at the answering machine in my hands, cord wrapped around it again and again.
“I knew it,” he said. “I knew you stole it.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You should have gift wrapped it,” he said. “Have I taught you nothing?” He grabbed it out of my hands, and I waited for him to invite me inside. He didn’t. This was how amends worked, I guess.
Through the open door, I could see Janelle on the couch, in a haze of incense and steam from a giant mug of tea.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and Janelle only offered me a sad little smile. David stood in the doorway, clutching the answering machine.
“I know it by heart,” said Janelle. “And I don’t need it anymore.” I’m not sure if she had finally become self-actualized, if her books and spells had worked, or if Waterbed Fred had his own kind of magic.
“You are a spoiled brat, Tiffany Templeton. That’s your problem. Do you know how lucky you are to have a walk-in closet?”
“Change your furnace filters,” I said. Janelle flashed me a thumbs-up and drank her tea, while David continued to stand there, glaring at me.
“Do you want some sort of medal?” David began to push the door shut, but something stopped him. “I’ve been a good friend to you. For the most part. You’re just a goddamn pack rat. Stealing and scurrying around and being filthy.”
I nodded in agreement, turned on my heel, and left the porch. I owed him, and I also owed him the last word. For once, he earned it.
* * *
The Small Crimes of Tiffany Templeton Page 24