Dog Drama

by Leslie O'Kane

  “Say, John, I have an idea,” Hammond said. “Since Allie here is on the clock and busily observing, shouldn’t we call Karen and Greg, and let her watch a live re-enactment of the first scene...sans costumes?” Hammond turned to Sally. “Would that be okay with you, my dear?”

  “By all means. On matinee days, we can’t really unwind, anyway. I think it’s a great idea, if Allie’s up for it.”

  “I definitely am, if the cast is,” I replied, noticing that Sally and Hammond had failed to consult with John, the director.

  “Allie will be able to see the scene as the author originally intended.” Hammond paused and rocked on his heels, “As well as how John intended.” He laughed and then winked at John. “Just pulling your leg, Captain.”

  Captain? Maybe John had military training I didn’t know about. Or owned a boat.

  “Allie’s already seen the video of our first dress rehearsal,” John retorted, his voice a semi-modified growl.

  “Even so, it would be really helpful to me, John. I actually brought a recording of a restless audience with me, which I can play at full volume. It’s on a ten-minute loop. I use it when I’m preparing dogs for shows. I can call that up on my phone and play it, and so on.”

  “We should get into some of our costumes and try to get someone to work the lights,” Sally said. “Don’t you think?” She looked at me.

  “Sure,” I said. “The more closely we duplicate tonight’s performance, the better.” My heart still seemed to be beating too fast. I took a deep breath and released it. Maybe I’d failed to admit to myself how anxious I truly was about this assignment. Then again, we’d been standing here in the lobby for a long time, and John hadn’t thought to suggest that we go sit someplace, or to give us a tour of the building.

  “Have you seen Sam around?” Sally asked John. Then she turned to me. “That’s our stagehand-slash-crew manager who does all the lighting and sound and so forth for this show.”

  Judging by their season schedule, the Creede Repertory Playhouse was essentially a summer-stock theater that ran from late May through the end of September. Several shows were presented each season on their two stages, using actors in different productions at the same time. John’s play was their headliner for the first half of the season.

  “Does Sam just work on this one show?” I asked.

  “Yeah, well, sort of,” John said. “He’s the muscle for changing the sets between performances, but he’s also the jack-of-all-trades on my show. Kind of got him hired as a favor. I knew his brother.”

  “Sam charged out of here the moment the matinee curtains dropped,” Hammond said. “He’s probably three sheets to the wind by now,” he added under his breath.

  Sally gave Hammond a glare, but then cheerfully made a couple of calls and coaxed the other two lead actors in John’s play to join us. Meanwhile, John ushered me down a narrow hallway to meet Valerie Devereux, the manager of the Creede Repertory Theatre.

  “Here’s the full scoop, Allie,” he said quietly as we walked side by side. “There was a producer from a theater in Boston here for Wednesday’s performance. He gave me a thumbs down. That’s when I realized Flint’s situation was urgent.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I.” He rolled his eyes. “He said it wasn’t professional enough. That it was amateur hour, with all the gaffes.” He forced a small smile. We stopped walking. “Valerie’s expecting you. I’m sure she’ll be in her office.” John knocked on a cheap-looking door.

  “Yep?” came a woman’s muffled voice.

  John winced. “When she says ‘yep,’” he whispered, “she’s in a bad mood. Give me a minute, okay?”

  I nodded and gestured for him to go ahead, and he entered the room. “Hi, Valerie,” he said, then shut the door behind him.

  “The producer from Boston turned us down flat,” John told her. The walls were so thin, I could hear him clearly.

  “I’m sorry,” Valerie said.

  “Are you?” John snapped. “You’d never know it. You haven’t put anything behind me and this play. I’ve been doing it all on my own. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were trying to make it fail.”

  “That’s not fair, and you know it,” she retorted.

  “Do I? Tell me how exactly you’ve had my back since I brought my work to life here?”

  “I’m the one who put it on the schedule,” Valerie said. “I’m the one who risked her career and the viability of this theater to stage this thing. Even though I knew full well what a risk a play that revolves around a dog is.”

  “And every action you’ve made since then is to bet against its success. You wouldn’t give me a good reference when I needed it. You haven’t said a kind word to the press. We’ve succeeded in spite of you.”

  “I’ve had just about enough of—”

  Thinking nothing could be more awkward than listening to this argument, I knocked on the door.

  After a pause came Valerie’s, “Yep?”

  I opened the door and leaned in. A thirty-something woman with light brown hair in an attractive bun was seated at a well-worn teacher-style wooden desk, with John standing in front of the desk, arms akimbo. “Excuse me, but I can hear every word you’re saying, and I’m wondering if I could just reschedule our meeting for tomorrow.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Valerie said, wearing that type of smile that makes it ultra-obvious she was angry with the other party in the room. “We were hashing out some things that...well, that aren’t appropriate for public discussion.”

  “I didn’t realize the walls were so thin,” John muttered under his breath.

  “My fault. I forgot you were coming,” Valerie said, rising, with just the slightest edgy look at John.

  “Valerie Devereux, this is Allie Babcock. Allie, Valerie.”

  We shook hands.

  “Valerie is my boss, the manager of the Creede Theatre. We have some differences of opinion, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.”

  “That’s what happens with group endeavors,” I said.

  “You can say that again,” Valerie replied. “Were you in a drama club in school?” she asked.

  “No. I was too busy playing basketball in high school and college to take part in theater productions. Sports teams have their fair share of disagreements, too.”

  “There’s no ‘I’ in teamwork or in theater, but there sure are plenty of egos in both,” Valerie rejoined.

  If anything, this conversation was growing even more awkward.

  “I just wanted to say hello and to thank you for hiring me, Valerie. I’ll let you get back to work. The actors are going to assemble so I can see the first scene or two of the play.”

  “Splendid,” Valerie, said. “I’ll join you in a couple of minutes and work the electrical controls, and make noise from the seats.”

  “That’s nice of you, Valerie. Thank you.”

  “Also unnecessary,” John grumbled, “if Sam was doing his job right.”

  Not wanting to overhear more arguing, I practically raced off the instant I’d shut the door behind me. Flint could be hearing the staff here bickering over him every day. That wasn’t conducive to good performances. It also wasn’t good for my nerves.

  I rejoined Baxter and the three of us entered the theater. Judging from the alphabetical lettering of the seat rows, they had over two hundred seats. I noted that they had a balcony as well, so somewhere around 250, upholstered in red velvet. We took seats in the center of the fourth row, and Pavlov lay down at Baxter’s feet. There was one main aisle between seats; there were only four seats in the row to the left of the aisle, which led to short, four-step stairs onto the stage. There were curtains on either side of the three-wall set, which was an elegantly appointed living room. I could see that the curtains were angled such that Flint’s trainer during the show could see the stage, yet be blocked from view by the audience. The setup would make it hard for me to watch more than a handful of seats, however. Someone sitting in the ra
fters above the stage could probably see the entire audience.

  I told Baxter that we needed to recalculate which of us would spy on the audience. “You’ll have to find a cat-bird’s seat above the stage.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  I thoroughly enjoy live theater. John’s play had a lot of energy and a good heart. It was an honor to know that I was going to be helping Baxter’s friend with his production. As John himself had noted, a listing on my resume that I’d helped train the original Good Dog, Blue, would be impressive.

  John nervously paced between the front of the stage and the first row of seats while we waited for the cast to enter.

  “You’re wearing a rut in the floor,” Baxter told him.

  John raked his fingers through his hair and looked at us. He gave Baxter a patient smile. “Seriously, guys, this represents more than two full years of my life. That’s how long it took me to hone the script, as well as Blue’s behavior—how Blue manages to wag his tail into the cocktails.”

  “‘His cocked tail is in my cocktail,’ I quoted. “I remember that pun well. It can’t be used on a dog with a docked tail.”

  “Nor on a Pug’s tail, for that matter. Although I rework the line for Pippa and had Pippa lick the glass. That was the one thing she did well. I put a smear of chicken baby food on the outside of the glass. She loves that stuff. We had to work around all kinds of things when Pippa was starring.” He rolled his eyes. “Trust me,” he said sotto voce, “Pippa will never make a suitable understudy.”

  A woman who—thanks to the videos and John’s notes—I recognized as Karen Abbott, the second female lead, was approaching from the stage. She had black hair and was slightly pudgy. “Sorry to interrupt, John. My lemon water seems to have gone missing. Did I leave it on the floor of the second row of seats?”

  He glanced at either side of us. “No, sorry,” he said. “Did you check the fridge?”

  “Of course I did. That’s where I always put it.”

  Our eyes met. She gave me a big smile and came to the very front of the stage. “Hi, I’m Karen Abbott. You must be Allie and Baxter, the dog experts. Are we ever glad to see you!”

  “Thanks,” I answered. “I’m really hoping we can help.”

  “I’m confident you can. Your credentials precede you.” Her eyes widened. “The restroom,” she said, snapping her fingers. She met my gaze again and chuckled. “Sorry. I just remembered where I left my lemon water. Again, so glad you’re here.” She gave a friendly wave and disappeared behind the curtain, stage left.

  “I hope my credentials aren’t overselling me,” I muttered to Baxter. He was watching John pace and didn’t seem to hear me.

  “Speaking of the Pug, I’ve got to tell you, John,” Baxter said, chuckling, “I watched the one short video you sent us with Pippa in the role. I laughed my ass off at the pratfall when Hammond’s dog-hater girlfriend kept leaning back in her chair to escape the dog licking her face. That’s one big plus for having a little dog in the role.”

  I heard footsteps behind us. Valerie, who I now saw was wearing a Halloweenish floor-length orange skirt to go with her black top, was heading down the aisle.

  I returned my attention to John. “Did you put baby food on Sally’s face, too?”

  “Yeah,” he told me, then gazed at Baxter. “That fall is much riskier for poor Sally, though, than if she just gets a furry tail in her drink.”

  “Not to mention the risk to Pippa,” Valerie said, “if she somehow winds up behind the chair while Sally’s tipping it back.

  “It didn’t strike you as too slapstick?” John asked me.

  I grinned. “I’m not usually a big fan of physical comedy, but I’m with Baxter on this one. I thought it was hilarious when she managed to keep her martini from spilling when the chair tipped over. And how, when Blue kept licking her face, she deliberately dumped it on her face to kill the dog germs.”

  “With her feet sticking up in the air the whole time,” Baxter added, laughing.

  John chuckled as well. “That was all Sally. She can be a regular Lucille Ball. She has impeccable comedic timing.”

  Valerie, too, was laughing. “That was my favorite visual,” she said. “Sally and Pippa stole the show.” She grinned at me and said, “Allida, we never set up a time for our next meeting. Let’s chat sometime early Tuesday morning, shall we?”

  Apparently she wasn’t willing to lose any of her day off; the Creede Playhouse, in keeping with tradition, was dark on Mondays. “Sure thing. Eight a.m.?”

  “Good God, no. We’re theater people. Early morning for us is ten a.m.”

  “In that case, ten a.m.?”

  “Perfect.” Her phone rang. “Sam?” she said into her phone, holding up her index finger to us, “are you on your way?” After listening, she said, “Yep,” then hung up.

  Valerie turned to me, “In case this has anything to do with Flint’s problems on stage, Hammie and Sally were once engaged, not that long ago.”

  “Long enough,” John said.

  “That’s how I got Hammie to commit to John’s play,” Valerie said. “I told him I had signed Sally Johnson, and he immediately signed on, as well.”

  “Right.” John’s eyes flashed as he looked at me. “More importantly, Valerie insisted that I cast Greg Gulligan in my play, and they went to high school together in Alamosa.”

  “That’s true. We were friends and interned in the Creede Playhouse our junior and senior years.”

  “Yeah, that was a long time ago,” an exceptionally nice-looking man with blond hair said, as he and Karen walked onto the set. “Greg Gullivan,” he said. I introduced myself and Baxter.

  His eyes flashed as he looked at me.

  Sally leaned out from behind the curtain. “We’re ready if you are,” she said.

  Valerie excused herself to “work the board,” I think she said.

  The opening scene began. I found it enchanting. Sally, indeed, struck me as a young star. She radiated a joy for life. Even though she played a germ-aphobe totally creeped out by dogs, her character was immensely likable.

  Frankly, I found it much less believable that Hammond was the dog lover his role demanded. Maybe it was just my particular sensitivities, but he seemed to be acting when he hugged “Blue.” In contrast, it was utterly believable that Blue was completely correct to recognize that Karen—his character’s first wife—had been his true soulmate. The two seemed to be meant for each other

  Gregory Gulligan, frankly, was the weak link in the play. By a wide measure. His movements were stiff, and he didn’t seem to have the connection and spark of his three fellow actors. Meanwhile, Flint was sheer perfection. With John sitting close to me, I could hear his instructions. Even so, Flint’s reactions on stage seemed to be more natural than Greg’s. Flint was always engaged, watching their eyes. The way he herded Sally farther away from Hammond every time Hammond’s back was turned made Baxter and me laugh, even though I was trying to concentrate on John’s verbal cues.

  Some twenty minutes later, the scenes ended.

  “So, what did you think?” John asked.

  “As you’d said,” I answered, “Flint was spot on throughout. He is absolutely amazing to watch.”

  “But what did you think of me,” Hammond said, striking a comical pose with his fingers laced under his chin and batting his eyes at me.

  “You were all excellent,” I said, ignoring the fact that Greg had merely been pretty good. “I liked all five of you.”

  “You heard that, didn’t you, Hammond?” Sally asked, crossing her arms and glaring at her ex. “Counting the dog, four other actors were on stage with you. Just in case you forgot.”

  “I do indeed remember,” Hammond said. “We keep hearing talk of you being the next Lucille Ball. I’m simply trying to spread the butter on all of our buns.”

  “What does that even mean?” Sally asked. “It’s a good thing you’re an actor, not the playwright.”

  “Let’s not argue, for
once,” Karen said. She gave Greg a small smile. “At least Greg and I don’t bicker all the time.”

  You’re my Best Friend Forever,” he said in a Donald Duck voice, breaking the tension.

  “Allie? Have you got everything you need from us two-legged actors for now?” Karen asked.

  “I think so. Thanks. I’ll see you all tonight.” I rose. “Let me try working with Flint a little now.” Once the scene ended, he’d taken it upon himself to lie down on his dog bed on stage, waiting patiently.

  The actors started to leave the stage. “Did you find your lemon water, Karen?” Sally asked.

  “I sure did. It was so stupid of me. I’d left it—”

  Just then, a large, black metal beam supporting several lights crashed to the floor. Sally screamed at the sight. Flint yelped and leapt out of the way.

  Chapter 3

  All four actors had turned and were now staring at the debris on the stage in stunned silence. Nobody had been hurt. Flint had been the closest to the lights. He fled to the farthest corner of the stage, where he peed and trembled in fear.

  John and Baxter both rushed to the stage, vaulting over the rows of seats and jumping onto the stage.

  Like Flint, Pavlov, too, was shaken. She was now standing in a crouched, attack pose, barking and growling at the fallen lights. I said her name and offered reassuring words in a calm voice. Even as much as I trusted Pavlov, I moved toward her slowly. Any badly frightened dog is prone to snapping.

  The stunned silence had quickly changed into angry exclamations. Valerie was running down the aisle toward the stage, cursing and then crying, “Is everyone okay? Anyone hit by broken glass?”

  “No, though I’m not sure if I’m on the verge of a heart attack,” Hammond said. “That damned thing just missed me!”

  Valerie dashed down the aisle and up the stairs of the stage. Baxter had begun looking at the assemblage of broken glass from the lights. John had plopped down on the stage and pulled Flint onto his lap.