Coming Attractions (23 page)

“Because tomorrow you’re going to see our program printed in every paper in town. Your name will be there in big, bold letters,” Jackie said and calmly touched up the makeup on Helen’s chin. “You’re a target now, Jenny. We all are.” She held up the mirror for Helen to give a close inspection. “Look okay?”

“Fine, thanks.” Helen propped up her leg for some relief. She ached all over from so much standing. “Jenny, was it your girlfriend that talked to Amanda?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. She said she would make some people very uncomfortable.” She rubbed her stomach. “I’m doing a good enough job at making myself miserable.”

Stacey gave her a big sister hug. “You’ll be all right,” she said. “All of you will.”

“You decent?” a man yelled from the hallway.

“Yes!” came their reply.

The door swung open and their stage manager walked in. He handed Helen a note.

“Do you need a doctor?” he asked Jenny.

“No. I’m—” Marty opened the door as Jenny flung herself into the bathroom again.

“Poor kid,” Marty said.

Helen opened the paper and read Cory’s handwriting. “A fine job and a wonderful show. I love you.” If her entire body could audibly weep and drop a tear, this was the time. “She loves me,” she said to the note that shook in her trembling hand. “I hit her and she’s here, and she loves me. I have to go out on that stage and not scream into the microphone that I love her, too. How do I let her know that I miss her? That I’m sorry for the pain I caused her.”

Helen tucked the note into the front of her dress. If that note was the only way she could have Cory on stage with her, then that was how it would be.

*

For another forty minutes, the troupe paraded their entire range of talents. Finally, the moment was Helen’s. The curtain closed behind her while stagehands wheeled a white grand piano into place.

She addressed the audience. “As you can see from your program, I’m the next act.” She hadn’t planned on how she would move into her part of the show, so she joked. “Do I introduce myself?”

Marty hurried onto the stage. “You’ll do no such thing.” She turned to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the woman responsible for bringing us together tonight will treat you to a lovely piano solo. Ms. Helen Townsend.” Marty clapped as loudly as the audience.

The curtain opened and Helen leaned closer to the microphone. “This is for you, baby.”

She walked to the grand piano and placed her cane beside her. Her jitters now gone, she felt defiantly confident. Hopefully, the music would strike memories for Cory and would answer her note. Helen knew exactly what she was doing when she began to play.

Memories of retiring to Cory’s Jacuzzi; of laughs and long telephone calls from whatever city Cory was thrust into; of Rice Krispies and no haircuts; of Boston and no agreement. Memories of love, of making love, and then it was over. The sonata ended.

“That was fun,” Helen said once the applause had subsided.

“One more, Helen,” someone yelled.

“Oh, no. One-shot deal. Thanks, but I’m glad it’s over with.”

One by one, the cast and crew came onto the stage as they were introduced. Each name produced a person, each person voiced a declaration, and each declaration received a burst of applause.

“I’m a member of the gay community,” Phil said as he walked out with Nick’s hand squeezed into his.

Nick had replaced his suit jacket and shirt with a T-shirt that pointed toward Phil. The shirt read, “I’m With Him.”

“I’m a lesbian,” Marty said. “Woo-hooo! Freedom!”

“There go my ratings,” Mark joked.

They went down the line, each proud to be part of the evening’s events. They strutted and grinned. Nearly wrecked with nerves, Jenny held on tightly to Marty. Kim smiled, and finally, all the members of the troupe gathered behind Helen, her cane, and her dais.

By rote, Helen delivered a final speech, while her eyes searched for Cory.

“…higher levels of consciousness…raise the collective conscious…”
Where are you, baby?
“…travel home safely.”

Before she could blink, before the audience could stand, Helen heard another voice from the auditorium.

“Helen.”

There was no mistaking who owned the sound. Goose bumps erupted on every inch of Helen’s body. The audience looked around, trying to find the person who spoke. Helen knew the source but not her location. Somewhere in that dark, cavernous room sat a small, fearful woman, a knight out of armor, who allowed courage to destroy her fear.

“Yes?” Helen asked while the house lights became their brightest.

“May I join you on stage?”

Helen saw all heads turn toward the woman on the end of the tenth row, left of center. Eyes that could be judging, changing their minds; eyes that could connect with Boston and change their minds as well.

“Yes,” Helen said and looked to Marty. Marty gave an excited, quiet clap.

Cory made her way down the aisle while a stagehand wheeled out a set of steps.

“Cory Chamberlain,” someone said.

The auditorium was quiet while Cory ascended the steps one by one. Helen heard only the slow clicking of Cory’s shoe heels as she made her way closer.

Cory looked toward the group she had once been a part of and then walked to Helen. She covered the microphone with her hand.

“The sonata was lovely. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Helen said weakly, and wanted to cry.
How could she have hit Cory and then accept her pride? Helen didn’t deserve her. Chamberlain was a solo act. Give her the stage. It’s always been hers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Helen managed to say. “We have a final guest. Coryell Chamberlain.” Helen stepped away from the dais and retreated to the wing as Cory approached the mic. The applause subsided.

“Good evening. Behind me stand my friends. What they did tonight…”

Helen’s thoughts responded.
Who did your braid tonight, baby?

“I met Helen…”

Met me, loved me, left me. I’m sorry I hit you. You’re wearing blue again. You know how I love you in blue.

“…let my hair down…”

Cory reached to the back of her head, pulled out two pins, and gracefully shook her hair free to expose a classy new shoulder-length cut. Helen smiled.
You look wonderful, baby. My incredible edible. Just kind of shake it around a little for me.
Cory turned her head toward Helen.

“…and apologize.” Cory extended her hand toward the wing. “Will you be with me on stage, Helen?”

Helen couldn’t move. She wanted to run to Cory, squeeze her tightly, smother her in kisses and say, “Hell, yeah, I’ll join you on stage, or in the Jacuzzi if you’ll have me.”
In a heartbeat I would, but, baby, someone nailed my feet to the floor.

“I deserve that,” Cory said after silence answered her. She withdrew her hand. “Then I’ll say it alone. I love you, Helen.”

Helen’s eyes widened.
What?
She said it! To the entire auditorium, Cory said it.
Tears filled Helen’s eyes.

When Cory extended her hand a second time, Helen broke from her suspended animation and joined her. Applause surprised Helen, and when she came close, Cory wouldn’t allow her to stop, but instead embraced her with all the power she could conjure from her five-foot-two frame.

“You feel so good.” Helen held tightly while the audience still cheered. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“I need you,” Cory said through the noise. “Please come home with me.”

“I will.” Helen tightened her hold and felt a fireball of fear subside. “You’ll be safe with me.”

With Helen in flats and Cory in heels, they stood nearly eye to eye. Cory took the night a step further for everyone. She leaned into Helen’s mouth, kissed her long, and showed them all she was not afraid of their future.

Cory giggled when she pulled back. “We’re getting a standing ovation. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

“I love you. Let’s get outta here,” Helen said.

“First let me play.”

“What piece will you do?”

Cory smiled. “The pollen haze,” she said, and Helen cringed.

Helen stepped up to the microphone. “Our final guest: Cory Chamberlain and Frédéric Chopin’s
Military Polonaise
.”

Cory played for the group that surrounded the piano. She played the majestic tune for their individual triumph and for their group. From her dais, Helen listened.

She was in love with that tiny woman on the bench. They would work on their problems, scratch each other’s eyes out, beginning tomorrow. They had a lifetime ahead of them, whether in Boston, in New York, or in the fertile farmland of Texas. Well, Helen would fight that one. However, for now, she simply basked in the glow of having her knight return from her private battle, scarred, her own dragons slain, to claim her lady. And Helen would surrender, tonight and forever.

Finished with the selection, Cory returned to the dais and walked Helen to the piano. She insisted that Helen sit on the bench next to her.

“I want to play for you.”

“I’ll be in your way,” Helen said.

Cory shook her head. “No. Never again,” she said and began the gentle, romantic music familiar to Helen.

It was the Chopin etude, the special piece Cory had never played for anyone, until now.

About the Author

Bobbi Marolt was born in Pennsylvania and upon graduation from high school enlisted in the United States Army, where she specialized in telecommunications. After an honorable discharge and two and a half years in Texas, she ambled into Connecticut “to go to school.” That stunt landed her between New York and Connecticut for the next several years, jammed into quality assurance positions in various types of manufacturing. After a brief move to Las Vegas, she again resides in New England. Her interests include films, theater, and classical music.

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