Little Did I Know: A Novel (48 page)

We still had act 2 to play, and there were mines waiting to explode on every line, lyric, or light cue. I stayed hidden out of sight in the balcony throughout the intermission. I stood in the shadows and gripped Veronica’s hand till both our circulations stopped.

Act 2 started with a long drive into the rough and a triple bogey. The adrenaline that had carried the first half of the show had waned like a tequila buzz that needed one more shot. Then Fitzgerald sang her song, “Ladies Who Lunch,” and this time she found her legs and threw a spiral that landed in someone’s outstretched hands for a breathtaking touchdown. Then Rush sang his song, “Being Alive,” and there was not much left to say. When you are breathless it is hard to be cogent.

The remaining land mine was the bows, since we had only talked them through, never once rehearsing them. The idea we had discussed was for all the couples in the show who loved the Rush character, as well as the single women in his life, to walk center and say goodbye to him, since he was ready to move on from his shallow and superficial life. I had given each couple and each girlfriend an entrance number to follow to say farewell. We had not timed it to the bow music or had any idea whether it would work.

Well, it did.

The emotion of our day, the fear of failure that weighed heavy on all, found a release in the simple fact that we got through to the end. And the audience was moved and affected and our job was done. It all boiled over as the characters said goodbye to one another and executed a curtain call that in reality had taken the story past the real ending of the script. It was our promise of a better future for the fictional Rush character that we had all spent the last two hours getting to know.

The cast cried as they played out this improvisation. Their emotions ran high, crossing the footlights and entering the consciousness of all in attendance. It was a transference whereby the people in the house imagined, or remembered, a time when they lost someone and life moved in another direction. It was melancholy, and it was moving, and people cried real tears. We had caught lightning in a bottle.

I stood in the balcony, still holding Veronica’s hand, and cried for the second time that night. This time the tears were sweet, like melted rock candy. We took the stairs off the balcony and headed into the compound.

Before we left the building, I noticed Ellie Foster dancing playfully with a stranger down near the front of the house. She moved gracefully, almost intimately, with an older gentlemen dressed in crisp jeans, white sneakers, and a yellow, flowery Hawaiian shirt.
Oh no
, I thought,
has she moved on from a good start with Gary to the sordidness of liaisons with men way beyond her age?
And then I realized what was happening. My incredible night had just got better, and my heart danced along with Ellie and her mystery partner—who turned out to be her father, sans his red power tie and aura of discontent. He had his arm around his daughter, joy in his step, and adoration in his eyes for his beautiful little girl.

For so many reasons a celebration was about to take flight outside, and although I had no desire to be the pilot, I certainly wanted a seat on the plane.

T
he great Broadway producer-director George Abbott opened his hit musical
Damn Yankees
on May 5, 1955. The following morning, the reviews hailed it as the Great White Way’s next musical sensation. The opening-night party was filled with the joy that rave notices bring, yet it also included a rehearsal call for the next morning at ten sharp. Mr. Abbott felt that although it was a big hit, the show still needed some work.

On Planet PBT
Company
was a smash, but I didn’t call a rehearsal the next day. Instead I gave everyone the day off except for notes that were set for six that evening. Last night we had all dodged a bullet. For all practical purposes, though, no one knew it but us. The audience hadn’t noticed the mistakes, which was a blessing. On the other side of the pendulum, I learned they often didn’t realize when there was magic either. They embraced it all. They came for a good time and we delivered on their needs. They set their bar far below the one we were using to judge our personal accomplishments.

Within that lesson was a profound disappointment for an idealistic young man with artistic aspirations. The next time I was in trouble, the next time the scenery was a clusterfuck, or fatigue had set in, would I work as hard as I had the past few days? Or, with this new life lesson, would I simply say, “Fuck it, it’s good enough. No one will know the difference anyway.” How sad that would be?

Bill Hockman threw his big, fat, sweaty arm across my shoulder, stuck his big, coarse face in mine, and shouted in his big New York accent, “What a night, my boy! What a show! Now we know who has the real smarts in the August family. Right, Herb? Right Phil?” Then he laughed so loud it made the birds fly away and the waves reverse direction and head back to England. Who did he think he was, Woody Fucking Allen?

I wanted to say, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck. Why don’t you take your big, stupid face back to New York and continue to make people dislike Jews?” But I didn’t. Instead I said, “Thank you, Mr. Hockman, Mrs. Hockman. I am so glad you enjoyed the show. I know it was a long trip and I appreciate the effort you made in coming.”

“It was our pleasure, my boy. See you on Broadway.” He smacked me on the back, but before walking into the crowd to find some other schmuck to bore, he barked a crisp order at my dad. “Come on, Herb, introduce us to some of these kids.” And then he was gone. The stars reappeared in the night sky and the man in the moon smiled.

I spent a few awkward moments with my family and made plans to meet for a nice brunch the next morning. I made the perfunctory rounds and then bowed out and went to sleep.

Sometimes you eat surf and turf, other times it’s franks and beans. They’re both good, just different.

I
arrived early for the breakfast with my family. I had come alone, thinking and feeling that I needed to see Mom and Dad without distraction. My mother had gotten some sun while in town, and she looked flush and healthy. My father had abandoned the rubbing of his forehead and replaced it with a big, open smile. They told me my aunt and uncle would be joining us shortly.

Then, as it had been for as long as I can recall, we didn’t talk about the ugliness of yesterday evening. It sat on my chest like the proverbial six-hundred-pound gorilla. Better to pretend you’re not sick and die than to deal with pain of getting well. So we danced and we vamped until we became five instead of three. I told anecdotes of my summer’s adventures and they told me how terrific the show had been last evening, how proud they were, and how much they’d enjoyed meeting Veronica. We’d had these conversations before. The shows had different titles, the girls had different names, and sometimes the score hadn’t always come out in my favor.

I had so much cause to love my parents, and if for no other reason than they were my parents. Recent experiences were going to change our relationship. To grow up, I needed to grow apart for a while: to truly stand on my own, to listen to my heart, to set boundaries. Then, at some point in the very near future, we could become close again, perhaps closer.

As we sat and talked, I felt happy. Our familial love was sort of like a ride on the bumper cars. It was electric and silly. Sometimes it was an open ride with the wind in your face; other times it was a head-on crash with whiplash.

Shortly after one o’clock, I walked them all to their cars to say goodbye. Just before my dad put the car in gear, he grabbed me behind the neck and pulled me close. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his face was scratchy with whiskers. He whispered in my ear with power and fervor, “I would be proud of you if you walked on that stage last night and belly flopped. I was wrong to speak to you the way I did. You’re my boy. Sometimes even unconditional love isn’t enough. I love you, my son.” He pushed me away so he could look me in the eye. His gaze was strong, his eyes filled with passion. “Hey, Sammy. Kill the people.”

He drove onto Route 3 south, heading home. It had been nice to hear his apology, and of course I would honor it. But as I climbed into my car, I had a couple of thoughts. Why did he have to whisper? And more important, why did I have to kill anybody? Why wasn’t trying my best all day, every day simply enough?

F
ive shows in ten weeks. Four down and one to go. We were entering the final turn at a full gallop toward the roses. The atmosphere had changed with our schedule, the weather and the wind.
Company
was the last big show of the summer. We were closing the season with
The Fantasticks
, a piece with a small cast of characters, lesser musical needs, and a spare, simple set.

There was less to build in both shops, and we had scores of actors who no longer needed to rehearse throughout the day. Those not in the last show lived the lives of film stars. They slept in late, strolled along the beach, and swam in the warm, crystal-clear August waters. They took day trips to local sites or, when asked, assisted Kasen or Mary, who now had more workers at their disposal than the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. The land mines appeared to have all been swept away. The icebergs had melted and it was smooth sailing into port and home.

I had some free time for the first time since my meeting with Barrows in early May. I spent it wisely, mostly with Veronica, simply being two young people in something that was more than “a boy just passing through.” I also spent time with my close friends ASK, Elliot, James, and Secunda. The first three had places to go after Labor Day, and Secunda would find a way to fill his days and help build the GNP. We even arranged an afternoon of hooky by giving a rehearsal to Jojo and attending a day game at Fenway. But by the fourth inning, with the Sox hammering the As, we wanted to head back home, all of us suffering severe separation anxiety from the daily tasks that had consumed us these past weeks.

The following Friday, on the evening of our penultimate performance of
Company
, I returned from a long run on the beach. The past few days had morphed gracefully into late summer, bringing with them a hint of its end. You could stumble on crimson-red or pumpkin-orange leaves, putting us all on notice that the long, lingering days, the best of the season, were no longer plentiful, that fall was just hours away. The air held a different scent off the water; the energy of dusk less active, now infused with calm.

I had taken to running barefoot in the wet sand, and as I did my steps would churn up mud against my chest, to the back of my thighs and up onto my neck and face. Until I had time to shower and change, I looked like a young boy who had endured a friendly mud fight with his pals. When I reached the compound I found a little red Mercedes parked and still, front and center. My stomach flipped. I had no need or desire to speak with Lizzy Barrows, especially not when I was covered in sand, mud, and sweat.

She called out to me before I had a chance to disappear. “Mr. August, hello. You’ll be happy to know I just bought every seat you had available for the final performance.” If this had been my first exchange with this woman, it would have been lovely. However, what she had proffered in the past kept the butterflies darting inside my belly.

“That’s lovely, Mrs. Barrows. Will you be having actual people sitting in those seats, or will you be using them to store your sweater and handbag?”

“Sam, that’s not very nice. I’ve been back many times since that night. Can’t we forget all this bad stuff? Leave it behind us?” She actually seemed to mean it.

“There is no
we
, Mrs. Barrows. And, no, I can’t forget. What you did was wrong. The game your husband tried to play with me and his threat to my friends was also wrong and I have no reason to forgive you.”

She stared at me as if I had slapped her. Clearly she didn’t hear a lot of “no” on the Barrows estate. “But it all worked out. I’ve made a lot of friends here. Andy has stayed away. Even he wants to make amends, maybe talk to the press and say good things. Please, can’t you and I be friends as well?”

“No,” I said. “Just because you drive drunk and get home without killing someone doesn’t mean it’s an okay thing to do. And just because someone evil says they are not doesn’t make it so. No, we aren’t friends.”

“You’ve let Gary in. Why not me?”

“You’ve both been living in shit, doing bad things. I guess I think he’s trying to climb out while you’re still stirring the pot.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know about a lot of things in this town . . .”

“I know what I need to know.”

“No second chances?”

“Always. Just not for everyone, Mrs. Barrows.”

“Sam, why did you sign the note ‘Spartacus’? Who was he”?

“Come on, Lizzy, you don’t know who Spartacus was? You never saw the movie with Kirk Douglas?”

“No, I was out whoring around,” she said with self-effacing irony. I offered no protestation on her personal assessment. I imagined it was true. “Tell me who he was.”

I considered whether I should spend the time. It’s always better to be kind, particularly when you’re winning. So I told her. “Spartacus was a Roman slave, a gladiator. He led a slave army of misfits against the Roman Empire in the Third Servile War. He fought against oppression, privilege, the aristocracy. He was crucified by the legions of Rome.”