Rudolph! (27 page)

And then I saw something in his face that made me stop being so, well,
dramatic.
I recalled the conversation I had had with Barb in the bathroom at her house over Thanksgiving. The discussion about making new things, and how we found creative expression in the darkest of places.

I stopped tensing all those muscles in my neck and lower back. "Seventy-two hours," I said, letting the words out slowly. "That's a lot of time."

Rudolph smiled. "That's the Bernie I know. That's the Spirit."

December 10th

I
stood in the center of the stage and addressed the entire company—
what was left of it, that is. It was right after the lunch break, and the crew usually dragged themselves back in with some reluctance, their bellies weighed down with hastily eaten food. The afternoon rehearsals were never very good, and given what had transpired in the last twenty-four hours, there was no expectation that today's tech rehearsal was going to be anything other than a very, very tedious afternoon.

I had spent most of the morning up in the office getting all my ducks together for this final push. Rudolph had hung around for a half hour before it became clear that I was in my element. "SECO," he had snorted softly before wandering off. It hadn't been derision in his voice, but rather gentle annoyance that I didn't need him.

I did, but not for the paperwork.

"Thanks for coming back from lunch," I said once it seemed like I had most of the company in the audience. "As you know, the show is scheduled to open tomorrow, and we've got a few things to do before then, don't we?" I paused and glanced at my watch, pretended to do some math. "This'll be our first tech rehearsal. After that is dress, and then we have a preview show for the press, right? I think if I have pizza and beer brought in, we can pull an all-nighter or two and be ready. In fact, let's just push opening night out to the 13th, okay? Give ourselves a little bit of time for a final spit-polish." I slapped my watch and then clapped my hands. "So, are there any questions before we get started?"

There was a long pause, and then someone finally raised his hand. One of the chorus. The guy who had been having problems with the inner ear imbalance, if I remembered his face correctly.

"Yes," I said brightly, pointing at him. "What's your question?"

"We have no lead," he said. "Franklin—you know—
got shot
in the basement."

"He did," I said. "I know. I got a real nice private performance of what was supposed to be his death scene. A little overdramatic, frankly. But he did dinner theater, and I hear that you're supposed to chew on the tablecloth as much as you can. For the people who pay more to sit up front." I smiled at the guy as if I had just answered a very technical question, even though he really hadn't asked a question. "Anyone else?"

"What about Henrik?" This was from his assistant. "He . . . he
died
!"

"So he did," I said. Probably from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, but I didn't bother to point that out. "But most of you know your choreography already, don't you?"

More stares from the audience. They were starting to wonder what sort of drugs I had been shot full of in the hospital. I didn't bother telling them that it wasn't me who had been doped up these last few days.

"So, Henrik's gone. Franklin's gone." I listed them off on my fingers. "And so is Ted. The accountant." I paused and looked down at them. "None of you knew Ted, right? So it's not like he's really missing then, okay? And who else? Ah, yes, Erma. The box office manager. Is that it?"

I waited a few seconds. Waited for someone to speak up.

"Right," I said when no one did. "So a couple of assholes who were going to rip you all off and disappear with your money are gone. Is that about the gist of it? They didn't like you. They were planning on screwing you over from the beginning, and they set all of this up to make fools of you. Is that what happened?"

That got their attention.

I pointed toward the doors at the back of the house. "If that's the story you want the local papers to tell, then go ahead and walk right on out those doors. I'm sure the gossip columnists would love to hear all the juice you've got to share with them." I wiggled my finger. "Go on. March right on out. Tell your story. See what it'll get you. See what it will do for your career."

No one moved. They knew I wasn't done, and they wanted to hear the rest of my speech. I kept my smile hidden, but I could feel the Spirit working in my stomach.

"This show is a disaster," I continued. "It's a ripe piece of garbage that was meant to embarrass you, me, everyone involved with this production, and everyone involved with Christmas. It's nothing more than a lot of hate and vitriol masquerading as comedy. And it isn't funny. It's horrible. And you know what? If we walk out now, that's how it will be remembered. People will read the script and they'll say:
Oh my god! Who in their right mind would want to put on a show like that?
And they'll look at you and whisper:
He was part of that show!
They'll all nod, and give you lots of space on the bus, won't they? Is that what we want?"

I waited for someone to speak up, and for a moment, I wondered if I had gone too far. If I had played this too over the top. And then I heard a voice from the back. A lone voice that said what I wanted to hear.

"No."

It was Barb, bless her.

"No," I repeated. "No, we don't. So what are we going to do about it? Are we going to stand around with our mouths hanging open, wringing our hands like we've been handed a shit sandwich and told it was the most gourmet delicacy ever offered poor, working hacks like ourselves?" I mimed holding a very sloppy, nasty sandwich.

A few more shouted in the negative this time.

I held up my make-believe sandwich. "It is a shit sandwich," I said. "Let's not kid ourselves. But there is no reason we have to eat it. We can make our own sandwich. A
different
sandwich, with less, you know, nasty brown stuff in it. We have tech to do. We have a dress rehearsal. And then we have a preview show to put on. We have an understudy, and if any of you don't know your dance steps by now, let's be honest: A) You're never going to learn them, and B) no one is going to notice anyway."

I got a laugh at that, which was a good sign.

"Look," I said. "The gang of four played you. They brought you together with the promise of making something amazing, and they lied to you. They didn't love the theater. They just loved the idea that they were smarter than you. That they deserved something more than you. They took advantage of your dreams and your desires and hung them on this mockery of a Christmas story. You are all here because you wanted to be a part of something. Well, you were. You were part of a long con intended to suck a whole bunch of money out of Mr. Metcalfe and myself, and it might have worked if they hadn't been so greedy.

"And if we quit now, if we turn off the lights and go home, then they will have been right. We're stupid; we're gullible; we're the rubes who get used and left behind. But that's not us, is it? We aren't stupid. We aren't gullible. We're theater people, dammit, and it's our jobs to make the impossible possible."

I waved my hand at the set of Rudolph's gothic throne room. "This is a creative gift to the world," I said. "This is our miracle. Because that is what Christmas is all about. It's about giving. So let's make this happen, shall we? At the very least, no one will ever be able to say we didn't give everything we had."

I was on the phone when Barb came up to the office an hour later. I nodded at her and indicated she should make herself comfortable in the big leather chair. She came around the massive desk, frowning slightly when she realized one of the big floor-to-ceiling windows was outright missing. Most of Ted's ludicrous paperwork was held in place by a few heavy rocks that had been brought in. The temperature in the room was in the high fifties, which suited me fine. I was keeping busy, and that meant I was warm.

"That was a nice speech," Barb said when I hung up the phone.

"Thanks."

"I think you left out the part where you called upon their future selves to strip their sleeves and show the scars they earned on this day."

"I had it in an early draft," I said. "But I thought it was a little much."

"‘We few,'" she quoted, leaning her head back against the chair. "‘We happy few, we band of brothers . . . '"

"I went with a slightly different source of inspiration," I said.

She blushed lightly when she caught my meaning and looked away, her gaze coming to rest on the empty window frame.

"I need your help," I said, drawing her attention back to me.

"My help?" she asked. "Why? Why do you need my help?" When she looked at me again, her eyes were bright.

"What do you mean?" I asked, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in her voice.

"It was very chaotic here after Henrik and Franklin did . . . did whatever they did down there in the basement. You said you were down there. They took you to Harborview, didn't they?"

I shrugged. "I'm not really sure where they took me, actually," I admitted.

"Is it true?" she asked.

"Is what true?"

"What happened at Harborview."

I didn't say anything, and she leaned forward in the chair. "I heard stories. And I've been thinking about what you said at Thanksgiving. You said Prancer was dead, and you said it like you were there."

"I was," I said, my mouth dry. "And it's true."

"All of it? Even . . ."

"Yeah. All of it. I was there."

A sob slipped from her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. I watched her, my heart a wounded sparrow in my chest. For all the big speechifying I had just done, I didn't know what to say to her. I wanted to take away the pain in her heart, but I didn't have the words. And so I just sat there, watching her. Waiting for her to say something instead.

She lowered her hand slowly, her fingers closing into a fist. A single tear escaped, and it slid down her cheek and hung, quivering, on her jaw. "Why?" she whispered. "Why didn't Santa . . . why was I the only one who—"

"I don't know . . . I don't—"

"Why don't you just call on God to come down and help you?" she said. "Why doesn't He send angels to fix everything?"

"Because it doesn't work that way," I said. "You can't depend on them if you can't depend on yourself." I leaned forward, stretching out to touch her leg. "I need you," I said. "You believe in this show. You know something about the theater. I don't know which is stage left or stage right. I'm just the money. I'm not the heart and soul of this show. You are."

She choked out a laugh and opened her eyes. They were wet with tears, but that didn't make her gaze any less strong. "Me?" she said. "I'm the heart and soul?"

"You are," I said. "Because you've never given up."

She wiped away the tear with the heel of her hand and stared out the windows. "I want to hate you," she said. "I really do. I want to find some way to blame you for what happened to Daniel. But what for? You didn't throw those eggs. You didn't force Daniel to go running after that kid. And you certainly didn't trip him. You aren't responsible for any of that." She dropped her head and stared at her fingers knotting themselves in her lap. "And my happiness isn't your responsibility either, is it?"

"Well," I said. "I'm trying."

She shook her head. "I let myself believe in a miracle that was never going to happen, didn't I?"

"You have to, though," I said. "You have to let yourself believe in the possibility. It's just—" I felt that awful weight of Prancer's skull when I had lifted it against Satan. "—the price of miracles can be very high."

"And hope?" she asked. "That's still free, isn't it?"

I nodded.

She took a deep breath, and it brought color back to her face. "All right then. Let's start with that."

"Speaking of the band of brothers," I said. "Could you round up Bucky and Sally for a meeting? I meant what I said about opening the show on the thirteenth, but we've got a lot of work to do. I have another call to make, and then we can get down to business."

She left the office, and I dialed a private number in Montana.

I had spent a couple hours the previous evening after our return from Beverly Hills talking with the Seattle Police Department. Most of the conversation was routine follow-up since they had Erma in custody. She was singing any song they wanted to hear, and Metcalfe was still alert enough to send his posse of hardened lawyers. Erma was going to shove the brunt of blame on Franklin and Henrik, of course. She wasn't stupid. But Metcalfe wanted some satisfaction while he was still around to enjoy it, and that meant throwing some lawyer hours at Erma.