Spellcrossed (6 page)

Otis remained my biggest hurdle. During our final one-on-one before Hell Week, I led him to the picnic area for one last try at helping him discover his inner Donald Trump. He sat down opposite me, clearly dreading another scintillating discussion about his performance. When I asked why he’d come to the Crossroads, his expression shifted to surprise.

“Tell the truth, I don’t know. Just felt the urge to take a trip and somehow ended up here. Why did you cast me?”

“Because I knew you had the heart to play Daddy Warbucks.”

“Takes more than heart,” he said, his face gloomy.

“Come on, you’re a natural for this role. You started out poor like he did. And you made a good life for—”

“I’m nothing like him! All high and mighty. Buying up fancy art and big houses and looking down his nose at all the folks he’d grown up with.”

Nothing in the script indicated Warbucks looked down his nose at people. He was pretty much oblivious to everyone at the beginning of the show. Did Otis still feel the sting of growing up poor even though he was the self-proclaimed “Plumbing King of Canarsie?” He’d been married for nearly thirty years and clearly adored his wife. But he rarely spoke of his daughter, the law student, and his son, the accountant. Were they ashamed of their father’s humble beginnings? Or worse, did they make Otis feel ashamed?

Reluctant to pry, I just said, “But Warbucks changes. He realizes that—”

“‘Something Was Missing.’ I know.” Otis’ voice was quiet again, his shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t always happen in real life the way it does in the theatre, Maggie.”

“It can.”

He regarded me for a long moment. “Happened to you like that, did it?”

I nodded.

“Here?”

I nodded again, embarrassed to feel my throat tighten.

Otis reached across the table to cover my hands with his. Big, strong hands, but as gentle as the man himself.

“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll do a good job for you.”

“I knew that the day you auditioned. I just…I wanted you to find something here that would help
you
. The way it helped me.”

“Found you, didn’t I? And little Amanda. And some of the folks in the chorus.”

“And Kimberlee. And Bill.”

Otis waved them away. “Gotta pick and choose, child. Like fishing. Keep the good ones and throw the crappy little ones back.”

That astonished a laugh from me. And for the first time in days, Otis laughed, too.

As we rose to return to the theatre, I casually asked, “Are your kids coming up to see the show?”

Otis studied me. “You’re one smart lady, Maggie Graham.”

“If I was all that smart, I would have been less obvious.”

“The kids have their own lives. But Viola’s coming up. And a good thing, too. Haven’t been apart from her this long since we were married.”

“I can’t wait to meet her.”

As soon as his car pulled out of the parking lot, I made a beeline for the production office. I dug Otis’ contact information out of the file cabinet and dialed his home number. Viola picked up on the third ring.

It took less than a minute to discover we were both on the same wavelength. Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I reluctantly ended the call, but I was so buoyed by our conversation that I greeted Bill with a smile.

“What’s up?”

He glanced around the office, shuffled his feet, and cleared his throat. Realizing that the preliminaries could take another ten minutes, I tried to curb my impatience.

After enduring his solicitous concern about burdening me, his stirring endorsement of my directing, an even longer declaration of his work ethic, and an avowal of enthusiasm for his roles in the next two shows, he finally said the magic words: “I’ve been offered the role of Henry Higgins in our community theatre production of
My Fair Lady
.”

Shoot me now.

“You know what an incredible opportunity that is. A role any actor would kill for.”

Just put a gun to my head and…

“Well, long story short…”

SHOOT ME!

“How could I turn it down?”

As this was clearly a rhetorical question, I just stared at him.

“Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you in the lurch for
Annie
. But I’ve only got a small part in
The Secret Garden
. You won’t have any trouble filling that. I hate to miss out on
Into the Woods
, but…” He heaved a sigh. “What could I do?”

Tell them you were already committed for the summer? That you had signed a contract to that effect and had to honor it?

I rummaged through my collection of smiles and
found a very sweet one. “That’s great, Bill. Congratulations! Just be sure to notify Reinhard. He’ll need to dock your salary for backing out of
The Secret Garden
rehearsals with less than a week’s notice.”

Still smiling sweetly, I ushered him out of the office, closed the door, and waited until the sound of his footsteps receded before pounding my fist on the wall. Then I yanked open the file cabinet drawer and pulled out my stack of resumes.

Thus beginneth Hell Week.

T
ECH REHEARSAL WAS AS TEDIOUS as I’d expected. Yes, it was exciting to see the neon lights on Times Square, but there were only so many times I could watch those lights come up before I wanted to slit my wrists.

Hal’s set design relied largely on a series of backdrops that evoked the comic strip origin of
Annie
: the orphanage sketched in shades of black and gray; sepia brownstones and shanties for the street scenes and Hooverville; a brightly colored Times Square. The only fixed set was the upstage Warbucks mansion, a stylized Art Deco confection with a central staircase and two landings.

With so little moving scenery, I figured we were on Easy Street.

Naturally, I figured wrong.

Warbucks’ servants tripped up and down the stairs. Chorus members jostling for position sent shudders rippling through the painted streets of New York. The orphans’ metal bunk beds clanked and screeched as if Marley’s Ghost plodded across the stage, dragging the chains he forged in life. The crash of furniture and thudding footsteps of the unseen crew members would have worked like gangbusters in the final scene of
The Diary of Anne Frank
, but made it sound like the Warbucks mansion was under construction.

By contrast, our first dress rehearsal was a breeze. If Javier’s crew didn’t display ninja-like stealth, neither did they sound like storm troopers. The pit band only drowned out the performers half the time. The nearsighted actress playing the housekeeper only tripped on the staircase twice. Only one platter and two gift boxes dropped during “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here.” And Bill’s entrances and exits were nearly as smooth as those of the well-oiled bunk beds.

As the company launched into “A New Deal for Christmas,” I glanced at my scrawled notes and wondered why I had bothered. I’d reached the “Que Será, Será” stage of directing when I had to trust my actors to carry the show. Well, maybe a few reminders about pace, especially in that endless fucking Cabinet scene.

Let it go, Graham.

It was a good production. As good as I could make it, anyway. Otis was still fumbling his lyrics in “N.Y.C.,” but he’d found his inner tycoon. Kimberlee might still be a bitch offstage, but when Otis dropped the ball, she picked it up and kept their scenes moving. The audience would be too busy admiring Chelsea’s pipes to notice her lack of nuance.

Stupid to look for shades of gray in cartoon characters. Or yearn for the healing magic that Rowan Mackenzie could have brought all the actors instead of the handful I’d been able to reach. We were in the business of theatre, not healing. And
Annie
would do good business.

Long seemed to think so; I could hear him clapping in time to the music.

In a minute, Bill would lead Arthur onstage. Applause. Quick rehearsal of the curtain calls. A rousing speech by yours truly. Then up the hill to the Bates mansion for a very long bath and a very large tumbler of single malt whisky.

The cue for Bill’s entrance came and went. The cast forged ahead, but some shot surreptitious glances stage left.

Just when I was starting to worry, Arthur tottered on with Bill. I gritted my teeth as I watched them. Glaciers moved more swiftly. The cast appeared mesmerized, every pair of eyes monitoring the duo’s infinitesimal progress toward center stage.

Arthur stopped. Bill tugged his leash. Arthur obediently trudged forward and stopped again. Bill gave another tug. Arthur stood there.

At which point, Chelsea apparently relinquished any hope that Arthur would reach her before the end of the number and skipped toward him. The chorus’ triumphant “this year” was still hanging in the air when Arthur collapsed.

Alex’s hands froze, still upraised from cueing the cutoff to the cast and pit band. A high keening shattered the stillness. Doreen burst out of the stage left wings. Reinhard strode on from stage right, shouting, “Stay in your places!”

But by then, I was already running down the aisle.

As I pounded up the steps to the stage, two of the younger orphans burst into tears. I paused long enough to squeeze a shoulder and pat a cheek before hurrying over to Doreen.

She had flung herself to the floor next to Arthur and pulled his head onto her lap. My desperate hope that he was merely worn out vanished when I saw that his rheumy brown eyes had begun to glaze over.

And still, stupid Bill kept tugging at his leash. As I shot him a furious look, Javier and Reinhard’s daughter Bea pushed through the crowd. In their black stage crew garb, they looked like mourners at a funeral.

Javier’s fingers closed around Bill’s wrist. Bill regarded him with bewilderment. Then the leash slithered onto the floor.

As I stared helplessly around the stage, a hand came down on my shoulder. The steadying throb of Reinhard’s
power pulsed through me. My galloping heartbeat slowed. My anguish receded a little—just enough for me to collect myself.

Janet and Alex drifted among the huddled orphans, pausing as I had to pat a trembling shoulder, to stroke a drooping head. Lee must have raced down from the lighting booth, because he and Mei-Yin were offering the same fleeting gestures of comfort to the adults, their magic easing grief and fear and uncertainty.

Bea sat beside Doreen, one hand resting lightly on her arm. It was the first time I’d ever seen her use the power she had inherited from Reinhard, but it was clearly working. Although Doreen’s face was streaked with tears, she seemed more stunned now than heartbroken.

A strange lassitude settled over me, like the calm that had descended during the staff’s “brainwashing” after Caren nearly stumbled on Rowan’s Fae kin. With a start, I realized that tomorrow was Midsummer’s Eve. This year, disaster had struck a day early.

Reinhard released my shoulder, and my languor dissipated. I shot him a grateful glance and asked him and Mei-Yin to take the cast to the green room.

As they began herding everyone into the wings, Hal moaned, “Poor Arthur.”

Doreen’s head came up. “It was just his time. And this is how he would have wanted to go. Not lying in his doggie bed, but performing in a show he loved. Arthur was a professional.”

All of us onstage nodded solemnly.

“I should have known he didn’t have the strength for another show. But he was so excited at auditions.”

Excited? He could barely shuffle across the stage.

Guilt swamped me at that traitorous thought. When I recalled how Arthur had obediently played dead, I winced.

“I’m so sorry, Doreen. If there’s anything we can do…”

“I’ll be all right. But this will be so hard on the girls. They loved Arthur.”

Well, the little ones did. They treated him like a combination furry futon and living doll, alternately sprawling atop him and tying bows around his tail. Arthur tolerated it with only an occasional twitch. But Chelsea eyed him with ill-disguised impatience and some of the older girls took their cue from her. I might have done a better job at hiding my emotions, but I’d certainly shared their frustration.

“Don’t worry about the girls,” Janet said. “We’ll make sure they’re okay.”

I was the only one likely to become hysterical. How was I going to find another Sandy and get him up to speed before opening night?

The thought provoked a fresh wave of guilt. Poor Arthur wasn’t even cold and I was worrying about his replacement. But I was the director. I had to worry.

Right now, though, I had more immediate concerns, including a grief-stricken owner, a nervous cast, and a lot of unhappy children.

“We could hold a memorial service,” I suggested. “So we can all say good-bye.”

A tremulous smile lit Doreen’s face. “Oh, that’s so sweet.”

“Tomorrow,” Hal declared. “Before the second dress rehearsal.”

I exchanged a quick look with Long. “I’m not sure there will be a second dress rehearsal.”

Doreen gasped. “You’re not thinking of postponing the opening?”

“We may not have a choice,” Long said.