Spellcrossed (7 page)

“Oh, but you can’t! Arthur would want the show to go on.”

Fumbling for a solution, I said, “I could rewrite Scene 2. And cut Sandy’s—”

“Nonsense! Fifi will play the role.”

Unwillingly, I pictured the unholy product of mixed
breeding that was Fifi. The stumpy legs. The too-broad chest. The pom-pom tail and curly fur. Granted the fur was sandy-colored, but the audience would be too busy gawking at her bizarre physique to notice Annie.

“You didn’t think I’d let Arthur take on the role without an understudy?”

No. Only the director would do that.

“I worked with her at home. She knows the blocking and the cues. And she watched Arthur from the wings.”

Until Javier banished her for piddling all over the floor in excitement.

“All she needs is one rehearsal with Chelsea and Amanda and she’ll be ready.”

“Maybe we should talk about that tomorrow.”

“After the memorial service,” Hal said firmly.

Janet cleared her throat. “I’m not sure it would help the girls to see Arthur being…laid to rest. That is, if you’re going to…”

“Of course!” Doreen regarded Janet with astonishment. “I don’t believe in cremation. All those jars on the mantel. It’s ghoulish. Besides, Arthur would want to rest with the others.”

Another unwilling picture, this one of Stephen King’s
Pet Sematary
.

Now who’s being ghoulish?

“We could have a little gathering in the picnic area,” I ventured.

“But this is a formal occasion,” Hal protested.

Before I could suggest an alternative, Doreen said, “We’ll hold the service at my house.”

Praying we could fit a funeral into our overcrowded schedule, I nodded.

I left Janet and Long to break the bad news to the parents who were beginning to filter into the theatre while I hurried to the green room to speak to the cast. As soon as I opened the door, the murmur of conversation ceased. I
couldn’t help noting that the pros clustered together on the far side of the room, while the Mackenzies huddled near the kitchenette with the orphans. The community theatre actors were in the middle, squeezed onto the sofa and chairs and crowded around the central table.

Even in grief, my cast remained divided.

As I searched for inspirational words to recognize Arthur’s loss, address their concerns, and pull this cast together, Kimberlee demanded, “Are we postponing the opening?”

Thrown off stride, I fumbled to get back on script. “While Arthur’s death is a terrible loss, we will still open as planned. Fifi will be taking over the role of Sandy.”

“Are you kidding?” Bill exclaimed.

“Well, who else is there?” Debra demanded.

Heartened by her support, I flashed a grateful smile. Then she added, “Even if she is a weird little mutt and pees at the drop of a hat.”

I silenced the titters with a stern look. “I know it’s been a long night, but there’s one more thing before I let you go. We’re holding a memorial service for Arthur at Doreen’s house. Tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

Most of the children brightened. Otis nodded. Bill said, “But we’re not expected to go or anything, right?”

I’d merely planned to encourage a good turnout, but Bill’s look of disbelief pissed me off.

“Arthur was a member of this cast. I realize that the commuters may have scheduling conflicts, but I hope you’ll make every effort to attend. I expect all cast members living at the Bough to be there to support Doreen and show your respect for Arthur. Reinhard will e-mail directions tomorrow morning. Frannie will have copies at the Bough. Those who’d like to carpool, please meet at the theatre at 10:30. Are there any more questions?”

Silence greeted my speech. And no wonder. The moment had called for warm and supportive and I’d given them cold and bitchy. Hoping to mend things, I groped for the inspirational words that had eluded me earlier.

“Arthur’s death has been a shock. But we have a terrific show and if we pull together, we’ll have a wonderful opening night. One that will make us—and Arthur—proud.”

Chelsea heaved a dramatic sigh. Kimberlee muttered something to Bill. Debra stifled a yawn.

So much for inspiration. Before Arthur’s death, I had a divided cast. Now, I had a divided, resentful cast.

Maggie Graham. Hapless Professional.

I
SPENT THE NEXT MORNING checking in with Doreen, touching base with the staff on funeral arrangements, helping Janet organize the luncheon we’d decided to hold at the Bates mansion, and fielding a gazillion phone calls from parents and board members. After my third conversation with Long, I dialed my mother’s number.

“Are you serious?” she exclaimed after I told her about Arthur. “He just dropped dead? Onstage? In front of the entire cast?”

“I’m very serious.”

There was a long silence. Then: “It could be worse. It could have happened opening night.”

“That’s the silver lining?”

“You said yourself he was a thousand years old!”

“I know, but—”

“How are you handling it?”

When I told her about the funeral and my dreadful “be there or else” ultimatum, she sighed.

“I know. I screwed up.”

“You were upset. And that…whatever his name is…Lurch. He’s an idiot.”

“Please tell me I’m going to live through this.”

“Of course you will. You’re a survivor.”

“Yeah. And tomorrow night, I’ll find out if I’m going to be voted off the tribe.”

“Don’t be silly. Who could they find to replace you? Especially for that pittance they call a salary. When this season is over, Maggie, you put your foot down. Hard. Preferably on Long’s neck. Chris will represent you at the trial.”

“When are you going to stop shacking up with that nice man and accept his offer to make you a respectable married woman?”

“When you stop referring to an adult relationship as ‘shacking up.’ Now go to your funeral. And call me afterward and let me know how it went.”

Janet and I waited at the theatre until 10:45. When no one showed up, we got into my car and drove in silence to Doreen’s house.

It turned out to be a rambling country cottage that looked like it had last been painted during the Nixon administration. But there were about a dozen cars out front. At least, some of the cast had shown up.

Janet and I hurried to the backyard where the service would be held. As we rounded the corner of the house, I stopped short.

Dozens of people milled about on the lawn. Sixty…seventy…too many to count. Children and adults, board and staff, cast members and strangers.

I gratefully accepted the tissue Janet brandished and followed her through the maze of dog poop that littered the patchy grass. A chorus of howls, yips, and barks accompanied us, along with the occasional clang of metal as a dog hurled itself against the wire mesh of its run.

“Maybe they don’t like strangers,” I said, nervously assessing the sturdiness of the mesh.

“Maybe she’s breeding a pack of Cujos.”

Reminded of the pet cemetery, I scanned the lawn. Failing to find any gravestones, I concluded her other animals must be buried somewhere in the field behind the house.

The focal point of the gathering was a rickety, octagonal gazebo that was decidedly off-kilter. A good gust of
wind would knock it down. Which might not be a bad thing since Long was standing inside it.

I wormed my way through the crowd, but stopped a few feet from the Leaning Tower of Zebo. “I thought we agreed that Reinhard would lead the service.”

Frowning at a hole in the roof, Long said, “I’m just going to make a few introductory remarks.”

I resisted the urge to tell him to keep it short, nodded to Bernie, Frannie, and Bea who were representing the board, and made my way toward the staff.

“Shouldn’t you be standing with the board?” I asked Janet.

“No. I want to be able to yawn inconspicuously if Long gets windy.”

The faces of some of the professional actors were as sullen as the sky, but they were all there. So were the Mackenzies, of course, and most of the commuters, looking harried but dutiful. Plus a few parents who had obviously ferried carloads of kids. Only the men on my staff were missing.

“Where are the guys?” I whispered.

“Pallbearers,” Janet whispered back.

“Pallbearers?”

“Well, SOMEONE has to carry the coffin!” As always, Mei-Yin’s whisper was loud enough to make heads swivel in our direction.

Long waved his hands and called, “May I have everyone’s attention?” A wave of shushing ensued until the crowd fell silent.

“For those of you whom I have not met, my name is Longford Martindale, president of the board of directors of the Crossroads Theatre. I just wanted to thank you for coming this morning. Especially the actors. I know how hard you’ve all been working and to sacrifice even an hour of free time shows how deeply you cared about Arthur and how much you wanted to support Doreen. I have been impressed by your performances in rehearsals, but today, I am moved by your compassion and generosity of spirit.”

Several actors preened—naturally, those who’d been conspicuously short on compassion and generosity last night. I had to hand it to Long; he might be a pain in the ass, but he had struck just the right tone—something I’d completely failed to do during my address.

A loud, nasal wheeze interrupted my thoughts. I spun around to discover Mr. Hamilton in full Scottish regalia. With measured tread, the treasurer of my board and owner of Dale’s General Store advanced toward the gazebo, bagpipes blaring “Loch Lomond.”

Reinhard carefully descended the three rickety porch steps and extended his hand to Doreen. The rest of the staff followed, Lee and Hal supporting one side of the small coffin, Alex and Javier the other. Like Reinhard, they were wearing suits—with white carnations in their buttonholes.

The little procession marched toward us. Reinhard escorted Doreen to a folding chair. Mr. Hamilton walked slowly around the gazebo while Reinhard took his place inside. The pallbearers laid the coffin at his feet and broke into pairs on either side of the gazebo. Long produced a floral wreath from somewhere and laid it atop the coffin, then stepped back to join the other board members.

Catherine must have labored all night on the coffin. Instead of the simple pine box I’d expected, she had stained the wood a soft honey color and varnished it to a high sheen. Two sets of shiny brass handles adorned the sides. Between the handles, Hal had painted a line of dark, multi-petaled flowers. Poppies, perhaps.

No, not poppies, I realized as I peered more closely. Paw prints. And the stain that I had initially thought of as honey-colored was—of course—sandy.

I swallowed hard to dislodge the giant lump in my throat. Glancing around, I noticed cast members fumbling in pockets and purses for tissues.

I had hesitated before asking Reinhard to deliver the eulogy, knowing it would conjure memories of Helen’s
memorial service. But even Janet agreed that someone on the staff should speak, and since I was a basket case, Reinhard was the logical choice.

His eulogy combined gentle warmth with humor as he described Arthur’s adoption from the shelter, his performances in other shows, and the companionship he had offered Doreen for so many years. At his invitation, a succession of people stepped forward to share their memories. I stopped sniffling long enough to talk about his unfailing patience and even temperament. A neighbor described how Arthur used to give piggyback rides to her kids. Tori—who played little Molly—won smiles by saying, “He never minded when I painted his toenails purple. And he didn’t smell all doggy.”

After the final tribute, Doreen rose and stammered something about how grateful she was. Then she lowered her head onto Reinhard’s shoulder and began to cry. Long stepped forward and awkwardly patted her back. The mourners cast uncertain glances at each other, clearly wondering what was supposed to happen next.

From somewhere off to my right, a thin voice began singing “Tomorrow.”

People craned their necks, trying to identify the singer. I didn’t need to. I recognized Amanda’s voice—quavering with emotion, but louder than I’d ever heard her sing onstage.

I promptly burst into tears.

I’d never been an
Annie
fanatic like so many little girls. But after my father left, “Tomorrow” came to epitomize everything I hated about the show: the too-easy sentiment, the happiest of happy endings, the cheeriest of cheery orphans who overcame every obstacle with a smile and a song. What I hated, of course, was the way everything worked out so neatly onstage when our lives were falling apart.

For weeks, I’d been pushing Chelsea to discover the heart behind those sappy lyrics, the shadows as well as the sunshine. Amanda had gotten it from our very first
rehearsal. An old soul, that one. But only now did she capture that perfect blend of hope and longing and doubt—the same emotions Rowan had pushed me to discover when I sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

I’d seen my younger self in Chelsea without suspecting that she might have been resisting the message of her song just as I had resisted the truths of mine. How could I have been so damn blind?