Spellcrossed (8 page)

Amanda’s voice cracked. Otis slipped in behind her. Resting his hands on her narrow shoulders, he began to sing. To my surprise, Debra joined in, her strong voice and Otis’ mellow one lending Amanda support.

A few of my orphans chimed in. And then some of the adults. In moments, the whole crowd was singing—professionals and Mackenzies, parents and children. Even Chelsea.

I’d spent weeks trying to create the tribal bond of community that had sustained me during my season at the Crossroads. In the end, a shy waif and an ancient dog had succeeded where I had failed.

Bless you both for bringing us together.

A
T 5:30 THE FOLLOWING EVENING, I perched on the stool before Helen’s dressing table while Hal put the finishing touches on my makeup.

“Stop fidgeting!” he commanded. “We’re at the critical stage.” Flourishing the 3-in-1 lip wand he had insisted I purchase, he bent over me again. “A little liner…a little color…a touch of gloss. Perfect!”

He swung me around to face the mirror. I looked like a perfectly made up zombie. Considering I’d survived Arthur’s funeral, the luncheon, two rehearsals with Fifi and the Annies, plus our final dress rehearsal, it was a miracle my head wasn’t spinning like Linda Blair’s in
The Exorcist
.

Little wonder Midsummer had passed unnoticed. No dance of the fireflies. No mysterious lights in the woods. No unexpected visits from the Fae.

I cursed the sudden burning in my eyes and blinked rapidly.

“What? Did you get mascara in your eye?”

“I’m just PMSing.”

Hal snatched a tissue from the box on the dressing table and watched anxiously as I blew my nose. “Tonight’s going to be wonderful. Now get into your dress. We’ve only got a few minutes before call.”

For the run of
Annie
, we had changed curtain time to
seven o’clock instead of our usual eight, hoping to bring in more families and ensure that our orphans got to bed at a decent hour. We’d also eschewed the traditional “opening of the season” cast party in favor of two small receptions so both teams of orphans could share the celebration. God knows, they needed one.

Hal ducked outside while I changed. He’d helped me pick out my dress, an apricot-colored halter that complimented my auburn hair. According to him, the flared skirt said flirty and fun. My catatonic expression suggested otherwise, but maybe people would listen to the dress instead.

“I’m dying, Egypt!”

I had to smile. Ever since we’d done
The Fantasticks
, Hal had used the phrase to cover a gamut of emotions from impatience to shock to despair.

“Prepare to be dazzled!” I called.

He froze in the doorway, hands clasped over his heart. “God, I have wonderful taste. Pivot. Yes! Flirty, fun, fabulous! If I were straight, I’d ravish you this instant.” He seized my hand. “Come on. We just have time to show Janet before I dash.”

I snatched up my purse and allowed him to drag me through the house. After calling Janet’s name for five minutes, we finally discovered her on the lower patio, staring out at the woods while she smoked a cigarette.

“Damn!” Hal exclaimed. “I have no time to revel in her reaction. As we speak, Clumsy Cow Kimberlee is probably putting her foot through her hem.” He took my hands, his expression solemn. “You’re beautiful. The show’s beautiful. And the audience is going to love it.” He hugged me quickly, careful to avoid tousling my carefully tousled hair. “See you down there!”

As I descended the steps to the patio, Janet turned.

“What do you think?” I asked, striking a pose.

“Very nice.” She took a long drag on her cigarette, her gaze drawn again to the woods.

“Anything wrong?”

“No.” She flicked the cigarette away and ground it out. “Just enjoying some peace and quiet.” Before I could question her further, she started up the steps to the house.

It
was
peaceful here. Summer flowers filled Helen’s garden with color: purple iris, orange poppies, blue delphiniums, multicolored spikes of foxgloves. Early evening sunlight turned the field gold and burnished the treetops to a glossy green that looked positively unreal—like the plastic flowers in Munchkinland.

Still, Janet’s manner seemed odd. I studied the woods, already bathed in gloom although sunset was two hours away.

“Are you coming?” Janet called.

Shaking off my disquiet, I hurried to join her.

After checking in with the staff to ensure that there had been no last-minute catastrophes, I hustled down to the Dungeon. Voices echoed in the empty corridor—the normal, excited dressing room chatter you’d hear before any opening, thank God.

A chorus of greetings welcomed me to the women’s dressing room. Orphans and principals lined three banks of tables cluttered with theatrical makeup, combs and brushes, wig stands and good luck totems. The long mirrors reflected multiple images of their painted faces, making the dressing room seem even more crowded. In order to accommodate the large cast, we’d had to turn Hal’s sewing room into a makeshift dressing room for the chorus women. Not the best solution—for Hal or for them—but the best we could do.

I told them all to break a leg and murmured a few words to each of the principals. After going through the same routine in the other dressing rooms, I hurried upstairs.

6:40. Right on schedule.

I pulled the bottle of champagne from the green room
fridge and wrestled the cork free. One of the few traditions I’d inaugurated at the Crossroads. Reinhard had disapproved, equating it with the bad luck that came from giving an actor flowers before a performance. I assured him we weren’t celebrating the success of the show, but the hard work that had gone into it.

One by one they filtered in: Reinhard, Javier, and Lee dressed in black; Alex in his tuxedo; the rest in summer stock casual. Hal wore a scarlet shirt in honor of Annie’s trademark dress.

As they picked up their plastic glasses, I said, “If I start listing all the ways you’ve helped me during these last few weeks, the curtain won’t go up until midnight. And besides, I’ll start crying and Janet will strangle me. So I’ll just say thank you. And I love you all.” I raised my glass. “To us! And the start of another season together.”

“To us!” they chorused.

We savored the moment for about three seconds. Then Alex took off for the Dungeon to warm up the cast and musicians, Lee headed up to the lighting booth, and the rest went to their seats in the house or their positions backstage.

To the accompaniment of muffled voices singing “Tomorrow,” I poured the last of the champagne into my glass and raised it again, this time to absent friends.

Rowan. Helen. Nancy. Mom. Nancy and Mom had called, of course. And I’d see them this weekend. Some of my old cast mates—Lou and Bobbie, Gary and Kalma, Caren and Brittany—had sent “break a leg” e-mails. But I still felt a little wistful and envied the shared excitement that was coursing through the cast.

The speaker on the wall crackled, ending my moment of self-pity. Reinhard’s disembodied voice announced, “This is your ten minute call. All cast members to the green room, please.”

I hastily cleared the empty glasses and champagne bottle. Took the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and set it on the table between the plate of orange slices
and the bowl of herb tea bags. Straightened the banner that read, “You’re Gonna Shine like the Top of the Chrysler Building.”

Footsteps thudded up the stairs as the cast converged on the green room. The backstage door eased open. Janet and Reinhard slipped inside. Reinhard gave me an encouraging nod. I took a deep breath and surveyed my cast.

“I want to thank you. For your hard work. For your professionalism. And for believing in me and in each other. These last few days haven’t been easy, but tonight, we’re going to give the audience a terrific show.”

My gaze swept across every face, just as Rowan’s had on opening night of
Brigadoon
. And, like Rowan, I asked everyone to take the hands of the people standing beside them and close their eyes.

My voice guided them, but it was Janet’s power and Reinhard’s that filled the green room. As many times as we had performed this ritual last season, I was still surprised by the exhilaration that filled me—as if I were the one who possessed faery magic.

My hands trembled as their energy flowed into me, Janet’s strong and commanding, Reinhard’s steady and calming. I urged the cast to let that energy move up through their arms, and as I spoke, the power rippled through mine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I summoned it into my legs, and a rush of sensation shivered down my thighs and calves. As it circled back to fill my belly and my lungs, my heart and my throat, I felt like a medium, filled by the spirits she channeled.

The energy raced around the circle, linking us as surely as our joined hands, building in intensity and excitement until I could not contain it a moment longer.

“Let it go!”

The power burst free to the accompaniment of muffled groans and sighs and a couple of squeaks from my orphans. None of them had known the giddy excitement Rowan conjured or felt that uniquely powerful current
zinging through every cell, raising them to a fever pitch before returning them safely to earth. And I would never experience it again.

But what we had was strong and satisfying. It was enough.

“You’re gonna shine like the top of the Chrysler building. Break a leg, everybody!”

Although I knew the show was sold out, I still shivered when I saw that packed house. I took the aisle seat that Rowan used to occupy. As usual, Janet sat beside me; I needed her calming presence on opening nights. Mei-Yin and Hal sat behind us with Catherine and Bernie.

As the lights faded to half and Reinhard’s recorded voice reminded the audience to silence their phones and refrain from flash photography, Janet handed me a copy of the program. I glanced at the piece of paper inserted into it by our volunteers—a brief paragraph I’d written honoring Arthur and announcing that the role of Sandy would be played by Fifi.

The house lights went out. A spot picked up an Armani-clad Long strolling onto the stage, white mane and teeth gleaming. His voice was particularly mellifluous as he introduced himself and welcomed the audience. As he rambled on about the theatre, the show, and the fund-raiser, I fidgeted impatiently. Finally, he flung out his arms and said, “And now, I give you Alex Ross and the overture to…
Annie
!”

“Good God,” Janet whispered. “It’s the Greatest Show on Earth.”

Alex briefly acknowledged the applause, then raised his hands to cue the musicians—and, apparently, my stomach, which fluttered in nervous anticipation.

A solo trumpet sounded the opening notes of “Tomorrow.” A trombone offered a soft counterpoint. They climbed slowly to the high note and held it for a breathless moment. Then the trumpet skittered down the scale,
the trombone slid up, and with a crash of snare drums, the band launched into the jaunty melody of “Hard Knock Life.”

I took a series of deep breaths to control the butterflies in my stomach, but by the time the triumphal restatement of “Tomorrow” neared its conclusion, the linguine I’d had for supper had tied itself into knots.

Alex’s hands sliced the air. The final sforzando chord was greeted by polite applause. Then the red velvet curtains swished open.

M
Y ORPHANS BARRELED THROUGH the opening dialogue, but the pace settled down as the initial burst of nerves calmed. I suppressed a sigh as Chelsea blared out “Maybe.” So much for getting in touch with Annie’s softer side. But the audience creamed over her voice, chuckled at Debra’s grumpiness, and cheered the orphans’ spirited rendition of “Hard Knock Life.” When Fifi made her entrance in Scene 2 and I heard that collective “Aww…” I knew we were going to be okay.

Suddenly, Fifi’s legs wobbled, and she lurched sideways.

“It could be worse. It could have happened opening night.”

Before I could do more than recall my mother’s words, Fifi regained her balance and began crawling on her belly toward Chelsea.