Antiques Fruitcake (2 page)

He sighed. “There isn't exactly a number three. It's just that I
should,
as stage manager, be able to solve Paul and Martha's problems without bothering
you.
But Madeline won't listen to me!”

Mother smiled benevolently. “Not to worry, dears. I'll speak with our darling diva. May I assume she is in her dressing room?”

“You may,” Miguel said with a smirk. Then added, under his breath, “The witch.”

Or anyway something that rhymed with “witch.”

Mother clapped her hands. “All right, now, children! Back to work! Tarry not! We have a dress rehearsal to put on.”

And the trio left, but I wouldn't call it not tarrying.

“Well, good luck with your star talent,” I said. “Untalented little me is off to the prop room.”

Mother stopped me with a traffic cop's upraised palm. “No, dear, I want you to accompany me.”

“What for?”

“Moral support.”

“What kind of moral support?”

“The kind where you help me refrain from strangling that woman.”

We headed down the hallway to the dressing area, which was divided into two large rooms—one for the actresses, the other for actors, with private quarters for the two leads. We stopped at a door with a placard that should have read,
MADELINE DE MORLAYE,
but someone had switched the removable letters around so that it said,
MADELINE DE MORE LAY
.

Mother regarded this revision with a raised eyebrow. “Tasteless. Tactless. True.”

Then she knocked once.

“Go . . . ay . . .
way
!”

“Interesting line reading,” Mother said to me, and went in.

Madeline, in a white robe, was seated at her cosmetic table, her back to us. Stage makeup on, she wore a short black finger-waved wig.

“Oh, it's
you,
” Madeline said, addressing Mother's reflection in the mirror with open contempt. “I thought it was that horrible fat girl again. Always knocking, telling me how much time I have until curtain.”

How thoughtless of her.

While Mother walked deeper into the lioness's den, I remained in the doorway, out of range of flying brushes and cosmetic bottles.

“Dear,” Mother began, “I hear you're unhappy with the lighting.”

The actress whirled around in her chair. “And for good reason! I happened to see some camera footage one of the minor cast members took from the audience, and that ghastly lighting makes me look ten years older!”

Older than what? To validate her claim, one would have to establish what her
real
age was.

“Madeline,” Mother said, her voice more soothing and low-key than she ever used in talking to me, “surely a trained professional, like yourself, is aware that any concerns you may have had with the lighting scheme should have been addressed at tech rehearsal. We're past the point of no return on that front.”

Madeline opened wide her red-painted mouth to object, but Mother raised a conciliatory finger. “
But . . .
perhaps Paul can make a few adjustments. I'll advise the use of flattering filters. Will that be all right?”

“I suppose,” the actress replied sourly.

“Now,” Mother continued, pulling up a chair, getting chummy, “regarding your costume in Act One, which you deem to be drab. This is the Depression, dear, and the factory is failing. The real Hattie Ann wore the uniform as a show of solidarity with her workers. Knowing your dedication to realism, I can't imagine you'd wear anything else.”

Again, Madeline began to protest, again, Mother brought forth the finger.

“But,”
Mother went on, “perhaps Martha has time before opening night to make some figure-flattering alterations. Remember, dear, Marilyn Monroe looked stunning in a potato sack!”

Madeline sighed, weight of the world. “Fine, fine,
fine . . .
I'll wear the dismal thing.”

“Very good, dear. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes,” Madeline snapped. “You can find out who put a
dead rat
in my dressing room!”

A dead rat? Put in her dressing room? Why didn't I think of that!

Madeline was saying, “Such a sick, cruel joke to play!”

Mother frowned but her eyes were wide. “Where is it?”

“Well, it's not here
now
! I had that clod of a janitor remove it.”

She meant Leroy, the maintenance man.

Since Mother didn't seem to have a placating answer for her in the dead-rat department, I said, “I doubt anybody put a dead rat in here, Miss de Morlaye.”

Madeline glanced at me as if noticing my presence for the first time; maybe she was. “Oh?”

I nodded. “Leroy says there's been a recent infestation at the Playhouse. I guess they're coming in from the cornfields to get warm.”

“Well,” Madeline huffed, “it had better not happen again.”

Mother's smile was strained. “Yes, of course. I'll see that it doesn't.”

I said, helpfully, “Leroy says he's put traps out.”

Madeline turned back to her mirror. We were dismissed without a good-bye. Not that I cared.

And we left, closing the door.

In the hall, Mother whispered, “Actors! They're such
children.
”

She was telling me? I had witnessed plenty of Mother's own theatrical tirades; but in her defense, she was better on her worst day than Madeline on her best.

I said, “
Now
can I go to the prop room? Unless you have other battles to fight that require my moral support.”

“Not at the moment, dear. I'll let you know. But thank you.”

She gave me a corny half bow, and we separated.

How I loved the prop room! Where else could you find a shrunken head, a Roman helmet, a gorilla suit, fake snowballs, or a gun that fired flowers, all under one roof? And where else in a busy theater, bustling with the needs of a soon-to-be-presented production, could you hide away and maybe even take a nap?

Not that I was doing much napping on the job. I was in charge of hand props, which is to say any item (not part of a costume) that an actor needs when making his or her entrance.

Like the two fruitcakes.

One cake (used in the factory scene, where Hattie Ann taste-tests her product) I placed on a serving plate; the other one (presented to President Roosevelt at the train depot) I wrapped in a white linen cloth. Then I gathered the few other necessary props, put everything in a box, and left. No napping tonight.

On my way back to the stage area, I passed Madeline's dressing room, where Clara, the assistant stage manager, was about to knock on the door.

Clara was a high-school student earning extra credit for her drama class; quiet, pleasant, she mostly swept up and fetched things, and called curtain time for the actors.

“Fifteen minutes, Miss de Morlaye,” the pudgy, plain girl called out.

To which, Madeline yelled, “I've got a
clock,
you imbecile!”

The first time Madeline abused her verbally, I thought Clara might cry. She'd told me during backstage downtime how much she admired the actress.

This time, the girl didn't flinch.

Just the same, I said, “She's been a witch to everybody tonight. I know Mother's talked to her about it. Sorry it didn't do any good.”

“Oh, it did some good.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded and smiled. “She used to call me a ‘
fat
imbecile.' ” Then she started off, looking over her shoulder. “If you see Miguel, would you tell him I'm helping Martha in wardrobe?”

“Sure.”

Backstage, I found Sushi with Kimberly, Madeline's understudy, who also had a small part in the first act as a factory cook; she was very talented, and if Madeline walked off in a snit, Kimberly would be ready to step into the role.

Pretty, in her midtwenties, with long blond hair the color of corn tassels, Kimberly perched on a stool inside the wings, stage right. She made the drab factory costume look just fine. On her lap was a very contented Sushi, who practically purred as Kimberly stroked her fur.

I couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy.

Oh, sure, I knew Soosh loved me, and I was her master, but like all canines, the fickle little mutt's affections could be bought with a single doggie treat.

“Hi, Brandy,” Kimberly said with a smile, then looked down at Sushi. “Such an angel.”

Such a devil.

I placed my box on a nearby table used for props, then laid them out in the order in which they were needed. My duties completed, I took another stool next to Kimberly, and Sushi jumped over to me, perhaps sensing my jealousy, or remembering who filled her dog dish daily.

“Our star's really on the rampage tonight,” I said.

“So I hear,” Kimberly replied, shaking her head. “Miguel said she was causing trouble with Paul and Martha.”

Miguel and the pretty understudy had become an item. Mother once asked me why I preferred to remain backstage and not watch from out front, and I told her that's where the
real
drama is.

Kimberly and I sat quietly after that, the hustle and bustle right before curtain making it tough to converse any further, including the orchestra in the pit beginning to tune.

Even though Mother's play was not a musical per se, she had insisted on five-piece accompaniment—piano, trumpet, clarinet, sax and drum—that would perform Depression music during the overture, scene transitions, intermission, and finale. They did well by “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” “Pennies from Heaven,” and “Stormy Weather,” along with more upbeat numbers like “Happy Days Are Here Again” and “We're in the Money.”

Sushi, hearing the musical instruments, jumped down from my lap and trotted off through the wing and down the small flight of stairs from the stage to the auditorium, where she would watch from her usual place—row five, middle section, seat ten—perched on a pillow provided by Mother.

Having attended every rehearsal, Sushi had become so familiar with the play she seemed to know every actor's entrance and exit. One time, when the actor playing the mayor missed his cue because he was outside the stage door having a smoke, Sushi barked, as if to say, “Hey, where the hell
are
you, bud?”

Tonight I wanted to see the play as the audience would, and after Madeline appeared for her stage-right entrance, I abandoned my stool and went out into the auditorium, settling into a seat toward the back, for a better perspective.

Except for Mother, myself, and Sushi, the only other person in the audience was Martha, on hand in case Madeline threw another s–-t fit about her costume.

The overhead lights dimmed, the orchestra began the overture, and it was magic time!

 

 

ACT ONE, SCENE ONE:

 

(
As the final notes from the orchestra fade away, the curtain rises slowly on a dreary factory room, where a conveyor belt carries fruitcakes along, a half-dozen male factory workers in gray overalls guiding their progress, this one applying candied cherries, that one nuts, another powered-sugar, etc.)

 

(
Aside from Brandy:
Originally, I ran the conveyor belt, but kept making it go so fast that fruitcakes fell off, like in that
I Love Lucy
episode . . . so Leroy took over.)

 

Hattie Anne Babcock/Madeline
: (enters stage right, pauses for audience applause before addressing the workers)

 

Everyone, please gather around! I have an important announcement to make.

 

(The workers leave their posts and form a semicircle around Hattie.)

 

Hattie
: (shakes head, sighs)

 

I hate to tell you this, my loyal workers, my friends . . . but I'm afraid I'm going to have to close the factory.

 

(Groans and murmurs from the workers.)

 

Hattie
: (frustrated)

 

Due to the depression, the cost of candied fruits and nuts has gone sky-high. And Prohibition has effectively put an end to adding rum to our cakes. I can see no other option than shutting down production.

 

(more groans and murmurs)

 

One male worker
: (stepping forward)

 

Ma'am, why can't we get certain ingredients from the black market? I know a fellow who—

 

Hattie
: (emphatically)

 

No! Absolutely not. I won't do business with speakeasy ruffians! That's not the American way!

 

Female cook/Kimberly
: (offstage)

 

Oh, Mrs. Babcock! Mrs. Babcock!

 

(Hattie turns toward voice.)

 

Female cooker
: (entering; holding plate with fruitcake)

 

Mrs. Babcock, do you remember the original factory recipe? Before we jazzed it up, I mean?

 

Hattie
: (a bit cross)

 

Yes, of course I do. It was a simple recipe, but delicious and had integrity. What does that have to do with our predicament?

 

Female cooker
: (with excitement)

 

Well, why don't we go back to producing
that
fruitcake?

 

(hopeful murmurs from the workers)

 

 

Suddenly Madeline broke character, walked downstage to the orchestra pit, peered out into the darkness, located Mother, and shouted, “I've raised this with you before, Vivian, and nothing was done about it! Is this scene about
me,
or the stupid
cook
?”

My mouth dropped open. Never had I witnessed an actor interrupt a final run-through at the Playhouse. It was a theatrical no-no anywhere.