Chapel of Ease (35 page)

 

30

And so the opening night of
Chapel of Ease,
delayed but not forsaken, finally arrived.

Our last rehearsals went like a dream. Everyone loved the pictures of the chapel, and took it fairly well when I said I'd found nothing buried there. I suspect many of them thought Ray had made the whole thing up anyway, so it just confirmed their suspicions. You could feel the relief in the air afterwards, as if a great shroud had been lifted and bright sun now poured in on us.

“I knew it,” Mark said. “I knew it all along.”

*   *   *

One morning a couple of days after I got back, I went by Emily's building and stared up at her apartment window. I could see an
X
of yellow tape across it on the inside. The fall would've definitely done the job, and I suddenly realized I might be standing exactly where she landed. There were no blood splatters on the concrete beneath my feet, but I still moved aside just in case.

I wondered if Ray, in his capacity as a Tufa haint, had been waiting for her when she crossed over, or if her entirely human and mundane spirit had to make its own way into the light. I hoped that, whatever waited for her on the other side, it had eased the pain that drove her to jump.

And what would happen to all of Ray's work she had so diligently salvaged? Would her family even recognize it for what it was? Given all I'd learned about the Tufa, though, I couldn't help thinking that it was somehow protected, watched over perhaps by its own sub-haint that would alert Ray if it was about to be used in some way he wouldn't like.

There was a small impromptu shrine on the steps, with a picture of a smiling Emily surrounded by little folded notes from her friends. I put down the rose that I'd brought, and said aloud, “I'm sorry I couldn't do more, Em.”

When I turned, the dreadlocked spy stood on the sidewalk, a single white lily in her hand. She was frozen in her tracks, evidently not expecting to see me.

For just an instant, I remembered the dreadlocked courtesans of the king of the forest. But this girl was clearly from, and of, the city. I scowled at her. “And what are you doing here?”

“I was going to pay my respects,” she said in a small voice. “I'll leave if you want.”

“Did you know her?”

She shook her head. “Just that she was Ray Parrish's girlfriend.”

I wondered if she felt responsible, not just for Ray's death, but for Emily's as well. I wasn't about to ask her, though, because deep down, I really didn't want to know. I said, “Are you coming to the show?”

“Are you kidding? I can't afford that. Besides, the tickets are sold out for the whole run.”

“What's your name?”

“Jamie. Jamie Byford.”

“I'll leave a ticket for you at on-call for opening night. You deserve to see it as much as anybody.”

She looked like she might cry. “Are you serious?”

I smiled with irony she would never understand. “As serious as a ghost in church.”

*   *   *

Neil made some changes in the show to streamline things and clarify some plot points. He tried very hard to do this in the spirit of what Ray had written, and none of us felt the changes jarred too much. Only Stanley, who played the nameless ghost, put up a fight when his character received the name Arliss. I wondered how he'd take it if he knew the real name he'd avoided.

But, like everything else, I told the cast nothing. The chapel mystery, as far as they were concerned, was closed. The official press release would now say that the story was totally fictional. The ghosts of Byrda, Shad, and Dobber would be safe from prying eyes, as would their treasure.

I broke up with Joaquim right after I returned from Tennessee. It hadn't been terribly traumatic for either of us, which I suppose said something about the relationship right there. He wished me well, I did the same for him, and we went our separate ways.

So now I had no one in the audience who was there specifically for me on opening night. (I didn't count dreadlocked Jamie.) That made me a little sad, but not so much that it affected my mood. I'd spoken to C.C. just before I left for the theater, and he'd said just the right thing to make sure I was at my best for the show: “Whatever happens, wherever he is, Rayford will be proud of y'all.”

And “we all,” of course, were equally as proud of him and what he'd given us.

*   *   *

The bulletin board that formerly held our speculations about the mystery practically sagged with the weight of the rave reviews pinned to it. A major newspaper said, “The conservative word for
Chapel of Ease
might be ‘astounding,' or ‘amazing.' You can feel the mountains around you, and even though you know they're merely actors, the ghosts leave you with the chills that real spirits would.”

Someone had circled “merely actors” in red, and then added multiple exclamation points on top of it.

“I can't think of a way it could have been done better,” another newspaper critic wrote. “Every role is perfectly cast, and every song is magnificently sung.”

A blog printout said, “It moved me to tears, both from its heartbreaking modern story, and the ancient tragedy behind it.”

Many of the notices mentioned Ray's tragic demise. It was still a terrible thing, but if there was any bright side to it, it was that Ray's death made
Chapel of Ease
the hottest ticket in town.

A sharp pain shot up from my butt. I turned around to see Jason standing smugly behind me. “What was that for?” I snapped, rubbing the spot where he'd pinched me.

“I knew what you were thinking,” he said with an insufferable grin.

“Yeah? What's that?”

“‘Am I dreaming?' Now you know you're not.”

He was exactly right. We both laughed.

“Hey, you hyenas,” Ellie said. “Get your stuff on. You have a call in fifteen minutes.”

We adjourned to the dressing room. The men all shared one big area, which in the good old days would've housed the diva of the week and all her entourage. We each had our own makeup tables, and were responsible for our own looks. Luckily none of us had anything really complicated, certainly not me. Some basic Pan-Cake, eyeliner, and lipstick were all I needed to transform into Crawford. I did have to add a little extra to cover the scabs from those splinters.

There was an envelope on my dressing table. There was no address, just my name. The card inside had a black-and-white photograph of a barn on it. Across the roof, in huge letters, were the words,
SEE ROCK CITY
. I opened it and read the message:

You're a great Crawford. You make me wish the story didn't have to turn out the way it does. We should hand out cups to catch the audience's tears.
It was signed,
Love, Ray.

He must've written these up before he died. I tucked the card into the edge of the mirror, the way actors have done since time immemorial. I checked, and the other two actors had similar cards.

I found Neil standing backstage, peeking out at the audience. The crowd was fairly low-key. They'd seen the reviews, knew Ray's tragic story, and understood that there was a lot riding on this. This would be, in a sense, even more make-or-break than a usual opening night: many were no doubt here out of that misplaced communal sympathy that drove people into the streets after tragedies that didn't touch them at all. We had their goodwill for the moment, but only if we convinced them that the show at the heart of all this was solid and magical.

“Thanks for handing out Ray's cards,” I said to Neil.

“He wrote them up right before he passed away. I found them and knew he'd want you guys to have them, no matter what.”

“I appreciate it, and I'm sure everyone else does, too.”

“Look at 'em,” he said, nodding at the crowd. “None of them really cares about what they're about to see. Well, maybe a few.”

“That's kind of harsh, isn't it?”

He chuckled at his own sarcasm. “Ah, you're probably right. I've been at this so long, I forget sometimes, people's motives are really pure. And speaking of, whatever you did while you were gone, it worked. Your accent is great.”

“Thanks.”

“Glad you got that squared away before we hit Broadway.”

It took a moment for that to register. “Wait … what?”

He gave me a sly
gotcha
smile. “We're moving to the Longacre Theatre at the end of this run. You know, on West Forty-eighth?”

I looked around. No one stood near us. I asked softly, “Does anyone else know?”

“Not yet. I'll tell them tonight at the party. But you—” He put a hand on my shoulder. “—you went above and beyond, Matt. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. So I thought you should be the first to know. Oh—and we'll be recording the cast album in two weeks at the end of this run, so protect your voice.” He patted my cheek, then faded back into the wings. I heard him trip over something in the dark, then curse. It almost made me laugh.

An
original cast album.
Since I was a kid and first saw the term on old CDs, I'd wanted to be on an original cast album. And now that dream would come true, all thanks to Ray. I sure hoped he knew it, wherever he was.

The houselights dimmed, and conversation dropped off. The orchestra—well, the band—began the overture, and the energy from the rustic tunes soon had the audience clapping along, something I'd never encountered before. The applause as the music ended was not merely polite, either.

The rest of those in the opening act were now in position around me. I closed my eyes for a moment. “This is for you, Ray,” I said softly, then strode onstage as the curtain rose.

*   *   *

The show went great. I could describe it in more detail, but that's the important part. We had no flubs, no one forgot his or her lines, and everyone was
on.
We nailed the motherfucker.

We could feel that the audience was with us all the way, but it still didn't prepare us for the ovation they gave us. Everyone was on their feet, and stayed there. Eventually we all clapped along with them, delighted not only to be in the show, but also to be part of this moment.

If I thought the madness after the press preview was intense, it was nothing compared to this. I swear some people were still clapping as I took off my makeup and changed to street clothes. Ryan, our Shad, kept his character's distinctive hat on as he went outside to meet-and-greet, making sure everyone would recognize him. I hoped he kept track of it; if he lost it, Ellie the stage manager would have his soul for breakfast.

Cassandra, who played Jennifer, caught me as I came out. She tossed her hair, threw her arms around me, and kissed me. “I loved your last number!”

“And I didn't want to strangle you when you tossed your hair!” I said back, in the exact same tone. We both laughed like maniacs.

“Can you
believe
that?” she said, gesturing toward the stage.

“I know,” I said.

“We broke their fucking hearts, and they
loved
it!” Tears and sweat left tracks of eyeliner down her cheeks. “I've never been in a show like this.”

“Me, neither,” I assured her.

“They'll have to extend the run. They can't just close after two weeks! Can they?”

“I don't see how,” I agreed, keeping the news about the show's relocation to myself. I wondered how many of the actors would burst into tears when Neil told them. I was pretty sure
I
would.

I found a water bottle in the back of the green room's little fridge, drank it in one swallow and went out front to meet the fans. Unlike the preview, I knew very few of these. But they were just as excited, just as enthusiastic, just as seriously pumped up as that earlier audience. Many of them took selfies with me, and I shuddered at the thought of all those bad photos ending up online. I looked around for Jamie, but if she came, I didn't see her.

The best response came from a friend who was a musician in another Off-Broadway show that had just closed. He exclaimed, “That was amazing! You made me want to line dance with straight people!”

We were having the after-show party in a back room at Stack's, but I was pretty sure we'd end up taking over the entire bar, particularly their karaoke machine. I knew Julie and Mark would probably get falling-down drunk, as they tended to do when they celebrated; luckily we didn't have a matinee tomorrow.

Neil and one of our producers, Monty Madison, started urging people toward the theater's doors. “The party's not here, people. The booze is down the street.” Gradually the crowds of both audience and performers thinned out. I was about to follow, when I remembered I'd left my cell phone on my dressing table. I went back to retrieve it.

“Where are you going?” Ellie asked. She had a big ring of keys in her hand.

“To get my phone. I'll be right back.”

“I'm locking the doors, so be sure you've got everything when you leave, and make sure it closes behind you.”

“Will do.”

In the dressing room, which still reeked of our sweat and excitement, I found a text from C.C.:
How did it go?

I texted back,
Spectacular. Off to the cast party. I'll call you in the morning.

Glad to hear it,
he texted back, along with a picture of himself, shirtless, giving me a thumbs-up sign.

I got a rush of real happiness from that. He wasn't clinging, he wasn't demanding my time or trying to make this in any way about him. He was just there.

Someday soon, I'd have to get him
here.

I stopped as I was about to open the backstage door onto the alley, and strode alone onto the stage. I looked out at all the empty seats, remembering the packed faces that watched, laughed, clapped, and cheered. The air still seemed to vibrate with the show's energy, the way I knew it would for the next two weeks, and possibly longer.