Little Did I Know: A Novel (30 page)

The last thing I wanted to fix was a scene with Zach Rush and Mary Holly, who played the young lovers in the show. They sang a beautiful Porter ballad in act 2, and they had been terrific around the piano and in rehearsal. Yet the greed for a laugh had gotten to them as well; they’d sung it on opening night without any sense of stakes, as if their love affair mattered not at all. They’d mugged for the cheap laugh, and no one cared because their characters didn’t.

I gave the note. Elliot ran the song. They played it correctly, and all was good. Reason had returned.

“Notes after lunch,” Jojo announced. “We’ll meet on the deck in forty-five minutes. Kasen has tech notes to fix and needs the stage. After notes we start rehearsing
Funny Girl.”

For the moment we were done.

I
studiously avoided Marc Seconds during break. I knew when we let him into our inner sanctum he’d get to see it all,” both the good and the bad. This morning he had seen a bit of both. Now I wondered what spin he’d put on what he had learned. Was he a decent guy or a prick?

Distraction would be a good remedy, so I hoped he’d find his way to a seat next to Carol Duteau and we’d all have a better face on for his article after some fresh air and sandwiches. Marc was smart and smooth; within minutes he was talking up Carol who seemed a bit flustered by all the attention. They weren’t talking sports.

I raced to my room and changed into a swimsuit. It was a dry summer day, nearly 90 degrees. The sun lit the brilliant sky, which reflected off the ocean creating an enormous canvas of perfect endless sapphire. Practically sprinting toward the sea, I dove in and swam. I pulled through the water for minutes before taking a breath. The moment was bracing and cleansing. I was eager to get back to work and push beyond the mounting misery of the early morning.

As I headed back to the compound, Veronica was waiting with a lush terry-cloth towel and asked that I sit with her and take a breath. We sat close on the sand. She wore a lilac sundress and her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wore no makeup. Her eyes matched the sea, and her skin was smooth and silky like rich Egyptian cotton.

“You okay, baby?” she asked. “Tough day so far. Silly, really.”

I stared into the horizon and ran my fingers against her thigh, an elixir for anxiety. “That guy from the paper seems decent.” I said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to do my job and give my notes and make our show better.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What if the stuff from this morning doesn’t go away?”

“Since when did Iago join the company? Sometimes I think we just have to play the game by instinct. I’m going to kiss you because I like to and then I’ll see where the day leads.”

After we kissed, Veronica told me that I had five phone messages from this morning.

“The building inspector is coming by at nine a.m. Sidney is coming by for
support
. The fabulous Golden family is also stopping by tomorrow for a chat. A Mr. Colon called. And best of all, the police called.”

“Any of that sound good to you?”

“Not one bit,” she answered with a smile.

I was compelled to kiss her again.

“Sidney could be good.” I said.

“Sidney is always good. It’s just what accompanies his visits that sort of feels like someone is peeing in the punchbowl.”

“Can’t argue with that. What did the police have to say?”

“Ellie Foster was involved in a situation at the Moondog last night and Police Chief Warren wants you to drop by to discuss it before the end of the day.”

I stood up, took her hand and pulled her to my side. We walked back to the theater with our arms around each other’s waists, and she asked, “You hungry? Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

“No thanks. Too distracted. Preoccupied.”

“You wanna eat me?”

“If the offer holds till after rehearsal, I’m in.”

“Deal.”

Just as we left the beach, a seagull swooshed down and picked up a sand crab and swallowed it whole before it even began its ascent. I wondered who was having a worse morning; the crab or me.

T
he cast and crew wandered onto the deck on time but lacking any urgency or verve. Some were still finishing their lunches and others who had been to Garden’s were nursing the last of an ice cream treat. I had told Veronica that we’d have to see what developed, but I was already formulating an approach.

Jojo called the rehearsal to order. I sat at the top of the steps that led to the balcony and spoke down to the company who sat randomly on the stairs and cross-legged on the deck. I enjoyed giving notes. I liked the back and forth of an idea and the commitment to making something work or setting it so it could mature. I complimented actors or dancers on little things, so they were rewarded for working on subtlety and acknowledged for their efforts. And if I was not sure why something was missing, I engaged the actors and my creative team to find a solution. Very rarely, if ever, was there an underlying tone of uncertainty, so of course I was unsettled that it existed today.

We were in uncharted territory, with no history of having worked through such vicissitudes in the past. The press was present, and members of the company—again for reasons unknown to me—wore chips on their shoulders. Clearly the next ten minutes would shine a light on or crush this brewing discontent. I spoke for several minutes. I tweaked certain beats, refreshed and rethought some small blocking, and ran line sequences in different tempos and cadences.

“Secunda, the stateroom scene. Every entrance has to be exactly the same, physically and in delivery. It’s funnier in threes.”

He nodded his assent.

“Mary, on ‘All Through the Night,’ don’t sing it to Billy, sing out to the house. It’s confusing if you sing to him. I mean, he’s in jail and you’re not.”

She scribbled the note into a little journal.

“Kat, you’re starting ‘Kick’ too blue. You’re playing a chanteuse, not Billie Holliday. Lighten up the beginning and it will make the finish stronger.”

“Got it, boss,” she said spiritedly.

“ASK, you are killing the laugh on the ‘hot pants’ line. Let the laugh happen and
then
do the take.”

“Shit, I thought I had that right,” he replied.

I gave dozens more notes, and the energy was good. I asked Elliot to give music notes and had Ellie give hers to the dancers. I discussed a quick change with Jojo that had been bungled, and we worked out a different approach so we wouldn’t have to go to black. I was feeling that we were back on track.

Feelings lie.

I returned to the two scenes we had rehearsed earlier in the day. The problematic one with Feston, and the keystone cop visual that had played so poorly.

It all went up in an instant. Feston was aggressive and said, “What I’m doing is funny and it should stay. I have to be comfortable, and you’re asking me to do something that doesn’t feel right. It’s your job as the director to make us feel good about what we are doing and be at ease.” With the other scene I also got attitude and similar bullshit from the ensemble members about their comfort zone and their belief in that what they had chosen to play.

I sat and listened. My heart beat faster, but I didn’t reveal what I was thinking; I let the whole thing settle. I gave all in attendance the chance to add a final thought or retract the foolishness that had just been proffered. I looked to Secunda, Elliot, Ellie, and Jojo, and gave them time to chime in with anything useful. I was stunned and I was furious.

We could all hear the chatter from inside the house where Kasen was working with the crew on fixing some tech problems. The box office phone at least once a minute, and we could hear orders being taken, although the words were garbled and we didn’t know what nights or the number of tickets ordered. Louis and the band were rehearsing outside on the deck behind the red house, their music clear and cheerful. Marc Seconds looked only at his yellow pad, making eye contact with no one.

After another few moments of the unsaid hanging in the air, I began to speak. I was measured at first, but soon found myself snowballing and throwing a few haymakers. First to Feston. “It’s not my job to make you comfortable. You want that, then go to a resort and have them spritz you in the face when it’s hot and bring you an iced cocktail to put you at ease. What you’re doing is not funny. It’s bad, and that is no longer up for discussion. You know what some people think is funny?”

He offered no rely.

“How about dropping your pants and showing your ass? You think that might get a laugh? How about a big fucking loud fart? That might get a titter or make you look like a gross lowlife. You have two choices right now and I’m giving you
one fucking second
to tell me what you want to do. You choose to do what I tell you to do, and you do it with grace and manners, or you get the fuck out of here, and out of kindness I’ll give you the bus fare home.

“Now as to the rest of you who seem to want to reinvent the food chain of how notes get incorporated or directors are respected, I give you the same choice, but with less tolerance because you’re older than Ronnie and should be less stupid. Know that I respect all of you. I hired all of you and until this morning when someone put something in your coffee, I had only pleasure in working with you.

“You’re tired. So am I. You feel unappreciated. Tough shit. Go home. I’ll have fifty people from Boston in before you get packed to leave. You want to give the orders, then produce your own fucking show. You don’t like my notes or my direction, then go direct you own fucking show. You don’t like me, well read
The Fountainhead
. The marquee says ‘Sam August Presents’ over the title and then it names me as the director. I have the right to expect my name to represent my work, and what I think is good. Feston, you’re sixteen years old. Maybe that’s too young to do this. Maybe you should go write a book on how much more you know than me.”

I was humming now and surprised at the intensity of my vitriol. I was throwing body punches, not thinking of consequences.

“You know why you’re all here? Because Josh Secunda believed in this idea and put some skin in the game and I made a thousand phone calls. I found this place and with many of you, put it all into play,
and because you are all good, but you’re not good enough unless you actually show up and get your heads out of your asses
. All of a sudden you want to challenge my authority and me. Then go home right now. Those of you who stay, take the notes we worked on and put them in the show or I’ll send you home. No more discussion. We begin rehearsals for
Funny Girl
in ten minutes.”

I turned to Elliot. “Please begin with music and work with Ellie on the opening. I’ll be back in an hour, as I have an audience with the chief of police. Anyone want to give me notes on how to play that hand?”

There wasn’t a sound from the company. There were looks of incredulousness, disappointment, anger, and hurt, but not a sound. I wasn’t sure who knocked who down, but we’d see very shortly who had the character to get back up. As I walked to the car, I remembered that Lombardi had said they came back to loving you when you won. Was it really true? Time would quickly tell.

C
hief Warren was a round, affable fellow. He had a trimmed gray beard and was fifteen pounds too heavy. If his uniform were red, you might mistake him for a young Santa. Upon arrival, I was ushered into his conference room without delay. His staff was eager to please. There were sandwiches of either old meat or new cheese and soft drinks. The whole feel of the meeting was that of a social, so I breathed deeply and took a seat. I grabbed a Coke and downed it, and then a Sprite and did the same. Variety in your refreshment is always a good thing.

The chief asked an Officer Richardson to sit in with us as he had information about the situation. “Situation” is indeed an all-purpose word. Richardson was a looker. Straight out of central casting. His thick, jet-black hair was perfectly in place. He had bronze skin, light-blue eyes, and a perfect smile that was both warm and legit. His uniform fit like a tailored suit, and his demeanor was friendly and open, almost suggesting that we should all have a beer. He was also a fan of our two shows, praised the excitement of the parade, and was appreciative of the attention the theater in Plymouth had received since our arrival.

Warren, Richardson, and I sat with a court reporter who was unofficially taking notes.

The air conditioning was antiquated and the room was hot. Not Africa hot, but more than uncomfortable. There was a slight breeze from the open ocean-view windows and some air movement from a slowly turning ceiling fan. The AC simply made a grinding noise. I was glad I wasn’t a cop.

“Mr. August,” the chief began.

“Please call me Sam,” I said.

“Sam, we have a problem with one of the young women who work for you.” He checked his notes. “Ellie Foster,” he said matter-of-factly.

Before I could respond, there was knock on the conference room door. The court reporter excused herself and opened it to reveal an unexpected attendee. Veronica Chapman stood there, as businesslike as one could imagine. She had on a blue suit and white blouse. Her hair was in her classic ponytail and she wore navy-blue flats that matched the color of her outfit. She looked asexual, if that was possible for Veronica.