The Home For Wayward Ladies (36 page)

It doesn’t matter what I do. It’s the last rehearsal. Whatever’s wrong with the production is too late to fix now. Actors are simple creatures. You can’t overwhelm their “process” by making changes so late in the game. This close to opening, the only notes they’re willing to receive could be given via sticker— the kind you’d expect to see on a spelling test when you’re in the fourth grade:  “Good Job!” and “Nice Try!” and the rest of that shit. It’s better that I don’t take notes at all. After four weeks of rehearsal, all that’s left for me to do is enjoy. With Hunter standing next to me behind the theater’s back row, that’s just what I intend to do.

“Well, doll-face,” I say, “this is it.”

“There’s no need to sounds so finite,” he replies. “This is merely the beginning.”

Mandy calls the house to half and the actors take their places for the opening tableau. If I hadn’t blocked the show myself, I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Carolyn and Robin’s silhouettes. Both appear to be a few months along around the middle, only Carolyn’s height helps her to wear it well.

The lights come up to full in a gradual thirty-count. When the actor’s faces are visible, they seem to be at ease. Naturally, I’m biased because I came up with the design, but their costumes are adorable. The opening song is called “Mountain Greenery”, so I have them done up as lumberjacks- plaids, boots, jeans, fake beards- the whole nine yards. The intent of my concept is that they embody the world of the Poconos. Then, as they strip down to tuxedos and the tree drop clears, the audience is transported with them to the sophisticated world of Rodgers and Hart. 

Vicki can’t be bothered to wait until the quick change to lose her shirt. The flannel she’s barely wearing is buttoned down to her navel. Her suspenders push her cleavage to her chin. As she steps forward, her nipples protrude into the second row. Needless to say, she’s got her husband’s full attention. Teddy leans forward in his chair as his beloved bird begins to chirp the show’s first solo.

She sings, “
On the first of May, this is moving day. Spring is here so blow your job, throw your job away. Now’s your time to trust to your wanderlust. In the city’s dust you wait. Must you wait? Just you wait
.” She sounds decent, which is better than usual- a little Betty Boop-ish, perhaps, but she gets by.

The chorus comes in and I hear Robin singing Nick’s vocal line. He’s come a long way since we’ve started but he’s still not quite there. The Vallenzino boys, however, are not graduates from a conservatory such as myself, so they remain cheerfully none-the-wiser. I can hear their toes start tapping from where we stand. Not to jinx it, but it might not be such a bad day after all. 

For a chuckle at the end of the song, I threw in a sight gag where Mandy runs across the stage dressed as a bear. She appears and all the rugged lumberjacks who are playing the song like they need a vacation run screaming into the wings. Teddy and Frank’s laughter lasts long enough for the ensemble to change into their finery. The timing works brill. When the actors are ready, Mandy flies out the trees and our mock skyline is revealed. Under the lights, even the scenery doesn’t look half bad. Our tin foil skyscraper picks up hints of pink and blue. It makes me momentarily forget myself, just as theater was invented to do. Maybe all this time away has caused me to remember it incorrectly, but the city looks inviting. I’m left reeling from the sight of it. I’m ready to go home.

42

HUNTER

No matter how many opening nights I’ve experienced as a denizen of the theater, they still have the power to fill me with a wondrous sense of dread. The uncertainty of how my work shall be received is no more comforting than a lion to a lamb. I’m left second-guessing everything: will Vicki’s toothpick legs carry her through the pas de deux? Is Nick’s marijuana-addled brain capable of retaining all he’s had to learn in such a short period of time? I’ll never understand why this insidious career had to choose me.

I’ve already forced so many smiles in the hours after the final rehearsal that my cheeks are frozen rosy. As far as my face is concerned, I spent the morning singing Christmas carols to the elderly and infirm. The creases of my laugh lines cut deep. At twenty-three years of age, they’ve begun to resemble a parade route— calliope not included.

This particular parade has led me from my bed to Robin’s breakfast table. Thankfully, we Ladies have called a truce. Our white flags are nestled in our laps, made of delicate linen that will be marred as we dot maple syrup from the corners of our similarly syrupy smiles. The innocuous chatter is a sure sign that we’ve stopped fighting. At least for now. As it is said in John Chapter 8: Verse 32, “
Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
” While the truth has not set us free, per se, it is a welcomed relief. None of us will truly know freedom until our imaginary contracts with the Vallenzinos expire.

But for thirteen more excruciating hours, my obligation endures. While Mandy’s master schedule lays claim to an intended day of rest, Eli will not let it be so. The final run through yesterday went very well. At least it went well enough in my opinion that he could afford to let our beleaguered soldiers enjoy a modest reprieve. But, naturally, as circumstance keeps proving, nothing can change in the blink of an eye. Therefore, the great dictator is insisting on a work call at 4PM. I suppose I understand his intentions. Unsupervised, our band of misfits would find themselves lured into the world of black magic, replete with ritualistic child sacrifice.  

After all the Ladies truths be told, I’ve come to appreciate that time apart is as valuable as time together. Robin’s sprawling gardens makes for as ideal a spot as any. I fetch a pair of dirt-laden gloves from the workmen’s shed and aimlessly wander the paths that lead away from the estate. Even with gravel crunching beneath my feet, the quiet that greets me is deafening.

I am amazed by the innumerable species of rose that this soil can grow. Individually, they are spectacular- Amber Flush with its orange/yellow petals that turn pink at the tips like the colors of the setting sun, the Cabbage Rose whose drooping bulk reminds me of a peony as its mass overwhelms its stem, the Altissimo, which would hardly look like a rose at all were it not painted the shade of freshly drawn blood. Each specimen consists of the same proponents- petals, stems, and thorns- and yet they are nothing alike. But for as unique as they are, were they to stand alone, they would not deliver nearly the same impact of scent or majesty. It’s their symbiosis that makes them awe-inspiring. 

That same symbiosis is what helps Eli’s rehearsal run like a Kenyan with no shoes. If nothing else, people in the theater know how to commiserate. This unnecessary work call gives everyone a reason to get along. Even Vicki and Robin politely manage to stay out of each other’s way. As the local critic rapidly approaches, we all do our best as we vie to be blue ribbon.

After we successfully run through all of the transitions (“Tops & Tails” as it’s called in the biz), Mandy dismisses us for dinner. The members of the cast brought pot luck but the smell of sauerkraut reminds me of battery acid. Instead, the notion of helping Eli polish off his stalwart pack of smokes is far more appetizing. Frankly, cigarettes used to repulse me. As of late, however, I’ve come to take comfort in the smell. Eli shields the lighter’s flame as I feel its heat illuminate my face. I pretend not to choke as I suck in. When I get the hang of it, I feel like Bob Fosse or Michael Bennett or any the other choreographers who happened to die for my sins. Although the habit is less glamorous than it was back in the Golden Age, I will always find poetry in a cigarette’s conversion to ash.

“Mandy gave me our tickets for tonight,” Eli says. “We’re sitting next to each other. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” I reply.

“I don’t mind at all,” he says. “I have to admit— where we are now feels a shit ton better than from whence we came. Despite the sturm and drang, there’s still nowhere I’d rather be than next to you.”

It’s not long after the sky crackles before it opens in a deluge. I delight in how it feels like butterflies are dancing on my skin. We stay under the sloped awning for as long as we are able. And then the wind picks up. The rain starts to blow sideways. The force of nature has finally got us beat. Reluctantly, we head inside to seek shelter from the storm.

Wiping the droplets from his eyeglasses on the shirtfront of his button-down, Eli says, “Let’s check out the scene in Robin and Nick’s dressing room. Maybe we can steal a drink. Those vagabonds haven’t made a fucking peep and I want to make sure they’re saving some of that liquor for the after party.” 

I follow him backstage past Mandy who is giving her presets a once-over. Her checklist governs her body and soul. I marvel at how fruitful hysteria can be when it’s so well maintained. Nothing here is out of order. As a longtime sufferer from OCD, I especially can admire that her organizational skills are beyond the pale (and in the particular case of Mandy’s complexion, they’re so pale they’re nearly transparent).

Her blinding white skin does our eyes no favors as we enter the darkened hallway past the wings. On opening night, I expect nothing less than jubilation. Therefore, it comes as a surprise to see that time is standing still. Eli pulls the curtained partition aside before he takes the Lord’s name in vain. “Jesus Christ, not again. Look, Hunter- all the fucking lights are out.”

I peer over his shoulder and see that he speaks true. Almost. “They’re not out,” I say. “They’re off. Look at the light switch.” I see the flickering of flame coming from under Nicholas and Robin’s door.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if those animals tied Carolyn to a chair so they could reenact scenes from
Rosemary’s Baby
. Let’s get in there before they give her the gift of a mysterious amulet filled with Tanis Root.” Eli approaches the door and discreetly taps with his knuckle.

Robin is quick to respond. “Who is it?” he asks. His voice is undeniably no-nonsense, like when he tries to wake us in the morning. It pings with the precision of a bugle call.

“Who the fuck do you think it is? It’s Hunter and Eli. Why is this door locked?”

“Hey, Ladies,” Nicholas replies, opening the door but a crack, “get in here quick before you let out the good juju.”


As if the rooms inhabitants weren’t enough to send this building up in flames, there are candles lit on every counter. Robin wears his most ceremonial caftan. Ostrich feathers run down his arms and flutter when he waves for us to take a seat. I perch on the pink tuffet in the corner. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says. “There’s no need to look frightened; Nicholas and I were taking a moment to appease the spirit of Miss Ginny.”

Nicholas clucks, “I mean, isn’t it just too too? Come on, Ladies, light a candle to show the old dead bitch you care.”

Having abandoned my religious ideals shortly after they abandoned me, I see no harm in Pagan ritual. The theater is my religion now. Anyway, if I were to abstain due to the threat of eternal damnation, I wouldn’t have much chance at a career. The theater’s foundation is comprised in ritual, most of which pre-dates those ordained by the church. And, saints be praised, we in the theater get to wear better costumes. “Give me a match,” I say. “I’d like to show my respects.” 

Robin hands me a pack of matches with one hand and a tall glass jar full of wax with the other. The candle is of the quality you’d expect to see on the sidewalk out front of a bodega in Spanish Harlem after a toddler has been shot. I strike a match and hold it steadily to the wick. As the flame transfers, I listen to it sizzle. “I suppose I should say a few words on the departed’s behalf.”

“Here, here,” Robin calls, sloshing the contents of his raised glass. “Ginny always had a thing for sexy fags. You’d be doing her an honor.”

After I collect my thoughts, I say, “Miss Ginny: please watch over this production in death as you would have in life. It has been a pleasure getting acquainted with your ghostly form. Thank you for being an excellent host; I only hope our work has left your memory pleased.”

The rain beating down on the tin roof of the Show Barn has caused a disturbance amongst its resident turkey vultures. The claws of the prehistoric looking birds drag mercilessly overhead. The soundtrack their screeching supplies is more unnerving than
Tubular Bells.
A clap of thunder rings so strong I’m nearly cut in two. It’s a wonder that the building remains standing. I clutch my chest and watch the hanging costumes sway. “Everyone’s a critic,” Eli sneers. “Let’s just hope the one who is still living doesn’t have the same response as what we have evoked from the dead.”