Viola in the Spotlight (10 page)

“You
have
to talk to him about it,” Marisol reasons.

“It’s too awkward now. Totally weird. He’s turned into a boy. He brags about all these girls at camp who are after him. I expect this kind of thing out of guys like Jared Spencer, but not Andrew.”

“Well, let’s not let Andrew and his weird self ruin our trip to New York City,” Romy says practically. “This is a big deal that we’re all coming. We need our time together, because when the fall comes, we are one girl short in our quad.”

“I
know
,” I groan.

“If Andrew wants to behave himself and be your BF and our BF once removed, then he’s welcome. But if he can’t hack it—then he’s out. Agreed?” Suzanne says.

I take down Marisol’s train information, Romy’s aunt’s cell number, and Suzanne’s ETA in the car with her parents. We click out of the iChat, and as the screen goes to black, so does my mood.

The most difficult thing about Andrew and me is that I’ve lost him for good. If I had a problem with a boy, or a crush that went unrequited, when I needed to talk about it, it was Andrew I would turn to. I don’t feel like I have my BFFAA to talk to anymore, and this is the great loss of the summer of 2010.

NINE

IT’S BEEN RAINING FOR DAYS. I HOPE IT CLEARS UP soon. I don’t want anything to ruin the Prefect Academy Quad Reunion. I walked Cleo through the downpour, which, in the heat of August in New York City, is like walking a dog when it’s raining consommé. When the raindrops hit the sidewalk, they actually
steam
.

Julius Ross had a billion errands for me to run during previews, which are the two weeks of performances that precede opening night. This is when the technicians and the actors get the final kinks out of the show, with a live audience. A few days before opening night, the critics come to review the play, and run what they’ve written on the morning after opening night.

Grand and George, so used to performing the play from the long run in Ohio before it moved to Broadway, have jitters, but they aren’t as bad as they would be if they hadn’t had the regional run. They are pretty calm for a couple of actors in an important revival about to be reviewed by every newspaper, magazine, and blog.

It’s three hours until curtain for the critics’ review, but I know where to find Grand. She makes it a habit to arrive at the theater early, to prepare slowly and make her face up methodically before the show. There are all kinds of actors, and Grand is the prepared type.

Backstage, the scent of hair spray from the wigs and starch from the costume room wafts through. It has the scent of the corner at the intersection of Fern and Maple in Bay Ridge, where the Wang Chinese Laundry is next door to the Lynne Watkins Beauty Shop. I take the stairs up to Grand’s dressing room.

Grand sits with her face in her hands in front of her makeup mirror. The lightbulbs around the mirror are round and bright, like a row of suns. They’re as bright as the light they use at the dermatologist’s office. “Come in, hon,” Grand says.

“Wow. Roses.” A lush arrangement of flowers with a small glass charm of a bottle marked
POISON
sits on the makeup table.

The card says,
Knock ’em dead
, which is hilarious, because Grand spends the play poisoning unsuspecting men.

“From Daryl Roth,” Grand says. “Class act. And I can’t say that too often about producers I have known.”

“You okay?”

“Oh, your grand is just a little blue.” She smiles, the opposite of blue.

“Why? You open in three days.”

“I know. And I feel this is as solid a show as I’ve ever been in.”

“So what’s the problem?” I sit down in the chair next to Grand.

“I was thinking this might be the last time I’m in a show on Broadway, and I get a little wistful thinking about my life and my career, and the plays I’ve done. The roles I’ll never do. There’s less ahead for me than behind me, and you know, that’s a…bummer.”

“You’re worried about death?” I can’t believe it. It’s strange for my grandmother, who immerses herself in life, to think about death, and worse, to let it bother her. But this is the actor’s life; it’s loaded with drama—or maybe just dramatic thoughts.

“No, no. Just thinking about when I won’t be able to act anymore. And maybe this is it. The swan song, and you know, nobody told me. I just got lucky at this stage of my life, and this role came to me. I have lots of friends who aren’t working, and a few who will never work again. And certainly not on Broadway.”

“Grand, you’ve been saying this for years. You aren’t upset about the passing of time, you’re just dealing with all the actor stuff. Do you know a single actor who believes she gets the roles she
should
be getting?”

“Not one. We are grousers and complainers.”

“But you have
no
reason to be
sad
. You’re about to open on Broadway.”

“I know. But it’s been twelve long years since I’ve been on Broadway.”

“And, it’s not like you’ve been sitting around. You did a bunch of plays in regional theater. One after another. Really
good
parts. And what about that film role—you were a chef in
Julie and Julia
.”

“Oh, that was nothing. A drive-by.”

“You were good.”

“Thank you, honey. Movies are nice, but there’s nothing like the theater. Movies are like unrequited love; you play the part imagining you might reach someone, and when you play a part in the theater, you
know
. The audience tells you everything. You have a partner.”

“So, okay, good. Chin up already. This is not the last stop in your career. Think about all those actresses that you admire who worked until they were much older than you.”

“Who?”

“Helen Hayes and Claudette Colbert.”

“Good point.”

“And don’t forget Lauren Bacall. She’s still at it. Why not you? Don’t limit yourself. You have many, many shows ahead of you. And someday, I want to direct you in a great play. So you can’t quit until my dream comes true.”

Grand looks into the mirror. Her blue eyes go steely and she squints. This is the look she gets when she’s in the kitchen mastering a new recipe, or when she does Malibu Pilates. “Now,
that’s
a goal. You and me. Together. Working on a play. The baton passed from grandmother to granddaughter. It’s brilliant, and we haven’t even chosen the play.” Grand looks at me and smiles. “But we
will
.”

Grand sponges makeup onto her face in small dabs, until the surface is as smooth as marble. She takes a small angled brush and, with tiny strokes, changes her blond eyebrows to white. She takes a palette of blue and one of gray and, swirling it, gives herself half-moon bags under each eye. I watch as her face ages with powder and paint, and she becomes Aunt Martha, half of the killer spinster sisters in
Arsenic and Old Lace
.

“You know what?”

Grand looks at me. “What?”

“You finally look like a real grandmother.”

Grand looks in the mirror, and then looks at me. “And you’ve been waiting for that?”

“All my life.”

And then, we do what we always do. We laugh and laugh.

I slip down the stairs from Grand’s dressing room to backstage. Maurice and Caitlin stand inside the backstage door.

“You want to watch the show with me?” I ask.

“Sure,” Caitlin says.

“I’ve got to run an errand for Dad.” Maurice looks at his watch.

“We’ll be in the light booth,” I tell him.

It’s been difficult to get any time alone with Caitlin, and we need to talk. As we enter the cold theater, I exhale a sigh of relief. Now I’ll be able to tell her what I have been meaning to say all summer.

“Caitlin…,” I begin.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“I don’t think you do,” I whisper as we climb up the work stairs to the lighting booth.

“You’re going to tell me to be careful, not to get caught with Maurice.” I’ve never heard this tone of snark before coming from Caitlin, so I stop and look at her.

“No. I was going to say, you need to tell your parents about Maurice. He’s leaving for England, anyway—so this is a good time to tell them you’ve met a nice boy and you like him.”

“You can say those kinds of things to your parents, but I can’t to mine. They would be disappointed in me.”

“You won’t know unless you tell them.”

“I never will, so please don’t ask me to.” Caitlin’s eyes fill with tears. “I need to keep this secret…and I’m asking you to do the same for me.”

“Okay, okay,” I tell her. I didn’t mean to make Caitlin cry, but this is certainly a sign of exactly how important Maurice is to her. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Caitlin says as she sits down on a stool in the light booth. “It will all be over soon anyway.”

Mom, Dad, and I take a flashlight and head down to the basement. The cold, clammy temperature and the scent of old wine barrels comes at us in a blast as we make our way down the stairs.

“I think it’s over here, Adam,” Mom says, pointing to a corner with stacked wooden risers, which my parents use when they film a tracking shot. “Behind our stuff.”

Dad directs the beam to the far wall. “There it is. Girls, give me a hand.”

Dad places the flashlight on a box. He sorts through the junk, and then pulls a wooden ramp with notches that fit our brownstone steps out of the pile. “You know, when the Martinellis told us they were leaving this behind, I never thought we’d need it.”

“See why I don’t throw anything away?” Mom says knowingly. “You never know when you’ll need something.”

“Girls, take a side and help me get this up the stairs.” Mom and I help him carry the homemade wooden wheelchair ramp up the rough-hewn steps.

We get the ramp into the kitchen. “Vi, go and get the flashlight,” Dad says, wiping the sweat from his face onto his sleeve.

“This thing is heavy,” Mom remarks.

I run back down to the basement and grab the flashlights, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Okay, heave and then ho,” Dad says.

We guide the wheelchair ramp through the hallway to the front door. I push the doors open. Mom and Dad follow, carrying the ramp. Mom places the end of the ramp at the top of the stairs and Dad runs to the bottom and snaps it into place.

“It’s not warped at all,” Mom marvels.

“This is gonna work,” Dad says.

I put my arms around my parents. “Thank you so much. This means the world to Suzanne and her mom.”

“Hey. That’s what friendship is all about,” my dad says softly. He doesn’t let go of my mom and me for a long time, just like when I was a kid, just like when I was small.

At long last, my roommates are arriving! Finally, they will see Brooklyn, meet Caitlin and Andrew, and of course, Maurice—and see their first actual Broadway show, starring my grandmother.

I wait on the steps of our house, with my camera ready to film the arrival of Romy and Marisol. Her aunt’s car peels around Avenue J and onto our street. Romy hangs out the back window when she sees me.

I get a nice shot of the car as it sails through the cul-de-sac.

“Viola!” Romy hollers, and waves from the window.

“We made it!” Marisol says.

Romy’s aunt pulls up in front of our house and double-parks. I run down the steps. Romy and Marisol get out of the car, looking so chic. Romy wears red-and-white-striped espadrille platforms, skinny jeans, and a field hockey jersey, while Marisol wears a flowery sundress and gold gladiator flats.

“Oh my God, this is so cool and exactly as you described it.” Marisol looks around and marvels.

“Welcome to Brooklyn! You guys found each other at the train station—no problem, right?”

“So easy. Romy and Aunt Sally were waiting for me in Penn Station, just like we planned. I came off of the Amtrak train and there they were.”

“This is my aunt Sally,” Romy says.

I shake Aunt Sally’s hand. She has a good athletic grip (must run in the family) and a short haircut.

“You’ll be okay?” Sally says to Romy.

“Oh yeah.” Romy gives her aunt a hug. “See ya.”

“I’ll pick you up in the city on Sunday.”

“Great,” Romy says.

Aunt Sally jumps into her car and backs out of the cul-de-sac. Romy, Marisol, and I can’t believe we are back together; it seems like years. We throw our arms around one another.

“Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.” I pick up Marisol’s and Romy’s backpacks, and they grab their duffels and follow me into the house.

“Ma, they’re here!” I shout.

Mom comes out of her office and gives Marisol and Romy a hug on our way up to dump their stuff in my room.

“Here we are.” There’s hardly any floor space in my room. Mom and Dad put two air mattresses down and pulled out the trundle so my single became a quad, just like we had at Prefect. “Sorry it’s so small.”

“It’s perfect,” Marisol says.

“How cool. You can see the whole neighborhood from up here,” Romy says, looking out the window. “Hey, it’s Suzanne.”

A horn honks as the station wagon pulls into place in front of our house. Suzanne gets out of the car. Her blond hair glistens from three stories up. Romy waves and shouts out the window.

“Come on, guys,” I tell them as I start down the stairs.

“They’re here!” I call out to my parents. “The Santrys!”

We race down the stairs and out onto the stoop. Mrs. Santry is in the back of the wagon, unloading Mr. Santry’s wheelchair. My mom comes down the stairs, and Dad joins us from the backyard.

I turn on the camera and begin to film their arrival.

“Hi, Mrs. Santry,” I call out. She looks up at me, and when she sees I’m filming her, she smiles and waves me off.

I walk down the steps, holding the camera steady. I ask Mrs. Santry, “How was your trip?”

“It was great,” she says.

I go around to the side of the car and put my head in the window. “Hey, Mr. Santry.”

“Viola, I’m locked and loaded and ready for Broadway.”

I go in for a close-up of Mr. Santry, who smiles. He is an older version of his handsome sons.

“You better be,” I tell him. “We have orchestra seats.”

“Fantastic.”

Suzanne opens the car door for her father. “Dad was in
You Can’t Take It with You
in high school.”

“That is correct. I was a thespian.” He laughs. “Not a good one, but I had a lot of enthusiasm.”

I step back and film the introductions. My dad enters the shot.

“Bob, I’m Adam Chesterton.”

“Good to meet you, Adam.”

“Let me give you a hand,” Dad says. Mom and Mrs. Santry chat as they unfold the wheelchair.

“Is this the best, or what?” Suzanne says. She puts her hands on her hips and smiles at us. I don’t know why, and probably never will, but whenever Suzanne is around, I feel I can breathe a sigh of relief—it’s as though everything is under control when she arrives. She is our leader, and we all look to her for wisdom
and
an agenda. “What should we do?”

I film her as she drags her duffel out of the back of the car.

“Come on, let’s get your stuff upstairs,” I tell Suzanne. Romy and Marisol grab the Santrys’ suitcases. I flip the camera off and help Suzanne carry her duffel up the stairs.

“Mom and Dad set your parents up in the front parlor.”