Viola in the Spotlight (14 page)

“This is it.” I place my camera in the leather tote Grand gave me, burying it under a sleeve of chamois cloth. I pull out my ticket. “Ready, guys?”

We line up to go into the theater. Once inside, I realize Marisol is not with us. I look out the door and see her on the sidewalk, taking it all in. She stands in the last beams of the setting August sun, and I swear, for a moment, if she could fly, she would. She’d sail over the city and between the tips of the skyscrapers with only the light from the windows and streetlamps to guide her. Marisol has fallen in love with New York City, and she’s got it
bad
.

“Marisol!” I shout.

She turns and looks at me.

“Let’s go.”

She smiles and gets on the line with us. I love that we get to sit in the first row. Mom, Dad, Mrs. Santry, and Mr. Santry (whose chair tucks in nicely into a gap on the aisle) sit in the center of the orchestra, in the second row.

We take our seats and programs and look up at the grand curtain, which is covered with images of berries made by gobos over the lighting instruments. The berries are inspired by the ingredients used to make poisonous elderberry wine. Julius Ross designed his own patterns and cut them into the metal squares so the audience would be greeted by the exact right image. Julius may be a temperamental artist, and a man who ran me all over the city on crazy errands, but he’s also a brilliant lighting designer, which makes up for his impatience and trying personality.

Maurice slips into the empty aisle seat next to me.

“You okay?” I whisper.

“Horrid.”

“I’m sorry, Maurice.”

“I miss her,” he says.

“So do I.”

“I tried to talk to her parents.”

“So did I.”

“They told me it wasn’t possible for me to see her.”

“It’s awful.”

“You know what is the worst thing of all?” Maurice turns to me.

“What?”

“I really adore her. Really and truly. I would never hurt her. And somehow, her parents believe that I will.”

“It’s not you, Maurice. It would be any boy that she liked.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier. Every person wants to be seen for who they truly are. Not some silly idea of what they think you are.”

The curtain rises to the wah-wah music of the 1930s that Mr. Longfellow played until we all wanted to scream. But somehow, in the dark theater, the old-fashioned music hits exactly the right notes and strikes exactly the right mood.

I turn and look up at the follow-spot operators who stand at the ready like fighter pilots. The curtain lifts, and the Brewster living room in Brooklyn comes to life. Afternoon shadows grace the vintage wallpaper. All the levels of the set, the stairs, the upstage windows, the downstage floor, the alcove where the bodies are kept inside an antique bench, are illuminated with exacting pools of light to portend the antics of the black comedy to come.

The opening-night audience bursts into applause when Grand and Mary Pat Gleason mix their brew downstage as the play begins.

George Dvorsky enters, and the women in the audience take in a breath. I memorize every detail so I can tell Caitlin about it later. She will be so sad to have missed it.

I look across the aisle at Mom and Dad and the Santrys. Mr. Santry has propped his elbows on the handles of his wheelchair and leans in, to catch every word. He is in the moment.

I realize that I’ve been holding my breath from nerves for Grand. By the time the third scene of the first act comes around, I’m able to relax. Andrew places his hand on mine, and that makes me feel better. I look up at him, but Andrew keeps his eyes on the play.

I thread my fingers through his and hold his hand tightly. He smiles and gives my hand a squeeze. I feel a pang of the excitement I felt when Jared Spencer held my hand for the first time.

How crazy is that?

The evening goes by so fast (that’s the sign of a good director of comedy) that it leaves us all wanting more. When it comes time for the curtain call, Grand blows kisses to us, and Mom carries a large bouquet of roses to the foot of the stage. Grand gives a deep bow of appreciation. The giant bouquet breaks into four pieces, so each of the women in the cast get a bouquet. The curtain call is long, and the wolf whistles and bravos and bravas don’t stop.

Grand looks up and seems to take in the faces of every single person in the audience. Her smile is wide, and her blue eyes sparkle in the beams of light, and only I would know it, but she is so happy, she tries not to cry. But after the second standing ovation, she can’t help it. The tears fill her eyes, as the joy of being in a hit at long last fills her heart. As the curtain is lowered, I see George take Grand into his arms and kiss her.

THIRTEEN

THE STAGE MANAGER LETS US UP TO GRAND’S dressing room after the show. We peel through the post-show pandemonium, crew sweeping up and putting props back where they belong, costumers carrying out clothes to be pressed for the next performance.

Andrew decides to wait for us downstairs, so it’s just us girls. Mom and Dad will go up later; they’re staying on the stage with the Santrys to meet and greet the cast.

There’s a crowd of people waiting to get upstairs outside the stage door, but somehow, they let us up first. I get out the camera and take in the opening-night frenzy.

The girls have little gifts for Grand and Mary Pat. Romy brought two jars of elderberry jam, Suzanne has two sets of antique lace doilies, and Marisol has brought them two Mexican voodoo dolls to get rid of bad energy.

We hear Grand and Mary Pat laughing behind the door when I knock.

“Come in!” Grand says.

We push it open. Mary Pat lets out a low wolf whistle. “Look at these gorgeous girls.”

“Thank you,” we say in unison. “Grand, you and Mary Pat were spectacular,” I add.

“Can you believe it?” Grand takes my hands. “We made it.”

“Everybody loved it! “

Grand gets tears in her eyes. “What did you think of George?”

My roomies swoon. “He’s beautiful!” Romy blurts.

“I agree,” Grand says.

Mary Pat is dressed in a chic black sequined pant outfit for the opening-night party. “Hey, kids, I gotta book. I got a hot date.” She grabs her purse. “Not as hot as yours, Coral, but pretty darn close.”

Mary Pat goes. The girls look around the room with awe. This is the first time they’ve ever been behind the scenes of a Broadway show.

“Go on, girls. Nose around. George’s dressing room is one flight down,” Grand says. We turn to go. Grand grabs my arm to stay. I sit down next to her as she removes her stage makeup with a soufflé cream of coconut that Gram can only find in England.

“What do you think? Really?” Grand asks.

“Grand, you were brilliant.”

“Thank you, honey. George is something, isn’t he?”

“Grand, he loves you so much.”

“I wasn’t expecting that kiss.” She smiles.

“He’s so proud of you.”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to find a man who roots for me in every way. But George does. It amazes me every day.”

“Grand, does it bother you that…”

“He’s the leading man and I play an old lady?” Grand brushes her coral lipstick (of course) over her lips for just a hint of fresh color. “Viola, I could not care less. It’s the theater. It’s make-believe. What is real always stays real, and what is pretend, well, it stays at the Helen Hayes Theatre. The wigs, the costumes, the sets, and the lights make a world, and we leave it behind. When we come back the next day to tell the story all over again, it’s waiting here for us. But this world has no impact on real life. This is the fun stuff. George and I are solid. Don’t worry.”

“I won’t. He’s family.” I give my grandmother a hug.

“He is, isn’t he?” Grand smiles as though this is a revelation. I guess it never occurs to her that sometimes, love stays. Forever.

Cleo is truly a party animal (not). She sleeps in her cushy cage under Grand’s dressing table in the bedroom, oblivious to the noise, music, and din.

After the pre-bash at the Marriott Marquis, which was hosted by Daryl Roth—who now, in Grand’s eyes, is up there with Mrs. Obama as a role model—the real party began at Grand’s apartment.

My roomies laugh and squeeze through the crowd. Each room is filled to the brim with theater types, actors, crew members, playwrights, and designers. There are small animated huddles of discussion going on throughout the apartment. The terrace is packed with smokers. Grand and George flit around the kitchen, putting out trays of “Italian a-go-go finger food” (as Grand calls it).

Baskets of fresh garlic knots, crackers, and breadsticks; trays of lush roasted peppers, marinated mushrooms, salami, provolone, and olives; and small cups of cold pasta salad arrabiata-style, hot cheese puffs, and shrimp cocktail are gobbled up as fast as George can put them out. And there’s plenty.

The desserts, including miniature cannoli, tricolor cookies, and almond and chocolate biscotti, are stacked on polished silver trays on the server.

The hum of the blender is heard in the background as Grand mixes up daiquiris as fast as the guests can down them.

“This party is wild,” Romy says, her eyes widening as she takes in the banter and laughter.

“The actors are so different offstage.” Marisol watches as Mary Pat Gleason does her best impression of Susan Boyle winning
Britain’s Got Talent
. Mary Pat looks years younger without the gray wig. Grand is closer in age to the aunts, but neither of them, offstage, look anything like their characters.

Mr. Santry is holding court by the sofa with a group of playwrights. You can always tell the playwrights. They scowl. The men look like college professors, and the women, harried mothers on their way to the park. The women playwrights tend to wear flowy scarves and sensible shoes, but this is just my snapshot observation.

Andrew is filming a group arguing in the bedroom about union wages breaking the back of producing shows on Broadway. I flip on my camera and take in Mr. Santry and the playwrights as they discuss the dilemma of the written word going forward in a technological age. I’m hoping I can pick up some of the conversation. Everybody sounds brilliantly smart in this huddle.

The doorbell rings. Mr. Santry checks his watch and looks to the door, so I follow his gaze with the camera. (This is a technique my father taught me when shooting documentaries. Move the camera with the point of view of the subject, and almost always, you will be surprised at the reveal.)

As the door opens, I am not only surprised at the reveal, I am:

Shocked.

Stunned.

Amazed.

Blown away.

Mr. and Mrs. Pullapilly enter the living room, with Caitlin between them. I nearly drop the camera, but record Mr. Santry, who greets the Pullapillys. Caitlin looks at me and smiles. It is a loaded smile, full of meaning. Her expression says,
I’m sorry, I’m happy, and…I’m redeemed
.

Mom and Dad see the Pullapillys and go to them. Andrew works his way through the crowd to Caitlin. We give her a good, long group embrace.

“What happened?” I ask Caitlin quietly.

“You went to see my mom, and whatever you said made a difference.” Caitlin gets tears in her eyes.

“Viola always knows the exact right thing to say,” Andrew says.

“I tried to remind them that you’ve always done the right thing. And that you always will.”

Caitlin gives me a hug. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you.”

“It’s all fine now, Caitlin,” I assure her.

Maurice and Mr. Longfellow come out of the kitchen. They’ve been watching through the butler window. Maurice joins us. He greets Caitlin with a respectful kiss on the cheek. Maurice turns to the Pullapillys and introduces his father. Grand brings fizzy seltzer for them and introduces herself.

I see my roomies standing across the room, thrilled for Caitlin.

There could not be a better ending to the best opening night in the history of my life. Sometimes, your greatest hopes go unrealized. Grand has always said that about her boyfriends (and husbands), that when you’re dewy eyed, you start out with the best of intentions, and things just don’t work out. But then there are moments like these, when things actually
do
.

I flip on my camera and step back for a better view of the Pullapillys, the Santrys, and the Chestertons. I hear Mr. Pullapilly talk about the great theater in India, and how the community comes together to make plays, parables really, stories of life in the community. Dad listens closely, while Mom and Mrs. Pullapilly talk about our school, and how happy they are that we are focusing on the arts at LaGuardia.

And Caitlin and Maurice, out of the shadow of hiding their feelings, are actually free. When I look over at Caitlin’s parents, I see they are happy too. The truth is out in the open, and no matter where you’re from, that’s a good thing.

Here are two people, Caitlin and Maurice, who like each other, and found each other in a summer that neither will ever forget. We learned the hard lessons, but we also are celebrating the joy that comes from a chance meeting on a rooftop in Bay Ridge. I don’t think, as long as I live, that I will ever forget that night. The sky seemed to change when fate stepped in, and there was no moon because Caitlin and Maurice didn’t need one. There was enough light to see who they were to become to each other. And enough to light the path of true love.

The whir of the Lasko fan is the only sound in Bay Ridge. It’s three o’clock in the morning, and the quad can’t sleep. We are too excited.

“My first Broadway play.” Marisol sighs.

“I got five pictures of just me and George,” Romy says. “Why do I always go for the unattainable?”

“You’re an athlete. Every time you kick a soccer ball, you’re thinking about the Olympics,” I tell her.

“Right, right,” she agrees.

“Viola, if I ever get in a jam with my parents, I’m sending you in to sort it out.”

“I had no idea I got through to Mrs. Pullapilly.”

“Wow. It worked,” Marisol says.

“And now they can be friends across an ocean,” I say.

“How romantic,” Suzanne says. “Maybe someday they will be together again.”

“Maybe.” I wonder.

The whir of the fan lulls us to sleep, one by one. I am the last to turn over. There in the dark, I think about how Romy, Suzanne, and Marisol get me through. And how we all blended together, Andrew and Caitlin and my roomies—and even Maurice, who just by chance came into our lives and into our street-level apartment.

Chance really is a big part of what happens in life.

Andrew held my hand during the play—and I remember how that calmed me down. I am lucky to be surrounded by such great friends. That, I guess, in the end, can get you through anything. And it surely did this summer.

I hate good-byes. I say this into my camera as I sit on my stoop.

I film Romy and Marisol as they climb into Aunt Sally’s car. Mom gave them each a small duffel filled with stuff we collected on our shopping trips. Small things. Flats from 8th Street—which we got two for one. Candy from Li-Lac Chocolates. Souvenirs from the shop down in the Bowery. And of course, notebooks and matching pens from the Chinese mart. We did it all.

“Okay, Vi. Give us room,” Dad says as he opens the front door. The Santrys are packed and ready to go. Dad helps Mr. Santry down the ramp in his wheelchair. When they get to the sidewalk, Dad leans over the chair as they have a private conversation. Dad nods his head a lot and smiles.

It is so cool that Dad and Mr. Santry have become friends. It’s almost like my roomies and me—they just connected. Mom and Mrs. Santry were easygoing with each other too. All of us piled into this one old house—we had better all have gotten along, and we did! And more!

I help Suzanne with her duffel.

“This was the best trip ever.” Suzanne gives me a hug. “Are you sure you don’t want to come back to Prefect?”

“I’m gonna miss you guys. But who’s going to stalk Tag Nachmanoff if I don’t go back to LaGuardia?”

“Olivia Olson?”

“She doesn’t have to stalk. She’s
in
.”

“Right.” Suzanne watches as my dad helps Mr. Santry into the car. “Those two are like ketchup and fries.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“You know, everything I observe in life is inspired by the Dairy Queen. How sad is that?” Suzanne laughs.

“Hey. You mastered the dip cone. Be grateful.”

Suzanne climbs into the car next to her dad.

“Westward ho!” Mr. Santry calls out the window as Mrs. Santry backs out of our cul-de-sac. I watch for a moment in real time, and then remember my camera. I get the final shot of the station wagon as it pulls onto the boulevard. I can’t say why exactly, but when it disappears into the traffic, I begin to cry.