Home to Big Stone Gap (12 page)

I begin my pep talk. “Tonight is our final dress rehearsal in front of a live audience…” Just the mention of an audience sends the cast into a chattering fit—they can’t contain their enthusiasm. I wait for them to quiet down. Final dress rehearsal is the biggest hurdle for amateur performers. The adrenaline runs high, and my actors don’t know what to do with it, so they get silly. The show will stink tonight; there will be mistakes and outright unprofessional behavior. The cast will giggle uncontrollably during dramatic scenes, flub lyrics, and miss entrances. It’s not just the young folks either—it’s the older ones who, in costume and makeup, get a taste of the stage and want to suck the experience dry and live the dream.

I can relate to how they’re enamored of the world of live theater. It’s fun to make a play. Each cast becomes a family. Rehearsals give that wonderful feeling of being a lug nut in a well-oiled machine. When you’re cast in a play, you belong somewhere, you have a place to be, lines to say, and a personality to project. A drab secretary from the courthouse becomes a singing nun; a coal miner becomes a handsome sea captain. All it takes is a book and music by Rodgers & Hammerstein.

Who doesn’t love the applause? No one ever gave me a standing ovation at the Pharmacy, or Nellie at the bank, or Greg in his cubicle at the accounting firm. We’ll get it tonight, though, and we’ll revel in it. If there’s one thing in this world that folks need, it’s to feel that they’ve done a good job. How rare that reinforcement is! Most of the work in this world is thankless: parenting, the drudgery of our daily jobs—we contribute so much that no one sees or acknowledges. But in the theater, when it’s good, that gratitude is there, audience to actor. They let us know they like what we do with applause and whistles and standing ovations. You can’t beat it.

My cast is grateful for the opportunity to be in show business temporarily. They are proud to be hams. There’s something exciting about getting to be somebody else; to put on makeup and sing and dance. It brings out sensuality in a person who, under normal circumstances, might not know she has any. Our community theater is the last place of daring and escape in Big Stone Gap. These annual productions give us a touch of glamour and connect us to the outside world. We figure we are as good as any productions out there. We also believe we have as good a talent pool as the next town, including Hollywood. “After all, Ava Gardner was from North Carolina. Right over the mountain.” Nellie Goodloe sniffs. (As if
that
will destine my cast for the silver screen.)

I go on, “I’d like to thank you all for a wonderful rehearsal period. I believe you are ready to give our audience a terrific show. Remember dressing room and backstage etiquette. Keep your chatter backstage to a minimum, and please whisper—there’s nothing worse than a scene drowned out by backstage antics. Now, places, everyone, for the abbey. Nellie, when the curtain is closed, please let the invited audience in.”

The stage manager, Sweet Sue Tinsley, corrals the talent up the stairs and into the wings. My old classmate (and Jack’s ex-girlfriend) Sweet Sue still has her looks; she’s as blond as she was when we were in school. She’s trim, a devoted user of aqua eye shadow (Revlon’s cornflower hi-glow powder; she buys it at the Pharmacy), but there’s a sadness about her now, for the first time in her life. Her husband, Mike, recently left her for a younger woman. Not to worry, though, I understand she’s dating a widower from over in Powell Valley. She wasn’t about to let the situation get her down.

Theodore sneaks in the side door. “Ave, where do you want me?”

“Come to the light booth with me.” As we turn to go through the door to the hallway, Theodore is spotted.

“Theodore Tipton!” Sister Louise Camblos screams. “You’re back!” Louise takes off in a sprint toward Theodore, wimple and veil askew as she trips on her billowing skirt. She is followed by her fellow nuns, among them Carol Wilson, Nina Coughlin, Nancy Toney, Dawn Suzette Burnett, Patsy Arnold, Flo Kelley, Catherine Brennan, Paula Pruitt, Pat Bean, Nita Wilson, Sharon Burns, Dee Emmerson, Lou Randolph, Ginger Legg, Mitzi Thomas, Ann Hunter, and Mary Susan Giles, who storm the lip of the stage en masse, as if it’s Normandy Beach. Linda Church, busy bobby-pinning her wimple, turns and shrieks when she realizes Theodore is in the auditorium. She follows the pack. Louise reaches Theodore first and smothers him in kisses as the others gather round for a turn. If Big Stone Gap has a rock star or ever did, it’s definitely Theodore Tipton.

Theodore steps back. “Now, ladies.”

Tayloe emerges from the stage right wings, wearing her novice costume. “I’m gonna be a nervous wreck knowin’ you’re here,” she tells Theodore. She puts her hands on her hips and pushes aside the bangs on her short strawberry-blond Julie Andrews wig.

“Just do your show. Remember, you’re actors!” Theodore claps his hands.

Sweet Sue fans her arms to herd the loose nuns to their places in the wings. Once they are all backstage, I holler, “Let ’em in!” to Nellie, who throws open the entrance doors of the auditorium.

“What happened to Sweet Sue?” Theodore whispers.

“Love gone wrong.”

“Too bad. She’s wearing it. She’s more beat than sweet.”

The audience takes their seats. I excuse myself to go backstage and give the sets one final look. God love her, Sweet Sue is in the wings corralling the Von Trapp children, like show dogs, into single-file rows for their entrance. Friedrich is playing with the stage weights, but I shoot him a look and he stops, taking his place in line behind the others. I go back to the dressing area, which is quiet now that the cast is in position to begin. I wander among the dress bags filled with street clothes, as well as piles of schoolbooks, purses, and other gear.

I poke my head into the small makeup room. Iva Lou sits at the mirror, pressing the narrow glue strips of her false eyelashes to the tips of her eyelids. She can’t see me; her eyes are closed. I should go, but I can’t. I look at her for what seems like a long time. Finally, she opens her eyes and flutters her new, lustrous black eyelashes. Iva Lou does not age: her heart-shaped face, hot-pink Cupid’s-bow lips, and lake-blue eyes are every bit as alluring as the day she drove the Bookmobile into town for the first time. Iva Lou does not wear her pain, suffering, and tragedy; rather, she throws it off like a light overcoat and never looks back. She leans in to the mirror and smiles, liking the effect.

“Have a good show, Iva Lou.”

Startled, she looks at me. “How long you been standin’ there?”

“Just now.”

She stands and smooths the skirt on her costume. “This has been a lot of fun. Thanks for having me in it,” she says formally.

“You’re a great baroness. Have fun!” I chirp. I want to leave on a high note; after all, Iva Lou has a performance to give. But I’m so sad about our friendship. We haven’t spoken at all since we argued. I just can’t pick up the phone. I’m not sure why.

She smiles and grabs her fur capelet for her entrance.

I weave through the actors in their positions backstage. I give Ravi Balu a pat on the back; Greg Kress gets a Ricola lozenge from my pocket; and various nuns get high fives. As I perform these rituals, I think about Iva Lou. Maybe our friendship is like other kinds of relationships that have a life and then, for whatever reason, end. If that’s to be the case, then it’s an enormous loss: there’s a hole in my life where she lived. Although every day I have a moment when I wish we could reconcile, somehow, as time passes and the distance grows, it seems more improbable that we can work things out. We have a new manner with each other, cordial and polite, much as we behave with strangers. It’s too bad. Maybe Iva Lou and I know everything about each other, and we’ve reached a place where we can no longer be useful to one another as confidantes. It happens. I just never thought it would happen to us.

Iva Lou brushes past me as I give Tayloe some final direction. She doesn’t look back at me as she takes her place. Rather, she keeps her eyes steady on the stage.

As I go out the stage door, I meet Theodore in the hallway beside the auditorium. He tells me, “I’m going to say hello to Iva Lou.”

“No, you won’t! It’ll cause another nun stampede!”

He agrees, smiling, and we walk together up to the light booth in the back of the theater.

“We got us a packed house,” Otto says as he opens a pack of Nabs (cellophane-wrapped peanut-butter crackers). He offers them to Theodore and me. We politely decline. Chomping on a cracker, Otto gets behind the follow spot. Theodore and I sit on two rolling stools, well under the beam of light Otto engineers.

“Cue the orchestra,” I tell Otto.

Otto takes a red bandanna out of his back pocket and waves it at Virginia Meador, who nods back. Her reading glasses slide down to the tip of her nose. She motions to the musicians to begin, and then she puts her long, tapered fingers on the piano keys. As the orchestra plays the overture, the audience sings along to the familiar tune.

Theodore rolls his eyes. “Oh, boy, this production is going to be hokey from Muskogee.”

“Welcome home, Theodore.”

The curtain rises on the cathedral set. As the nuns enter, singing a kyrie, the audience bursts into applause. Only Liz Ann Noel drops character and winks at the audience, causing a titter that spreads through the house. Then it’s all business as the nuns sing their lungs out.

Theodore watches intently, as though it’s the first play he has ever seen. No matter how grand a Broadway production, or how small a community-theater presentation, he is a student of the lively arts. Theodore is not jaded; he says he learns something new with every show he sees. I wish I could say I do the same.

I scribble notes throughout the first act. Occasionally, Theodore leans over and gives me a tip.
Maria: project more. Captain Von Trapp: watch the ends of your phrases, you’re dropping them. Rolfe: a little less prim, give me more emotion.
And so they go.

During the scene at the ball, Carolyn Beech’s costumes shine: 1930s drop-waist dresses in jewel tones. Iva Lou is stunning in a floor-length emerald-green sheath and tiara. She slides all over the Captain like a parlor snake, and he loves it.

In most productions, at the conclusion of “So Long, Farewell,” it’s usually Liesl who carries Gretl up to bed. Instead, I had the Captain carry her up so that I could secure a moment between Maria and the Captain on the landing at the top of the stairs. I thought it more effective than leaving him on the floor below with the Baroness.

Theodore and I watch as the Captain carries Gretl to the top of the stairs. The Captain puts her down; she runs up the landing and disappears into her room. As the door closes, the Captain turns back to Maria. He makes a gesture toward her. Maria, in her sweet white eyelet dress, looks down, embarrassed. Then the Captain looks to the hushed audience. He pivots to face the Baroness below and extends his hand as if to say, “You are the woman for me.” Iva Lou smiles up at him. The smile unglues my poor actor. He pivots, his heel catches on the top step, and he tries to regain his footing but cannot. The pitch of the stairs catches him and thrusts him forward like one of those blow-up birthday-party clowns that’s been slugged. He throws his arms up in the air to regain his balance. The audience gasps.

The Captain’s body plunges forward. “Holy shit!” he hollers. He reaches for the banister, but it is too late. He goes down on both knees, leans back on his rear end, and makes like a sled. The only sound we hear in the stunned theater is the whap, whap, whap of his legs as they hit the steps and propel him down to the stage floor. Finally, he hits bottom with a splat.

The paralyzed party guests suddenly come to life and surround him. Tayloe looks up to us in horror. Blackout and curtain.

“Jesus. That was bad.” Otto turns off the follow spot. “You’d better go and check him. I think I heard a femur snap.”

The audience chatters nervously. Otto pulls on the house lights. Theodore and I run out of the booth, down the stairs, and around to the hallway through the wings to the stage. Greg, our Captain, is lying on the floor with a nun’s wimple under his head for a pillow. There are two perfect seams where the fabric wore away on the front of his trousers as he peeled down the stairs. “Are you okay, Greg?”

“I think I blew out my knee.”

“Can you walk?”

“I can try.”

Theodore and I help him up. He cannot straighten his right leg. We set Greg back down on the floor.

“We’d better get him up to Lonesome Pine. Doc Rock can check him,” I tell Peanut Rogers, the laid-back head of our stage crew, who is getting an associate arts degree up at Mountain Empire Community College. Peanut, around thirty, is tall and thin, with a head of loose brown curls. He’s got the pep of a turtle.

“I’ll get the Nova.” Peanut slowly heads for the stage door.

“Wait! My dad’s in the audience!” Ravi Balu volunteers.

“Well, run and fetch him. We need a doctor!” Sweet Sue tells him. Ravi heads for the house.

“How was I doing?” Greg asks. His thick pale blue hair is sprayed into a George Jones bouffant. Not a hair moved as he plummeted; it’s still a perfectly formed stage helmet. Our captain is a good-looking man, with a high forehead and a determined chin that leads his profile in a scoop. He oozes strength, even though he’s turning peaked under his pancake makeup.