Spellcrossed (5 page)

“From your lips to God’s ears.” Bernie executed a jig—quite a feat for a little old man with a walker. “Better up the credit limit on your MasterCard, girlie. I’m gonna order the most expensive dinner at the Bough!”

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather dine with.”

Bernie cocked his head in the characteristic gesture that always brought to mind a bright-eyed—if balding—sparrow.

“You sure about that?”

I found myself remembering a gourmet meal, a bottle of wine older than I was, and Rowan sitting across the table, angular features soft in the flickering candlelight. And as usual, everything I was thinking and feeling must have shown on my face because Bernie sighed and patted my hand.

“Time to exchange ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ for ‘I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out-a My Hair,’” he scolded gently.

I managed a smile. “From your lips to God’s ears.”

My crazy schedule left me little time to moon over Rowan Mackenzie or wash my hair. I was lucky to squeeze in a weekly call to my mother and to my Crossroads roommate Nancy. I kept those conversations upbeat, but sometimes found myself venting to Frannie.
She possessed Helen’s boundless optimism and handled every crisis with a firm hand and a cheerful smile. My eyes and ears at the Golden Bough, she alerted me to the rift developing among the cast.

“They’re clumping,” she confided. “Mackenzies huddled in one corner of the lounge. Professionals in another.”

So much for the “getting to know you” barbecue. And my strategy of giving each Mackenzie a pro for a roommate to encourage mingling.

“What about the locals?” I asked.

“Mostly, they head home after rehearsal. The ones who stop by hang out with the pros.” Frannie clucked. “Not like the old days, is it, hon?”

No. Our cast had been a family. An occasionally fractious, somewhat dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. Of course, we were all in the same boat: separated from our families, desperately trying to cope with the murderous schedule, and—except for me—woefully inexperienced.

“Let’s see if movie night helps.”

Hal shattered that hope when he stormed into the production office and declared, “Only half the cast showed up! And most of them just came for the pizza. There’s something wrong when theatre people can’t bond over Judy Garland films.”

“I can’t require them to attend, Hal. Most of the locals are holding down day jobs. Monday’s the one night they can spend with their families.”

Working around their schedules made rehearsals incredibly frustrating. Every evening, we had to get the strays up to speed. They felt clumsy, the pros got impatient, and the Mackenzies shot anxious looks at both groups and clumped together even more fiercely. Mei-Yin and I began reserving the first hour of the evening rehearsal to work through the big numbers with the locals and the Mackenzies, so they could perform confidently—and competently—when the pros arrived.

Naturally, that came back to bite me in the ass.

“The professionals are griping,” Frannie reported. “They say you don’t give them as much attention as the others.”

“They don’t need as much attention!”

“I’m just saying.”

For the next few days, I gave the pros “extra attention.” End result…

“They say you don’t trust them,” Frannie told me. “That you’re treating them like amateurs.”

“I’d like to treat them to a swift kick in the ass.”

Instead, I set my sights on Debra, the most experienced actor in the company. If I could win her over, the rest would fall in line.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Debra was big, brassy, and ballsy—and completely set in her ways. She’d played the wicked orphanage director Miss Hannigan before and saw no reason to do anything differently this time.

I considered it a good sign that she arrived right on time for our first one-on-one in the Smokehouse. Then she blew a hank of brown hair off her forehead, plopped onto a chair, and folded her arms across her chest. As her gaze drifted around the room, I wondered if she was studying the posters on the wall behind me, each emblazoned with the words “Directed by Rowan Mackenzie” in letters as dark and forbidding as Debra’s eyes.

I forced a smile and praised her work in rehearsals. She nodded absently and glanced at her watch. So I cut to the chase and earnestly suggested that she consider Hannigan’s backstory and find moments to let her genuine desperation shine through—without, of course, losing the humor.

Debra frowned. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, God. You really had me going. For a minute, I thought you were serious.” Her smile abruptly vanished. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I’m not asking for
Long Day’s Journey Into Night
. Just pick a few moments—”

“It’s
Annie
! A musical based on a comic strip! You work the laughs, try not to walk into the furniture, and accept the fact that the kids or the dog will always upstage you.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Let me guess—first season directing?”

“No! My second.”

“You’ll learn.”

After favoring me with a pitying smile, she waltzed out of the Smokehouse.

Way to win her over, Graham. Now she thinks you’re an artsy-fartsy novice.

I glowered at the posters, but I had only myself to blame. I’d been so desperate to leave my mark on the show that I’d tried to play Rowan Mackenzie.

Stupid.

Had I delved into Ado Annie when I’d played the role? No. I’d learned the lines, worked the comic bits, and enjoyed a vacation in the country. Which was what Debra wanted to do.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And even more stupid to waste time fine-tuning a perfectly acceptable performance when I had much bigger headaches.

Like Paul, the earnest Mackenzie playing cheesy, breezy Bert Healy. He was about as breezy as one of Hal’s mannequins and sounded more like a soloist in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir than a radio show host. If you’re never fully dressed without a smile, Paul was half-naked.

Then there was Bill, the community theatre actor playing Warbucks’ butler. You could drive a bus through his pauses. A simple “Everything is in order” required a glance heavenward, a considering frown, and a thoughtful nod before he delivered the line. His entrances and exits added a minute to every scene he was in.

“Could he walk any slower?” I fumed to Reinhard after the Scene 5 work-through. “I swear to God, Lurch was livelier.”

“Lurch?”

“
The Addams Family
.”

“Ah, yes,” Reinhard replied. And followed up with Lurch’s deep, shuddering groan.

“I can’t wait until he brings Arthur in at the end of the show. Talk about the slow leading the slow.”

“You are the director. You cannot allow him to control the pace. Or the scene.”

“I’ve given him the same notes after every fucking rehearsal!”

Reinhard winced a bit at my profanity. “You still want to be a helping professional. With some, you must be a dictatorial director.”

“Couldn’t you just clout him with your clipboard?”

“No. Although it is tempting. Do not worry. You will find a way to get through to him.” Reinhard sighed. “Now, if only we can do something with poor Otis.”

The entire staff had taken to calling him “poor Otis.” A sweet-natured bear of man with a brown moon face and a gleaming bald pate, I’d known from the moment he stepped onstage at auditions that he had to play Oliver Warbucks. But while he had all the warmth of the Daddy Warbucks who emerges late in Act One, he couldn’t capture the self-important, multitasking tycoon we meet at the outset. Maybe because he was cowed by Chelsea and Kimberlee, the actress playing Warbucks’ long-suffering but faithful secretary. The more he rehearsed with them, the more flustered he became. Lines and lyrics went out the window. By the time he finished butchering the lyrics to “N.Y.C.,” we were both streaming flop sweat.

I tried role-play, my old reliable “list thing,” and just talking with him, but the only thing that seemed to help was working with Amanda. Since that boosted her confidence as well as his, I gave them more rehearsals together, even if it meant reducing his time with Chelsea.

I resisted the urge to ask Alex to give him a magical nudge. Even Rowan had used his magic sparingly during rehearsals and then, mostly to reassure us.

When I tried out the reassuring voice I’d used on HelpLink calls, Otis asked if I was coming down with a cold. So I packed it away in mothballs and resumed my performance as The Calm Director Who Had Everything Under Control, even though I felt more like Chicken Little.

The sky didn’t fall during our Act One run-through. Just a lot of props. As the orphans bewailed their “Hard Knock Life,” wash buckets and mops flew around the stage as if bespelled by the sorcerer’s apprentice. A wheel fell off at the top of Scene 2, literally upsetting the apple cart. In “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here,” the efficiency of Warbucks’ army of servants was belied by the clang of dropped platters, an inner tube zigzagging across the stage, a cascade of gift boxes, and an avalanche of linens. Alex got bonus points for fielding the tennis ball that bounced into the pit with his left hand, while his right soldiered on with the tune.

Two hours later, Chelsea warbled the reprise of “Maybe” and mercifully ended things. Then we had to go through it all again on Sunday with Amanda’s team.

I quelled my fear that the show would run longer than
The Ten Commandments
and
Ben-Hur
combined and focused on the positives. As the brainless Lily, Nora proved you could chew gum and sing at the same time. Steven made a deliciously oily Rooster, winning laughs with just an artful flip of his fedora. Debra’s “Little Girls” was a comic masterpiece of defiance and disgust, her scenes with Lily and Rooster, a triumph of sleaziness.

I knew I’d had little to do with their success; I pretty much stayed out of their way and let them strut their stuff.

Unfortunately, Long didn’t do the same with me. After our second Act One run-through, he trailed me to the production office, shaking his head.

“That Otis fellow. He’s not very good, is he?”

“It’s a demanding role.”

“Pity you didn’t cast a professional.” When I bristled like an angry cat, he hastily added, “I’m sure you had your reasons. But he’s dragging down the whole show.”

“He’ll get it.”

Long turned on his megawatt smile. “Of course he will. But you understand my concern. There’s a lot riding on this show.”

My reputation. And the theatre’s. The board was counting on a crowd pleaser. Now, I had to deliver.

A
CT TWO WAS MERCIFULLY SHORTER and the run-through mercifully smoother. I fretted that I should have trimmed the Cabinet scene more ruthlessly as well as the dreadful finale: “A New Deal for Christmas.” Was it me or was there something creepy about the President of the United States pretending to whip his reindeer orphans?

After three weeks of giving Bill notes about pace and chiding Kimberlee for her impatience with Otis, I took Reinhard’s advice and told Bill he was failing to capture Drake’s brisk efficiency and warned Kimberlee to knock off the snide remarks. Mr. Method Actor looked stricken. Ms. Bitch looked stunned. But Bill walked marginally faster and Kimberlee kept her mouth shut—at least in front of me.

I saved my hugs for my girls who were working their little tails off—and for my Mackenzies. Paul was evolving from choirboy to radio singer. The others were holding their own in various chorus roles. Even Chelsea thawed once I abandoned my attempts to play helping professional and settled for theatre professional instead. If her emotional moments failed to resonate like Amanda’s, they were less relentlessly upbeat.

Working with Otis had nudged Amanda from a waifish Dickensian orphan to an almost-plucky comic
strip one. An admittedly silly session of scream therapy had helped, too. At first, Amanda regarded me like I had lost my mind, but after a couple of minutes—and a lot of prodding—her timid squeak became a full-fledged shout. Amanda—who barely spoke above a whisper onstage and off. She looked nearly as astonished as I felt. Minutes later, we were both screeching with such abandon that Reinhard stormed into the Smokehouse, fearful that someone was being murdered.