The Home For Wayward Ladies (21 page)

The aftermath of that night floods my mind with as much potency: that was the night that Eli almost ruined everything. We get out of the bathtub and he pulls Hunter to the porch swing for a cigarette. Even though I warned him not to, he foolishly introduces the idea of them becoming something more than what they ought to be. As soon as he has, all the fun they’d been having stops like a carnival ride in the rain. Before that, they’d been carrying on behind my back like I wasn’t smart enough to notice. They hid their secret trysts in practice rooms on top of grand pianos. With graduation around the corner, there was nothing for them to lose but their inhibitions. That is, until Eli lost himself.

The morning after the Halloween party, the two of them are barely on speaking terms. Hunter calls me in a panic to ask if I can host the Ladies in my dorm room for some weed induced peer mediation. I pack my bowl to the brim and serve cookies I stole from the cafeteria. As soon as we’ve taken a toke, I make it very clear that they are better off as friends. After a few bites of oatmeal raisin, I force Eli to give in; sorry/not sorry, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I write an official contract on the back of my lecture notes from 20
th
Century Musical Theory. He signs away his love on the dotted line. Hunter initials. I am thankful to put this confusion behind us so we can march forward as I happily stamp the form “denied.”

In the memory box, I find the original copy of that contract. It’s tucked under a program from our production of
The Baker’s Wife
. Its ink seems to have been smudged by so many tears that it looks as if it has been run through the washing machine with all of his other dirty laundry.

Still, I don’t regret being the knife that cut their cheese. Eli was too blinded by love to see Hunter’s faults because Hunter was the queen of disguising them. He always managed to project an air of innocence as he turned all potential suitors into carrion. New admirers were continuously pulled into that boy’s orbit. They lined up like they could pull the sword from the stone, like they had what it takes to avoid being added to the piles of the dead and dying that were collected in the briar patch below.

Throughout our college years, Eli circled Hunter’s fortress like a falcon, triumphant for having managed to outlast the carnage for so long. Our senior year, however, that schmuck decided to get all “now or never.” He began his approach for final landing feeling impervious. Hunter, on the other hand, knew that the only way to protect himself from invasion was for the drawbridge to be raised. Upon denial, Eli frantically tried to gain access from any other angle. While his climb to the lofty vantage had taken him the majority of four years, his descent was instantaneous. As the ground approached, he had the notion to extend his talons toward any branch that might help him break his fall. Hunter was scared shitless.

Frankly, Eli was starting to scare everyone. Throughout their lingering affair, he had gone completely meshuggie. What had once been a confident and composed young man had now stopped eating, sleeping and, from the looks of it, washing his hair. People would rush up to me in the halls of the Conservatory like I was carrying a crystal ball. Even our professors were asking me what the hell was wrong with him.

And the reason why people cared? To date, I don’t think Mackinaw ever saw someone so talented as Eli Bodner-Schultz. When that man directs a show, he runs rehearsal like every instinct has been appointed by God. Even back then, he knew things about making good theater that the rest of us couldn’t dream of being taught. The entire Conservatory could see Eli’s mind was his future. I couldn’t let him waste it on a boy. Not even Hunter Collier. 

As I continue to rummage through the memory box, I find dozens of other photos. It wouldn’t take Scooby and the Gang longer than a commercial break to determine the common theme. There’s a picture of Hunter smiling at an out-door barbecue. There’s another picture of Hunter lounging on the bleachers in the stadium. There are pictures of Hunter wearing a multitude of costumes to document every show we’ve ever done. And then there are the notes, letters that were passed back and fourth during History of Theater while our professor wept honest to God tears about the death of Moliere. Eli hasn’t scrapped a scrap.

Suddenly, I get a chill that starts in my taint and dances its way to my tongue. It makes my skin crawl to consider how Eli still lusts after Hunter even though he’d swear that isn’t true. And now what have I done? I let Danny get them this gig because I thought it best for Eli to focus his attention away from cock and on his fledgling career.

And then there’s Hunter who obviously needed an escape from the lingering grip of his OCD. With Hunter and Eli driving toward the blissful serenity of the Poconos, I can’t help but think I’ve put Hunter in harm’s way. I was so stupid to think Eli’s enthusiasm was for the work. Rather, the mounting evidence of his deranged fascination splayed out in the memory box before me is a red flag that Eli is not to be trusted.

I rush to my phone and call Hunter. It goes straight to voicemail. I hear the front door open and close and I hurry to stash the mementos away.

“Baboo?” Danny calls, “I have sandwiches.” I am too busy covering my tracks to respond. “Where are you?” he says, his voice sounding particularly lonely.

As his footsteps approach, I chuck the box to the top of the closet. When you’re in such a frenzy that you cannot force yourself to play it cool, it’s always best to be outrageous. Having been robbed of the capacity to come up with a better plan, I take off my pink underwear and splay myself against the wall of Eli’s books. When Danny discovers me, he snickers like a schoolboy.

“I thought you said that you were hungry.”

“I didn’t say I was hungry,” I reply, pressing my ass out toward him. “I said that I was ravenous.”

He puts the bag of takeout on the dresser and takes my naked body from behind. As he begins the systematic exploration of my anatomy, I do everything I can to focus on my breathing. When I let Danny force his way inside, it pinches more than usual because I can’t relax. Thank God for small favors, he starts out slow, which offers my body a modest reprieve. But try as I might to feel contented- I have a boyfriend that loves me, an agent that wants to make me a star, a pastrami sandwich just waiting to be eaten- I can’t shake the sense of pending doom.

My eye wanders back to Eli’s box and it’s ticking like a telltale heart. I know then what I have to do. I have got to stop them from destroying each other, before Eli loses his mind to the never-can-be and Hunter, once more, becomes the hunted. But how?

26

ELI

The smell of mildew in the theater attacks with the tenacity of mustard gas. It overwhelms my senses and causes a tear to trickle down my cheek. Hunter mocks concern. “Has the ice queen finally begun to melt?”

“I can’t help it,” I say, daubing myself dry. “When Grotowski wrote
Towards a Poor Theater
, I think he was talking about this awful place right here.”

Standing in the back of the house, I can see the stage is empty. Empty, that is, except for the silhouette of someone sitting in a chair. “Hello?” I say, trying to make out a face. I wait, but it does not respond. I call louder. “Hello?”

Hunter slaps my arm. “Oh, for cripes sake, Eli. That’s not a person. It’s not even real.”

“Are you sure?” I whisper, in case he is mistaken.

“Positive. Eli, look. It’s a bigger dummy than you.”

He drags me down the sloping aisle so we can take a better look. There aren’t escape stairs leading to the stage, so we have to take a running jump. Hunter sticks his landing. Like all things in his regard, it’s a perfect ten. My foot, however, catches the apron and I wind up face first at his feet. I’m so close that I can smell the rubber on his Keds. 

“All these years and you still fall for me.”

“Har-dee-fucking-har,” I reply, brushing myself off. “I’m going to bruise like Rihanna and you’re busy making jokes.”

Hunter was right. The person sitting on the stage isn’t real. In fact, had the Blue Fairy from
Pinocchio
flown in, she would sooner turn a coffee table into a yak than set her wand to work upon this eyesore. It’s a life-sized mannequin sitting in a wicker chair. She wears a peach Victorian gown. Her cuffs are trimmed with lace and her lumpy hands are paper mâché. Her wig is as unruly as it is blonde.

“Either this thing is the source of all evil, or someone around here has a fucking sick sense of humor.”

“Lady, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Hunter says.

“That we should get the fuck out of here before this gains the power to eat our souls?”

“Not quite,” Hunter squeals. “Scary puppet makeover! Let’s find the costume shop so we can slip our friend here into something more comfortable.” He is heading into the wings when the shadows he’s approaching move.

Whoever it is, her voice is pitched offensively high. “I can see that you’ve met Sister Charlotte.”

“Yes, I suppose we have,” I answer, mortified. “I’m sorry if we disturbed her.” I fuss toward Hunter so he knows to fix the hem of Sister Charlotte’s gown which he had mussed.

A young woman with a mess of straggly hair cut to her chin steps into the light. She wears impossibly short cut-offs whose fray is so high in her crotch that I expect to see string. She’s pretty enough, in her own masculine way. The tool belt that runs her circumference, however, couldn’t be anything more than decoration because, judging by the squalor we are surrounded by, I can’t imagine she’s too handy.

“You couldn’t disturb Sister Charlotte if you tried.” She walks over and taps on the dummy’s forehead. It’s hollow. “Most theaters use a ghost light to keep the spirits at bay. The original owner always said that she wanted to haunt the place, so we let her. Sister Charlotte’s here to keep her company. It’s the only way she’ll let us go about our lives.” 

“Well, if those living among us may make an introduction, I’m Hunter Collier, the choreographer for
I’ll Take Manhattan
.” He presents his timid hand like a debutante making her debut. “This here is Eli Bodner-Schultz, the show’s director.” The way he says it makes it sound so official that I could scream.

“I’m Mandy.” She announces the name like it should ring a bell. “My cousin is Danny Olsen, the producer who’s dating your friend Nick.” As soon as she says Danny’s name, the familial resemblance becomes uncanny. She and Danny share the same painfully chiseled chin, although he wears it better. “I’m going to be your stage manager, sillies!” She trumpets this news as if confetti were to fall. “I’ve been at the Pocono Show Barn for three seasons, so when Danny called to ask if I could put in a word on your behalf, I took it straight to Mr. Vallenzino.” With this, she’s whipped herself into a full lather. I find her arms wrapped around my waist. “I’m so happy to meet you!” When her head finds the nape of my neck, I catch a permeating whiff of sawdust in her tangled hair. She releases me and sets her sights on Hunter who is poised to demur.

“Mandy, as stage manager, it’s safe to say our sanity is in your hands. Any family of Danny’s is as good as family to me. But as eager as I am to consummate our union with a hug, I’m afraid that I’ve worked up quite an aroma.”

“Of course,” she says, “how stupid of me. You both probably want a shower. Follow me- I’ll show you the shortcut to staff housing.” If nothing else, the girl seems efficient. That should come in handy. After all, if the director is the brain and the choreographer is the body, then the stage manager is definitely the heart. It is their responsibility to be responsible: rehearsal schedules, calling cues, babysitting actors, making sure that when the director takes a break, everyone leaves him alone so he can use the john instead of pooping in his pants. Over the years at Mackinaw, I gained a reputation for eating my stage managers alive. But those are the ones who were weak. As long as Mandy doesn’t play her part like a wilted hothouse flower, I won’t work up an appetite.

Hunter, eager to wash his grimy puckersnoot, has already pulled ahead. While attaching myself to the train as de facto caboose, I poke my head into the dressing rooms. Like everything else here, they are in shambles. The only explanation I can think of for its condition is that perhaps the last production here was performed by acrobatic raccoons.

Outside the stage door, the first thing I do is check for bees. There is nothing to mar the crystalline sky, so I happily follow Mandy and Hunter through the parking lot into a clearing in the woods. “The house is right through here,” Mandy says. “This route shaves 47 seconds off the commute; I timed it with a stopwatch. Fair warning though: make sure you keep an eye out when you walk through here. Last summer an actor got bit by a rattler. Oh, don’t look so scared- it wasn’t a big to-do; he was fine after the paramedics got him to stop convulsing.”