Chapter 31
More cast members begin arriving, many of them already aware that something has gone wrong before they even walk in the door.
The fire truck and small crowd outside are a dead giveaway.
Arthur, Booker, and I are all working on mopping up the water, wringing it out in buckets, carting it off to a utility sink
in the scene shop, and repeating the process.
I feel like the guy in Hades who has to push the rock up the hill, because when I return after emptying the bucket, the puddles
have all filled back up again. The water will surely ruin the stage floor, and we’ve already had to haul the main drape out
to the dumpster.
Connie rushes in through the scene shop door with a man who is carrying a big fan.
When she looks around at all the water, her face falls. “Oh no. Rosie, what are we going to do?”
The man doesn’t wait to be told where to plug the fan in. He moves it to the front of the stage and turns it on, then walks
over to Booker, who points him toward a stack of mops and several Shop-Vacs. The maintenance crew collected every mop they
had and dropped them off about twenty minutes ago.
Connie walks over to stand by my side. “That’s Danny, my husband. Sorry, I should’ve introduced you,” she says absently, obviously
overwhelmed by the scene in front of her.
“No, it’s fine,” I say. “Did you happen to put out a call for fans or towels or... help?”
She nods. “We sent out a text blast, so hopefully we get a good response. Most people around aren’t... well, let’s just
say they aren’t in the best physical condition to help with this kind of cleanup.”
She places a hand on my arm. “But, Rosie, what about the show?” Her gaze snags on something behind me, and she gasps. “Is
that my dress?” The words come out in a wail as she makes her way over to the rack of costumes. Ginny is laying pieces out
flat on a square of dry floor, trying to dry them with a hair dryer she must’ve gotten from home.
Connie picks up the pink fairy godmother gown, which looks anything but sparkly in its current state. Everything is not only
wet, it’s dingy. Brown. Gross.
Connie spins around and looks at me. “We’re going to have to cancel, aren’t we?” The question is laced with meaning. She was
counting on the show to buy the theatre program more time. Without it...
Grace, Dylan, and Veronica have all come in through the back door and now stand a few feet away, eyes full of worry.Another
small group has gathered at the front of the stage. Everyone is looking at me for guidance, and while I feel every bit as
hopeless as the rest of them, I also know I’m the one they’re looking to for answers.
I’m not quitting. I’ve already made that decision. I’m about to tell them all we will make it through, we’ll figure it out,
we’ll band together...
... when Belinda strolls back in.
The smug look on her face and the small group trailing behind her make me think of the mob song in Beauty and the Beast . They may as well be wielding pitchforks and torches.
I think about Arthur’s advice—“Y ou need to deal with your Belinda problem ”—and I draw in a deep breath.
Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.
I don’t feel compelled to say anything to put her in her place, though. Better to show her. She assumes I’ll fold under the
weight of this. Heck, I assumed I would too.
But I won’t. I can’t. My cast is depending on me.
“The show is not canceled,” I say firmly. “The show will go on.”
Belinda scoffs. “Out on the front lawn?”
“If need be,” I counter.
I can feel others starting to gather around us, like a fistfight in a schoolyard.
I pause, gathering myself. “You know what I love best about theatre?” I say, loudly enough that the whole group can hear me.
“It’s a community. It’s a group of people coming together for a common goal.” I draw in a breath. “Before I got here, this
theatre was struggling, but it was well loved. Here at Sunset Hills and in the community. People care. I care.”
Belinda laughs. “ You care?”
I take a step toward her. “Yeah. I do.”
I look at their faces—these people who’ve come to mean a whole lot to me in a very short time.
“I care about this place even more now than I did when I got here, and I’m not about to throw in the dingy, wet towel just
because of a setback.”
Belinda scoffs again, looking around to make sure she’s not the only one who isn’t buying this.
“All that matters is how we respond to it. You have all worked so hard and come too far to quit because of a little water.”
“Um, it’s more than a little water,” Edgar says, just as a perfectly timed drop hits him in the head. He wipes it away.
“Fine, yes. It’s a lot of water. It’s a big, fat mess. But you know what?” My eyes meet Booker’s for a split second, and then
I go on. “So am I.”
I feel the rush of that admission.
“And so are you. We’re theatre people , for crying out loud—we’re as messed up as they come!”
A trickle of laughter and acknowledgment at that.
“We are all in various stages between brilliant and crazy—and that’s what it means to be alive.” Now I look at Arthur. “Someone
a lot smarter than me taught me to embrace the hard stuff because it makes the good stuff that much sweeter. Well, you guys,
this is about as hard a situation as I’ve ever had to deal with during a show.” A quick scan of the crowd tells me they’re
with me. Most of them anyway.
“But this mess is going to make opening night that much sweeter. It’s going to make having an audience that much more special.
If we can get through this, nothing can stop us, and our show will be stronger for it.”
“This show you’re embarrassed by?” Belinda says, eyes hooded under a raised brow.
“Let me correct you there, Belinda.” I face her, and at this rare show of strength, her expression shifts.
Good.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I say honestly. “I’m proud to be here. Proud of all of you and of what we’ve accomplished. You all
have reminded me what it means to be a part of something amazing. We make each other better, and that’s why I believe we can
still pull this off.”
“But how?” someone says.
“By adding a synchronized swimming part to the ballet sequence,” I quip.
A ripple of groans and laughter.
I smile.
“I will tell you that it won’t be easy,” I say.
“We’ll have to roll up our sleeves and get a little dirty.
” I look around, trying to catalog everything that needs to be done.
“The floor will have to be pulled up and repainted. The set pieces will need to be dried out. Some of them repainted. The costumes—” I meet Ginny’s eyes.
“We can start by dry-cleaning them, then see what needs to be remade.”
Others look at her, and she gives me a firm nod, as if to let me know she’s on board. I feel a surge of confidence just from
that one small gesture.
“And the show?” Connie asks. “We haven’t even done a full run-through yet.”
Right.
The show.
“We can practice in the dance studio down the hall,” Veronica says.
“Yes!” I turn toward her. “Good idea. We’ll tape off the floor to the size of the stage and use whatever furniture we can
find to mimic the set pieces.” I look around the circle and see that more of them have gathered. “The word of the day is flexibility .”
“I’d say the word of the day is disaster ,” Belinda muses.
“No.” I look at her, and it’s obvious from the look on her face that no one has dared stand up to her in a long time. “I’m
done looking for the worst in every situation. That is not who I am, and it’s definitely not who I want to be. If we stick
together and stay positive, we can get through this.”
I look around the group, which has continued to grow as word has spread. They’re all focused on me, waiting for me to lead
them. It’s a strange, wonderful feeling because I actually think what I’m saying is landing.
For them and for me.
“I may be the director,” I tell them. “But this isn’t my show. It’s yours. It’s ours . And it’s important—you all know what’s on the line. So if we want to save the Sunset Players, then it’s time for all of us”—I
let my gaze linger on Belinda—“To stop whining and start helping.”
Belinda looks like she wants to roll her eyes, but when the chatter among them is overwhelmingly positive, she resets her face to neutral.
“Where do we start?” Grace asks.
“We need to call in reinforcements,” I say. “Reach out to anyone in the area and see if they want to help us clean up a disaster.”
“If word gets out about this, nobody is going to come see the show,” Evelyn says.
“Let me worry about that,” I say, fresh resolve blooming inside me. “I have a feeling everyone is going to want to see this show now that this has happened.”
Because it’s not only time to tell my people what I’ve been doing the past month and a half; it’s time to tell everyone. The people who love you are meant to share
everything with you—the highs and the lows. The joys and the disappointments.
Revelation is a great thing.
I start divvying up jobs for all the willing helpers as a few others trickle in the door. Spouses and neighbors of cast members,
other residents who got Connie’s text alert—many with towels or fans or heavy-duty Shop-Vacs—all here, all willing to help,
contrary to her initial worry that some of them might not be able to handle it.
Once everyone is situated, I pause and look around.
I take in the scene.
I watch for a brief moment as this group—some of them with no vested interest in the success of our show—work to clean up
the mess. The fire department has gone, leaving all of us here to sort through everything in hopes of sucking up enough water
and drying things enough to make them usable again.
There are a lot of people I’ve never seen before, alongside people like Daisy and Louie, who’ve shown up without being asked.
Theatre is a community .
A beautiful community that I’m proud to be a part of. Whether on a stage in New York City or right here in Wisconsin.
I catch Booker’s eye across the stage and see the way he’s assembled a small group to help move the set pieces out onto the loading dock to dry in the sun. He gives me an encouraging nod, and I hand a mop to Grace’s husband, David, who tells me he took the day off to do what he can to help.
“This show has been so good for Gracie,” David says, taking the mop from me. “She’s singing around the house again! She never
sings anymore, and boy, I love to hear her voice. We moved here so I could be closer to my dad. She left her friends back
in Omaha, and”—his eyes trail across the stage to where Grace is helping Ginny sort through dripping-wet costumes—“She’s happy
again. This show and these people—you—mean everything to her.”
I go still because I understand how being a part of something can change a person’s direction. It can change their life.
But it’s been so long since I was a part of anything that changed mine.
He’s giving me more credit than I deserve, and it hits me sideways, right in the deep part of my big feelings. It almost makes
me cry.
He pushes the mop across the stage, then stops. “A lot of people stop doing the things they really love when they get older.”
He brings his eyes to mine. “I’m not sure why. Those things are what keep us young. So thank you for giving Grace a place
to do that. And for reminding her what it feels like to be happy.”
The nerve endings in my body tingle at that because it dawns on me that I should never be embarrassed by doing something good,
of being a part of something wonderful. This isn’t what I set out to do or who I set out to be.
It’s so much better.