Chapter 2
The Community Center is about half transformed.
The building was originally a church, but after decades of disuse, it was converted and expanded into what it is now – a space to host basketball games, blood drives, and the annual Maple Festival pancake breakfast.
At the moment, the gym appears to be smack in the middle of an identity crisis.
A few hundred folding chairs face a plywood stage that Hannah built over the free-throw line.
Red curtains hang from a pipe rig that also holds up a basketball hoop, which is now cranked up flat against the ceiling because no one could figure out how to take it down.
Stage left is Scotland: a castle wall of painted plywood. If I were to write about the set, I’d call it ‘quaint.’ Hannah, who is halfway up a ladder with a screwdriver in between her teeth, would likely describe it using words her daughters aren’t allowed to repeat.
“Don’t,” she says, when she sees me looking.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a face.”
“How’s it coming along?” I ask.
“On the record?”
“Of course.”
“You can quote me as saying the set construction is proceeding on schedule and under budget.”
“And off the record?”
She doesn’t answer.
A woman I don’t recognize intercepts me at the third row of chairs. She manages to offer me a hand, despite the fact that she’s holding a clipboard and a cup of coffee and wearing a roll of gaff tape on one wrist like a bracelet.
“You’re the journalist,” she says. “I’m Dana. Vivian is my wife. I’d say she’s told me all about you, but she’s told me all about everyone. Coffee? It’s terrible.”
“I’m sure I’ve had worse.”
“You haven’t.” Before I can answer, she pours me a cup from the coffee urn on the props table. It sits between a rubber dagger and a bowl labeled:
BLOOD (CORN SYRUP)
LILY — DO NOT EAT
“Some house rules,” Dana says. “Sit anywhere except the front row. Don’t touch the fog machine, it’s temperamental. And if anyone says the name of the play, get clear of the doors, because there’s a whole procedure and it involves spitting.”
“I’ve heard all about the procedure.”
“Everyone has heard all about the procedure. The cat runs a tight ship.”
I like her immediately, which I make sure to write down in my notebook in my own personal shorthand. A journalist who trusts her instincts should always keep a record of when her instincts show up.
I hear Vivian before I see her. She comes out from behind the curtains mid-sentence– “—then we simply move the interval, darling, the audience will forgive anything if you feed them—” –and crosses the gym floor.
Wearing a cream cardigan over a black shell with heeled boots and a designer scarf tied around her neck, she looks to be dressed for a whole different building in a different town.
Her hair is a silver-streaked bob that has clearly been cut recently, cut well, and certainly not cut in Duskboro.
She takes both my hands like we’ve met. As far as I know, we haven’t.
“Vivian Oleander. We spoke on the phone. I cannot tell you how thrilled we are. New England Byways. I’ve been saying since June that this production deserves coverage beyond the town Facebook group.”
“It’s a short piece,” I say. “Between a foliage map and an ad for a maple museum.”
“It’s something,” Vivian says.
“The magazine wants the curse.”
“Of course they do.” She doesn’t miss a step. “The curse is wonderful copy. Four centuries of theatrical tradition alive and well in a Vermont gymnasium.”
“I’d suggest you hold off on publishing anything about the wiring until after we close,” Dana says. “Just in case the fire marshal happens to read the magazine.”
“Come, let me show you everything,” Vivian says. “Have you seen the cauldron? Dana found the cauldron at an estate sale in Rutland. It’s a genuine antique sap kettle. It has provenance.”
The tour takes approximately eleven minutes and covers the cauldron, the costume rack, the fog machine, and the light board, which is being operated by a fifteen-year-old named Cody.
Vivian calls him ‘our technical director.’ She then shows me the lobby, where a card table has been dressed with a cloth and a cash box and a sign that reads:
TICKETS: $8
STUDENTS AND SENIORS: $5
CHILDREN WHO SIIT STILL: FREE
The cast trickles in through the lobby doors.
I know most of them by face if not by name, which is a permanent condition of living in a town this size.
Ms. Pelham, the one who lost her wig on the exit sign, waves at me with a thermos.
Jackie Chambers from the hardware store, who’s playing Banquo, comes in still wearing her shop apron.
Behind them, in athleisure the color of orange sherbet, carrying a yoga mat for reasons that will presumably soon reveal themselves, is Moonbeam.
“Mari!” Moonbeam hugs me. Moonbeam hugs everyone. I’ve stopped fighting it.
“You’re covering the play! That’s perfect. The energy in this building is so” —she makes a shape with her hands like she’s holding a cantaloupe— “thick right now. You’ll feel it. Are you sensitive to buildings?”
“Only when they’re rebelling against me,” I say, silently grateful that the wards protecting Wardwell Manor have been holding up without incident lately.
“That’s more common than you would think,” she says, unrolling the mat in the aisle before folding herself onto it.
Moonbeam is First Witch, a casting Englebert described, in private, as ‘containment.’ Second Witch is Dorcas Logan from the bakery, who arrives with a pink box of baked goods.
“Day-olds,” she announces to the room and sets the box on the props table next to the corn syrup blood. “Scones, mostly. The lemon ones go first, so govern yourselves.” She sees me and my notebook and points a flour-dusted finger. “The Second Witch keeps this company alive. You can print that.”
“Someone’s gotta, since Viv keeps scheduling rehearsals through dinner,” Dana pipes in as she rushes by, wheeling some sort of lighting contraption behind her.
Third Witch is Tiffany Reagan.
She’s also stationed at the props table, absentmindedly spinning Lady Macbeth’s crown — a thin gold band Hannah cut from sheet brass — in her hands.
“Mari Wardwell.” She sets the crown down on its stand. “I heard they’d let the press in.”
“Tiffany. Hi.”
“That’s great about the magazine thing. Good for you. It’s smart, honestly, pivoting to” —she pauses and gestures vaguely around the room— “this, you know? When the real journalism didn’t work out, I mean.”
I choose to ignore her jab. I’ve gotten very good at that. After all, I’ve been practicing since middle school.
“How’s the salon?” I ask.
“Booked solid.” She angles herself toward me, inching a little closer.
“You don’t want to hear about that, though.
You’re not here for small talk. I know you’re looking for a scoop.
And you know, some of us are doing two jobs around here.
If you’re going to interview anybody, it should be me.
I’m one of the Witches and I’m understudy for Lady M, and frankly, it’s a harder job.
Harder than the main role, I mean. I’ve had to learn my part and her part, all on my own time, with no coaching.
I don’t get any private tutoring from the cat. ”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“Nobody thinks about the understudy until the night the lead can’t go on, and then everyone thinks about the understudy.” She smiles at me through perfect lipstick. “And you never know, do you? With this play. Things happen to people in this play.”
“Are you saying something is going to happen to Pru?”
“Well, I’m not a psychic, Mari. That’s your family.
” The smile holds. “I’m just saying Prudence hasn’t been on a stage since like, the twentieth century.
It’s a very demanding role and some people tend to fold under pressure.
Others of us have been doing four heads of highlights a day for twenty years without ever missing a beat. ”
Pru arrives at ten of seven, still in her blazer, carrying her script.
“He’s not here yet,” she says. “Thank god.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“You know he always comes late,” Dana says. “He gets here at seven-oh-five, every night. Rehearsal starts at seven. He’s worked out that seven-oh-five is the largest possible audience for an entrance.”
At seven sharp, Vivian claps twice from the front row and delivers the speech Hannah warned me about, which turns out to be a fairly benign lecture about community and courage, right up until Dana, from the back, says “Viv. Time,” at which point Vivian stands and says “Thank you, my love. ACT ONE.”
At 7:05 on the dot, the lobby doors swing open — both of them, though just one would have done the trick.
Damien Carter comes through the middle. He is handsome, but he’s handsome in the sort of way that a historic building is beautiful.
You can see it was true, once, and it still is, but it’s obvious that there’s been an extensive effort put into maintenance and upkeep.
He’s wearing a dark coat too warm for August and sunglasses indoors.
“Please, please,” he calls out. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Nobody had stopped. Several people stop now, though, presumably out of confusion.
“STOP,” Vivian calls out. “We need a full run-through tonight, people. We’re starting from the top at every interrup—”
“Everyone,” Damien announces, “this is Skye.”
“We’ve met Skye,” says Dorcas from her position on the stage. “Four times.”
Behind Damien, there’s a girl I hadn’t noticed at first. I’d put her at twenty-three or twenty-four. She’s blonde, wearing a white sundress, and carrying two green juices and a phone mounted on a little stick, filming his entrance. She taps the phone, lowers it, and beams at the room.
“Hi again!” Skye does a small wave with the juice hand. “You guys are all so talented. I cried on Tuesday. Like actually cried.”
Damien’s sunglasses come off in a single practiced motion. His eyes find me and he course-corrects toward my row with his hand already extended.