While Lola was dealing with light cues, Walter took the opportunity to do a vocal workout. Most of the cast were used to his exercises and warm-ups and moved into a circle to begin the night. Rolling their heads, as well as their eyes, shaking their bodies, releasing sounds up and down the scale, and garbling the tongue twisters designed to improve their articulation. “Rubber baby buggy bumpers.” Ten times quickly. The veteran actors took it semi-seriously; the newer ones looked self-conscious, sticking out their tongues, blowing through their lips, and stretching their mouths.
“All right. Knock it off,” Penny said to two young guys who were poking each other and then made notes on her clipboard.
“Open and close your mouths. Tongues up, down, side to side!” Walter demonstrated. “She sells seashells by the seashore!”
The actors repeated the phrase. I could see myself down the shore, walking on the beach, picking up shells and stones, digging my toes in the sand—
“Dodie, thanks for coming,” Lola whispered at my back. “We’ll be underway soon. Having some issues with the lighting on the turntable.”
“No problem.”
Lola shook her blond head. “This is the last time I’m directing.”
“Hey,” Pauli said, backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Hi. Is your Mom here?” Lola asked.
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder as Carol entered the house. Since she ran Snippets hair salon, Carol was the ELT’s hair and wig specialist and had the job of convincing Vernon and a few other men that their thinning heads wouldn’t work with the tricorn hats. Walter, of course, reveled in the eighteenth-century headgear. She stopped to talk with Chrystal, the costume designer.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Lola waved to Carol and strode away with purpose.
“So you’re photographing Eton Town. Nice,” I said.
“Uh, like, tonight I’m watching so I know what it’s about.” He paused. “You know what it’s about?”
“Well, it’s the story of the founding of a New Jersey town, and its citizens, and the American Revolution.”
Pauli nodded wisely. “Got it. Like a history lesson.”
“Kind of. With some singing and dancing and a turntable.” Besides the church hymn, there was also a colonial square dance that ended the Act One wedding scene. Walter loved his choreography.
Pauli ambled down the aisle and plopped into a seat, then peered into his digital camera to practice framing shots. I watched the vocal warm-ups; this was the largest cast I’d seen on an ELT stage. Edna, the Etonville Police Department dispatcher, and Abby, manager of the Valley View Shooting Range, had graduated from zany elderly sisters to genial, friendly neighbors. Their animosity during Arsenic and Old Lace was replaced with a theatrical détente. Besides, Lola had informed them that either they kiss and make up or they had to take a hike. The Banger sisters and some ELT newcomers were doing their best to follow Walter’s instructions; but bored after ten minutes or so, they gave up and sat on the folding chairs that served as the graveyard in Act Two. I saw a few others I knew—the cute actress who played Juliet last spring, texting, Mildred’s husband Vernon, jiggling his hearing aids, and the obnoxious guy who played Romeo, whom we still called Romeo, flirting with a teenage crew member. I also saw Sally, standing at the back of the stage, facing out, performing Walter’s exercises conscientiously. Maybe later I could ask her again about the man on the street. Did Ralph arrest him?
“I brought you some tea,” Carol said in a stage whisper and unscrewed the cap of a thermos, bending her curly head over her task.
“That’s so thoughtful, but I’m really feeling much better.” I sneezed. Geez. I hadn’t sneezed for hours.
She handed me a takeaway cup. “Drink this.”
I sniffed it. “What’s in it?”
“Peppermint and cloves. Good for a sore throat.”
“I don’t have a sore throat anymore and—”
“You’ll be one hundred percent by morning.”
I was already about 90 percent; I wasn’t sure the herb tea would get me the last ten. I sipped the steaming liquid anyway. I was surprised. “Not bad.”
Carol smiled. “I swear by it. I make Pauli drink it every day.”
He was sitting five rows in front of us, camera resting on his chest. “Nice that he’s the ELT photographer.”
“Isn’t it? Of course, I can’t keep up with all of his projects. The computer classes, digital forensics, now photography…well, at least it keeps him out of trouble.” She laughed and sprinted down the aisle.
If she only knew. Eleven months ago he was my email-hacker-in-chief.
By eight thirty, Lola had the lighting cues ironed out, the warm-ups were complete, and Penny had announced “take ten” and “break’s over” and the tech finally began. Lights shifted and the Narrator described the ending of the Revolutionary War, the founding of Etonville, and two families going about everyday life in town. Actors moved onto the stage, the turntable jolted and slowly began to revolve, powered by stage hands who would be dressed as townspeople. Vernon was orating, extra loud, and the two mothers—Edna and Abby—came into view busily miming cooking breakfast. The turntable jolted, trembled, and stopped. Abby latched on to the edge of a kitchen table to steady herself.
“Hold,” Penny shrieked.
Everything stopped. JC jumped onstage to adjust the rotation mechanism, and the actors dropped character. He wiggled something, tapped something else with a hammer, and gave a thumbs-up to Walter.
“Go!” Penny shouted.
So this was stop-and-go… The technical rehearsal continued until the turntable halted again, or a light cue came in late, or Lola wasn’t satisfied with the focus of an instrument.
Tedious, to say the least. I was missing the impact of the story with the constant interruptions, but I saw enough to realize that Walter wasn’t a half-bad playwright. The problem was the other half. Actors’ energy flagged toward the end of Act One, still going after an hour and a half, and even the tricorn hats had wilted.
During one of Penny’s “holds” I slipped to the back of the house and squatted down next to Lola. “Going okay, yes? I mean for a tech rehearsal.”
Lola was frazzled, her hair a tangle where she’d been twisting strands. “You think? This is making Arsenic and Old Lace look like a picnic in the park.”
That was saying a lot, considering that show had had a leaky roof that rained on the scenery and a leading lady who couldn’t act. “Sorry to desert you but I’ve got to pop next door and help Benny close up.”
Lola nodded miserably. “Talk to you tomorrow. If I live that long.”
I patted her arm and slinked out of the house, wrapped up in my down jacket to cope with the night air. I inhaled, staring into a clear sky dotted with bits of stars. It would be a fine day tomorrow. As I tramped through the slushy snow still covering parts of the sidewalk, I marveled at how invested I had become with the Etonville Little Theatre. I took its successes personally and felt bad when things went off-kilter. As they had with Eton Town. They would have done better to stick with the original version and left the history of the town founding to the library. Too late for second guesses now…
By three o’clock Tuesday things had quieted down in the dining room; I took my break by heading next door with a hot plate for tomorrow night’s concessions. I loaded a double burner, to keep the mulled wine and cider punch warm, on a hand truck—refusing Benny’s offer of help—and pushed my equipment to the ELT, avoiding patches of melting ice on the sidewalk.
Lola,