The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  He stepped into the guardhouse and jotted something in a large journal, then grabbed a ring full of keys and rejoined us. “This way, folks.”

  We followed Skeet to a nondescript metal door set flush with the building. Above the door, in faded paint, stage entrance was painted in barely legible letters.

  “Skeet and the other guards are here to make sure nothing gets out of hand, but it’s not their job to clear out the building,” explained Gregory. “As I mentioned, it’s a delicate business, evicting squatters. The last thing we want is to make enemies in the neighborhood through a show of force.”

  “They’re an okay bunch, really,” Skeet said, keys jingling as he unlocked the door. “Mostly young artists. I got no complaints about them. Every once in a while there’s a little tussle or misunderstanding, but they work it out. As a matter of fact, they help keep the place up, in their own way.”

  “How do they do that without water and power?” I asked.

  “Oh, the theater’s still got power. But I control access. There’s no electricity unless I turn it on,” he said as he opened a large electrical panel and flipped a main breaker switch.

  Skeet led the way down a narrow, dimly lit, and unadorned passageway, the pink-painted walls scuffed and dented. I imagined generations of actors hurrying along, eager to be onstage.

  “That way leads backstage,” said Skeet, gesturing to a branching corridor. “And over this way is the main lobby.”

  He opened a door, and we stepped into a marble-lined lobby the size of a cathedral.

  Pillars ascended several stories to a domed ceiling. High above us, painted clouds floated on the concave surface, white against a blue sky and illuminated by hundreds of points of light from the three huge crystal chandeliers. The chandeliers appeared intact, though coated with years of accumulated grime and strewn with enough dust-furred cobwebs to delight a fan of haunted houses. The lobby walls were decorated with richly colored hand-painted murals, and up near the ceiling were richly hued borders in shades of red, green, blue, and ocher. High overhead, carved terra-cotta figures created a resemblance to an Indian temple.

  It was clear why theaters such as these had been called “picture palaces.” I could only imagine what it had looked like upon its grand opening, or what it must have felt like for someone who had never even experienced television to walk in and behold all of this, in the lead-up to watching beautiful people and exotic places on screen.

  I snapped photos like mad and started my to-do list. At the moment, that list included just about everything, from replacing the carpet to refurbishing the sconces to checking out the state of the ventilation shafts.

  Noticing my interest in the terra-cotta figures, Gregory explained, “Middle Eastern and Indian styles were popular in the twenties. They’ll need a little work, as well. I don’t suppose . . . ?”

  “I’ll find someone.” I nodded, still taking it all in. The theater’s abundant gold leaf and luxurious appointments, the opulent, exotic, and dizzyingly detailed frescoes, the ornate plaster moldings, and the sets of heavy velvet drapes covering niches could not disguise the overriding air of neglect and decay. The textiles were rotting, the tapestries sagged, and the spots on the ceiling were clear signs of water damage. Everywhere I looked, the once-fine finishes were marred, dinged, and faded, the murals scratched and gouged.

  I sniffed. The air hinted at mildew, and there were rusty stains and something that looked like black mold in the crevices of the ornate plasterwork overhead.

  Unless I missed my bet, the theater was not too far gone . . . but it was getting there, fast.

  I wondered why the original contractor hadn’t at least cleaned out the interior prior to starting work, but I supposed that if the focus was on fixing the foundation and the plumbing, the crew might have worked primarily from the outside. Scattered holes in the walls indicated the contractor had done some exploratory work, presumably to evaluate the plumbing and wiring within the walls. But I saw no signs that anything more had been done—certainly not as much as I would have expected at this point in the project.

  Was that why the contractor had been fired? If so, why wouldn’t Thibodeaux simply say so?

  “Ah, the concession stand,” I said as we neared the glass display cases, now sadly empty, which were decorated with Art Deco–style swoops and fans fashioned from metal. The elaborate Art Deco design continued onto a nearby trash bin. On the wall by the shelves that had once held candy was a large, incongruous whiteboard. I looked closer: It was a chart with a long list of chores, such as “Take Out The Trash,” “Bathroom Detail,” “Kitchen Kleaning Krew.” At least a dozen names were scrawled on the chart. Skeet hadn’t been kidding when he said the squatters were organized.

  Something skittered past us; I saw it in my peripheral vision, but when I turned it was gone. Probably a rat.

  Gregory looked to see what had captured my attention. “See something?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. I sure hate to see those candy shelves empty, though. The highlight of any trip to the theater, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Gregory chuckled. “I was always partial to Junior Mints.”

  “I’m more of a popcorn and Red Vines gal, but I’ll trade you for some.”

  The large glass popcorn popper and brass cash register appeared to be vintage—and intact.

  “How do you suppose all of this stuff made it through the years?” I asked. “Wasn’t there an indoor flea market held here, for instance?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s much value in an old popcorn machine that more than likely doesn’t work anymore,” said Skeet.

  “That register could fetch a pretty penny,” I said.

  “Maybe. But you’d have to haul it out—those things are solid brass. They can weigh more than a hundred pounds,” said Skeet. “Not impossible, but probably not worth it to a common thief.”

  I continued to snap photos and assess the many signs of decrepitude, such as the flourishing colony of mushrooms growing on the once-plush carpet in one corner. The musty, closed-up smell was pervasive due to a lack of ventilation. Had the theater not been so solidly built, and the original roof made of durable Spanish tiles, it would have been a ruin by now.

  Still, the place was stunning. Even more so than in my memory. I felt a little-girl giddiness at being allowed to poke around all I wanted behind curtains and doors designated employees only.

  But then . . . there it was again. Something moving in my peripheral vision. Shadows in the corner of my eye, just on the edge of my field of vision.

  I turned my head sharply, but nothing was there.

  “What is it?” asked Gregory. “Did you see something?”

  “Just a trick of the light, I imagine.”

  But then . . . I heard it. Whispers. A giggle at once far-off and right behind me.

  “Do you hear that?” I asked the two men.

  “Hear what?” Skeet asked.

  Gregory shook his head.

  Ghosts? Squatters? An overactive imagination?

  The barely there whispering was driving me nuts. I had encountered it before, and all I have to say is that whoever devised this system of ghost-human communication had a lot to answer for.

  Then I remembered that Hildy Hildecott had appeared and spoken to me as if she were a full-bodied living person. I wondered what that meant, if anything.

  I took a quick moment to breathe and ground myself, touching the gold ring on the chain around my neck. My mother had given me the ring, and her mother had given it to her. It had come to serve as a talisman for me.

  I should have done this before entering the Crockett Theatre. Given my sensitivity to ghosts—which appeared to be getting stronger all the time—how would I not attract the attention of spirits in a place such as this? As I had learned these past few years, the odds of my detecting a supernatural resident im
proved as a building’s age increased. Landon had pointed out that it was simple math, really—the more people who dwelled within a residence, the likelier it was that a few of their spirits remained behind.

  Not only was the Crockett Theatre nearly a century old, but once upon a time, it had showcased actors, imaginative and creative people who assumed and shed dozens of personas over the course of their careers. Did the years of actors inhabiting other lives, of “becoming” other people, however temporarily, leave an impression that lingered after death? Could what I was sensing be the resonance of things past, a supernatural echo rather than an actual ghost reaching out to me?

  I glanced at Skeet and Gregory. They didn’t seem to notice a thing.

  “Theater designers used to compete to create ever-more-fantastical movie venues,” said Gregory, breaking into my thoughts. “Here in the Bay Area, most theaters were Art Deco and Spanish revival. The Crockett is an example of ‘Moroccan Renaissance,’ though with a strong Art Deco influence in the fluid lines, such as the metalwork at the concession stand.”

  “It’s stunning,” I agreed.

  “Isn’t it?” said Gregory with a tone of reverence. “Back in the day, theaters really served as a center of social life. Here at the Crockett they had a restaurant, art galleries, dance floors . . .”

  “Not exactly like visiting the multiplex,” I said, and Skeet chuckled.

  Once we left the main lobby, the original finishes were covered with a coat of faded pink paint, a bilious hue somewhere between bubble gum and Pepto-Bismol. In some areas the paint had been slapped directly on top of the wallpaper, which was now peeling away in sagging strips. I had seen this before in older buildings: In the 1950s it was a common renovation “shortcut” by those who associated the original design and decoration with their parents’ generation.

  “Back then, people didn’t just come to watch the movie—going to the theater was an occasion, an evening out,” Gregory continued. “There were entire string orchestras up onstage to entertain the audience before the show; sometimes there were ballets or vaudeville acts. And then the Mighty Wurlitzer organ, hidden beneath the floor, would take over.”

  “It must have required quite a crew to keep things running smoothly,” I commented.

  “It certainly did. The stage crew, of course, but also dozens of smartly uniformed ushers. Not only did they escort the patrons to their reserved seats—there was no such thing as general admission—but they functioned as crowd control. It required skill and diplomacy to turn the house, ushering out the previous audience and bringing in the new one in a timely manner.”

  “It’s hard to imagine what it was like back then,” Skeet said, “when people were so hungry for entertainment.”

  “Even during the Great Depression, when many people were struggling, they nonetheless scraped together the money to come to the picture show,” said Gregory.

  His words reminded me, once again, of Hildy Hildecott. What was her story?

  I thought I saw someone in the corner of my eye and whirled around.

  “You okay?” Gregory asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said.

  “A big old place like this can get spooky,” said Skeet. “I swear I’ve heard and seen more than a few odd things while working here . . . On the other hand, like I said, a lot of these squatters are creative types. And they’re good at hiding. So it’s probably just them.”

  As we continued our tour of the theater, I spotted signs of the squatters: half-burned candles here and there, a few faded flowers, small piles of books and personal effects jumbled in niches and corners. But there were also signs of care: A large plastic garbage pail had been placed in the middle of one corridor where water stains on the ceiling directly overhead indicated the roof was leaking. There were other indications of upkeep: The hard surfaces had been dusted and wiped clean, and the tile floors behind the concession booth had been swept.

  As I had mentioned to Gregory, empty buildings still require regular care and maintenance. If people don’t inhabit them, Mother Nature will.

  And it would be a fantasy to live in a place like this. Certainly better than living on the streets.

  Gregory led the way to the double doors to the main theater, and we walked in.

  Red plush seats were ripped and dirty, the ornate wall decorations—which once upon a time had included an actual waterfall—had long since been abandoned, and the ornate ledges and carved ornaments were caked in grime. Onstage, the massive fringed and embroidered curtain was still beautiful, its golden spangles sparkling in the overhead stage lights. Unfortunately, the material had begun to shatter and split, with long tears ruining the once-fine drapery.

  I could practically see this theater full of people, a smartly dressed usher standing behind the velvet curtains at the side doors, flashlight in hand, like a Hopper painting I had seen at the Museum of Modern Art.

  Flanking the stage were two bejeweled statues that resembled a cross between a Buddha and a genie, with red eyes that lit up.

  “Okay, now that’s a little creepy, I’ll grant you,” Gregory said with a chuckle. “But they’re original, so the ‘golden deities’ have to stay.”

  “I remember those guys,” I said. “When I was a kid, I came here once for a double feature. I felt like they were watching us the whole time, with those red glowing eyes.”

  “Did they scare you?”

  “Actually, I liked them.” I shrugged. “I’m like that.”

  I gazed at the statues for another moment, daring them to move.

  Once again, I thought I saw something in my peripheral vision, but when I turned to look, it was gone. Then came the whispering, and the kind of shushed murmur one might hear at a large public event—an audience shifting in their seats in anticipation, maybe?

  And . . . I smelled the aroma of fresh popcorn popping.

  “Ready to meet the squatters?”

  Skeet’s voice startled me.

  “You okay?” he asked me, looking concerned.

  “Yeah, sorry. We’re meeting the squatters?”

  He nodded. “This way.”

  Chapter Four

  They should be holding their meeting right about now,” Skeet said as he led the way back up the aisle, toward the lobby.

  “The squatters have regular meetings?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” Gregory said. “As we mentioned, they’re very organized.”

  It figures, I thought to myself. The fantasy of living in an ancient theater was all fine and good, until you realized you had to go to meetings. I would rather work a twelve-hour day on a jobsite than attend a company meeting—and Turner Construction meetings usually consisted only of me, Dad, Stan, and our current foremen. Even the promise of snacks didn’t make it more tolerable.

  As Stan had pointed out more than once, it was a good thing I had a knack for renovation. I was not a good fit for the corporate world.

  We passed through the spectacular lobby and continued down a rather grim pink hallway to a mirrored vestibule. Handprints in bloodred paint adorned the mirrors, and a couple of the panels were shattered and cracked. Various bejeweled and beaded strings hung like decorative stalactites from the ceiling, swaying slightly in an undetectable breeze.

  Skeet paused in front of a door. An Art Deco sign above it indicated: ladies’ lounge.

  “The squatters meet here? In the ladies’ lounge?” I asked.

  Skeet nodded and waved us through.

  Once upon a time, ladies’ lounges put the “rest” in “restrooms.” They were elaborate spaces, with upholstered and tasseled chaise longue “fainting couches” as well as well-lit makeup stations in an outer room, and toilets and sinks in a separate interior room. I wondered if the plumbing still functioned. The lack of reliable bathroom facilities always gave me pause whenever I fantasized about adopting an itinerant lifestyle.
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br />   This ladies’ lounge still had its chaise longues and marble counters running along the sides with mirrors overhead, but there was also an old desk in one corner, full of papers, and on one chair were a pillow and a neatly folded blanket. What looked like an old movie screen, torn on one side, covered one wall. On another, a section of the old wallpaper had peeled away, and on the bare plaster, surrounded by paisley decorations, was painted: “Affectations can be dangerous.” Books were stacked along one ledge, and candles and vases of wildflowers studded all four corners. Clearly, this was someone’s home, however temporary.

  Several heads turned to stare as we walked in.

  The woman who stood to greet us wore a long, flowing white skirt over a cream-colored leotard, and several long pale scarves were wound loosely around her neck. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and stood with erect posture, her shoulders held back in an almost military stance.

  “Hello, Skeet,” she said. “Who are your friends?”

  “Hi, Isadora. These are the folks I told you about. Listen up, people,” said Skeet in a commanding voice. “This is Mr. Thibodeaux and Ms. Turner—”

  “Mel is fine,” I interrupted.

  “Mel Turner,” Skeet continued. “They have something important to say, so pay attention.”

  His announcement was greeted with rebellious hoots, though one or two of the twentysomethings snapped their fingers or fluttered their hands in some kind of signal. The standing woman, Isadora, just gave a low chuckle.

  “Sir, if you two are okay here, I’m about to go off shift,” Skeet said in a quiet voice to Gregory. “Thad will be coming on for the night.”

  “Of course, Skeet. I think we’re fine,” said Gregory, glancing at me.

  I nodded.

  “Does he need your permission?” asked one young woman.