Screen Play

by Chris Coppernoll

  “Do you like it?” I asked Tabby.

  She hesitated, poker-faced. “It looks fine,” she finally said. “When you’re finished, see Laura in makeup. She’ll need to try out some looks on you. Wear the dress so she can see what you’ll be wearing. Oh, and make sure nothing gets on it.”

  Tabby disappeared around the corner before she’d finished her sentence, off to corral other actors for the start of dress rehearsal, I presumed. I left the shoes in their box, making my way down the long backstage hall toward makeup. Helen appeared from her dressing room just as I passed by her door and halted when she saw me.

  “What is that they’ve got you wearing?” she said in a voice every bit as disapproving as Audrey Bradford herself.

  “It’s one of my costumes,” I said. “I was just trying it on …”

  Helen frowned at the dress, her eyes darting to mine, then back down to the dress. She turned without speaking, then snapped down the narrow hallway, her patent leather flats striking the floor like she was giving it a spanking.

  “Dinner?” Avril offered.

  “Yes, please.”

  “You look tired,” she said, sitting next to me in the back row of the Carney following the first dress rehearsal. The houselights had been lowered like a Christmas candlelight service, and the effect was calming. Avril crossed one leg over the other. She’d cast off her Roxy Dupree costume and come home to her Avril clothes, always more California than New York.

  Maybe it was the lighting, but it suddenly struck me just what a star she was becoming. Watching Avril bring Roxy Dupree to life on the Carney stage, seeing her languid and beautiful now after rehearsal, so easy with this vagabond life, it felt like catching a glimpse of someone just before the inevitable moment arrives when stardom catapults them into the stratosphere. Soon Avril would be one of those celebrities who dons dark sunglasses to dodge paparazzi, drives incognito behind the tinted windows of her Escalade, and walks Hollywood’s red carpet on Oscar night with cameras flashing. Hollywood’s fast lane would one day whisk her away.

  Harriet and another actor, Melissa Ginch, approached us, taking silent steps up the long aisle toward the exit.

  “Time to check out the new girl,” Harriet said in jest. She and Melissa drew closer.

  “I hope Tabby didn’t wear you out today. Molly couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

  “Still here,” I said, reaching up to shake Harriet’s hand, which she offered without hesitation. It almost felt like a high five. “We ran the entire show this morning.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing the same thing we’re doing, but it took us all day to get through dress rehearsal.”

  “I think it’s going to be a marvelous show,” Avril said, her voice a confident arbiter of unseen possibilities. “One more full rehearsal tomorrow, then we open.”

  Marshall Graham joined us. Now the landlord, the witness in apartment 20, and the police detective—their respective roles in the show—formed a semicircle around Avril and me.

  “So, what’s the verdict? Are we going out for drinks?” Marshall asked, draping one arm around Harriet’s neck and the other around Melissa’s. “After all, it is both Friday night and New Year’s Day.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Harriet said. “Time to corrupt the new girl.”

  “Harriet, I’m sure Harper’s been around theater long enough. She knows acting is just a ruse, an excuse to go out for cocktails afterwards,” Melissa said.

  “Absolutely,” Marshall said. “We’re part of a long and distinguished tradition.”

  Avril turned to me, raising her eyebrows for my vote. This put a wrinkle in our dinner plans, but acting is by its nature a social affair, and I could tell she wanted to go. All I needed to do was say yes, and the five of us would be off to the nearest Manhattan watering hole. The bar would be nice too, a ritzy lounge in a five-star hotel within easy walking distance of the Theater District. The tables would be a polished dark mahogany, glossy even in dim lighting. There’d be brass rails running along the bar for elbows and matching foot rails beneath for tired feet. Bottles of colorful booze, stacked in layers of different shapes and sizes, would be displayed behind the mirrored bar. We would all bond and exchange backstage gossip and share the real scoop on what it was like working with the great Helen Payne.

  But I’d waited so long to hear His voice. And now He was speaking.

  Since leaving Chicago I’d waited to hear something, anything from the God Bella affectionately referred to as “Abba” and whom I knew best as the Rescuer who made my phone ring. I recognized His voice instantly, soft and gentle as a reed in the sand, but it boomed against my spirit like the breaking of an ocean wave on the shore.

  He wanted me to tell the truth. In the past, I’d never had any trouble telling half-truths. But my Rescuer wasn’t keen on half-truths. In fact, He had nothing to do with them.

  Avril swiveled toward me in her seat, an obvious cue. I paused to think about the night of Ben’s phone call back in Chicago and what I’d been mulling over in my mind before that call. How I’d been begging God for a miracle when He suddenly carved a narrow passageway out of my despair with Ben’s voice: Would you like to come to New York and be in my show?

  “Actually,” I said, surprised to hear myself saying the words, “I was thinking I’d catch a church service tonight after dinner. There’s a beautiful old church I saw on my way to the Carney yesterday. I noticed they’re having a special New Year’s Day service.”

  Harriet’s eyes widened. Melissa reacted with the look of someone repulsed, and Marshall extended his chin as if deliberating the words of a village idiot. Now they all knew: Helen’s new understudy was “religious.” If they’d lacked something to gossip about over drinks before, they lacked no more.

  “Okay, well that sounds like a big no,” Melissa said, backing her way out from Marshall’s arm. Avril looked embarrassed and watched the rest of the cast mates peel off toward the door.

  “We’ll catch up with you later,” Marshall said as they disappeared under the red glowing EXIT sign.

  Avril stared at me.

  “I never expected that out of you. A church service? Maybe a little warning next time?”

  “I meant to ask you earlier about the service, but it’s been so crazy I hadn’t had a chance.”

  Avril got up from her chair without making eye contact with me. “I think it’s fine, but you didn’t have to scare everybody off. I don’t even remember you going to church when we lived in Chicago.”

  “I didn’t then, but I really want to go,” I said, touching her arm. “And I want you to come with me. A stranger in a strange city and all that. Will you?” I lifted my eyebrows into an obvious please.

  “It’s not even Sunday.”

  “Avril, you’ll love it. It’s a beautiful old church with a Roman arch doorway in front, and they’ve hung a wreath in the middle and strung it with Christmas lights.”

  “You’re talking about the one on West Forty-seventh?”

  “I think that’s it. What if we just went to dinner, then spent some time in a quiet church reflecting on the past and praying for the future?”

  I wondered what was going on in Avril’s head as she paused to think. Maybe she grasped that church was a sanctuary, a sacred place of prayer. Maybe she’d say yes for her love of me, or because Jon had already called her to say he was busy. Maybe she’d think it could be fun, that church was just another kind of show in different part of Broadway.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” she finally said. Whatever her reason, I felt an understated but indescribable sensation of joy. I’d done what He’d asked, and we weren’t following the gang to the bar as we always had in Chicago. We were following the Spirit to church.

  ~ Seven ~

  A Gothic stained-glass window glowed bright with yellows and blues, lik
e a medieval rainbow in front of the Fellowship Community Church. We stood motionless on the sidewalk, feeling nervous about entering and yet warmly received by its invitation to find sanctuary and rest inside.

  “It’s beautiful,” Avril said. A reverence for the sacred had softened her voice

  I thought of Hollywood’s old black-and-white movies The Bishop’s Wife and It’s a Wonderful Life and how the stone chapel seemed to welcome Avril and me like small-town memories of a place we’d never been.

  I took hold of the metal pipe handrail running up the center of the steps, cold even through my gloves, and together we climbed five stone stairs to the entrance.

  Avril reached for the black wrought iron handle on the wooden door. She pushed the lever down with her thumb, and we stepped into a well-lit vestibule.

  Two women greeted us in a small reception area; a volunteer wearing a name tag that read “Tabitha,” and a college-age girl whose name I didn’t catch. They invited us to hang up our things on a row of wall pegs or drape them on box cubbies below already piled over with coats, scarves, and hats.

  Avril and I shed our winter coats and walked into the sanctuary. The room was larger than I’d expected, illuminated with ceiling lights above a long aisle. Church pews arranged in symmetrical rows on either side faced a slightly elevated pulpit. The gathered crowd of sixty or so seemed unabashedly friendly. They stood together in groups of two and three, smiling and engaged in animated conversations.

  A petite, plain-looking woman reached out to us with a small, delicate hand.

  “Hi, I’m Katie,” she said, a soft Midwesterner’s accent rounding out some of her words. I took her hand and shook it. Katie’s looks were striking in their innocence. Her face projected an uncomplicated brightness, like fresh snowfall on farmland, and her eyes were like two islands floating on the surface of a deep blue ocean. She dressed in casual blue jeans and a beautiful duck white button-up that told she didn’t lose much sleep over what the fashionable crowd at Odessa was wearing.

  “Hi, I’m Harper. This is my friend Avril.”

  “Is this your first time visiting Fellowship Community Church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome,” she said, letting go of my hand to shake Avril’s. “We’re not sure what to expect for turnout tonight, because we’ve never done a New Year’s Day service before, but we’re glad you came.”

  A young man hurried to Katie’s side, giving off the same impression of youthfulness with his cropped hair and a thin beard he looked barely old enough to grow.

  “Hi, I’m David,” he said. “First, welcome. Second, can I interrupt your conversation for just a second?” He turned to Katie.

  “Has Ruthann come in yet?”

  “I haven’t seen her,” Katie said.

  David chewed at his bottom lip as if sorting through a problem.

  “Okay, well … I’ll figure something out,” he said before dashing off. A few feet away, David turned back as if remembering his manners and waved to us. “Nice meeting you.”

  “That’s David, my husband,” Katie said, looking won over by even his clumsy moves. “Ruthann’s one of the students who’s supposed to lead worship tonight, but it looks like she’s not going to make it.”

  “Oh dear,” Avril said.

  “Don’t worry. David will find a replacement.”

  “Is David a pastor here?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound judgmental. They both just seemed so young. Early, maybe mid-twenties, but certainly no older.

  “Well, he’s the only pastor.” Katie laughed. “We’re a new church plant still in our first year.”

  I thought Avril would say “Oh dear” again, but maybe it was just me who was thinking it.

  “It looks like the service is about to start,” Katie said, looking up at David, who was behind a microphone on the platform. “If you’d like to find a seat, we can talk again after.”

  We sat on the right-side pews where most of the group had congregated. College students mainly, probably from NYU and Columbia University, Avril guessed. A third of the group was made up of Asian students. There was also a surprising number of older folks sprinkled throughout, giving the church an open-to-all feel.

  “If I can have everyone’s attention,” David said, drawing our eyes to the stage. “I want to thank everybody for coming out tonight. We’re going to start this first New Year’s Day service with prayer and worship. I’ve asked Bobby Mars to kind of jump in here at the last second. So why don’t we go to the Lord in prayer while Bobby gets set up.”

  An unassuming dark-haired man, thirty-something, started making his way to the elevated platform. Bobby looked like the kind of guy who probably collected Star Wars action figures in junior high. He wore a black T-shirt and black jeans, and his pale, skinny arms jutted out of his shirt sleeves like pretzel sticks. He picked up a shiny Martin guitar the color of caramel and tuned it quietly while David led us in prayer.

  When I opened my eyes, David stepped down from the pulpit, and Bobby invited the crowd to stand. He stood before the microphone, strummed the first guitar chord, and opened his mouth to sing. Out of the mouth of this skinny white guy poured the soulful voice of a black gospel singer. His first note shocked the heart of the stone cathedral until the room began to beat with the rhythm of a Southern-fried Tennessee tent revival. People stood to clap their hands, lifting them up in praise.

  Bobby closed his eyes as he sang, emotion welling up in his taut face. He sang hymn after hymn, song after song, one rolling into another. His voice was pitch perfect, and he never once looked for lyrics or glanced at sheet music.

  I’ve seen lots of performers in my life, professional actors who knew how to milk a crowd and play to their emotions, but Bobby didn’t look or sound like he was merely performing. He looked like a blues singer turned out in worship to God. Avril and I sang along with the unfamiliar songs as best we could, trying to read the lyric sheet left for us on the pew, a pointless exercise since Bobby didn’t follow it anyway. On the last song, a guitar string snapped and hung limp from the instrument like a fallen contestant in a game of endurance.

  Bobby hit a high note and held it, arching his head back, his eyes closed behind thick, black-framed glasses. Sweat rolled off his forehead, trailing past his temples, and dampened the ends of his bangs. The church fell silent, watching color bleed into his face. Bobby looked like he was in pain, a flagellant holding his scarring hand over an open flame. His head rolled from side to side as he contorted his mouth to wring out every drop of his soul. Finally, when his frail body had exhausted its strength and breath, Bobby stopped singing, and the music was gone.

  A few in the congregation clapped their hands, but most were too emotionally stirred to move. A weird electricity surged in the air. Bobby muttered a few unintelligible words of thanks and praise to the heavenly Father, pointing heavenward with his index finger. He left the guitar onstage, leaning it against an amplifier, and returned to his seat.

  “Thanks, Bobby,” David said, drawing a deep breath. “That was amazing. It’s been a while since you’ve been up here, so … whoa, thank you.”

  Avril leaned in and whispered, “We should find out if his songs are available on iTunes.” I nodded, keeping my eyes on David.

  “Since it’s New Year’s Day, I thought instead of having a regular message, we would break into small groups and just take time to reflect, get to know each other a little better, and pray for one another. So you guys can just get into groups however you feel led.”

  Clusters of people began moving around the room, drawing together in groups of four or five. Avril and I were absorbed into the small group nearest us.

  I was glad to see Katie sit down in the pew directly ahead of us, making ours a group of six, including two female college students, an older woman, Avril, and me.

  “I’m glad Davi
d decided to do this,” Katie said, once we’d settled in. “We can talk about anything. The idea is just to get to know each other better, and if you’re looking for a religious reason, well, we want church to be a place for real, authentic relationships. We don’t want anyone to feel they have to wear a mask and put on a show. Since it’s New Year’s Day, I thought we could start by reflecting on the past. Was there anything that didn’t happen last year that you hope will happen this year?”

  Where should I begin? I’d spent the last year living like a blind woman in an Andrew Wyeth painting, frozen on a bleak, reedy hillside, crawling toward a house I could never reach.

  Katie searched the group for a volunteer to start. She found me and nodded with the gentleness of a kindergarten teacher that I could go first.

  “What do I hope?” I said aloud, the words falling from my mouth riddled with uncertainty. “I don’t know, I hope for love and dream of everything working out in my life. Sometimes I feel like I’m lost, and I want someone to find me and place me where I belong. But more than anything, I want to see God working in my life because if this last year taught me anything, it was that I can’t do anything by myself.”

  “Do you think God wants to provide those things for you?” Katie asked.

  “Yes, I know He does, but it’s so hard waiting for them.”

  Emotion cracked my voice and Avril crossed her hands in her lap, uncomfortable with my sudden transparency. We were actors-for-hire after all. We told other people’s stories, not our own.

  “I take it you’ve had a hard year. Someone once said if we feel there’s a purpose, we can get through anything. Do you think there’s been a purpose behind it?” Katie asked, her voice soothing like Bella’s.

  “Yes, but I feel like I’ve been smashed flat. Completely pulverized. At times, even my bones ached, and just when I doubted it was possible to go on, God scraped me up and brought me to New York.”

  “Harper, Scripture says we’re like wet clay whirling on a potter’s wheel. God takes hold of those He loves. He examines us, our flaws and imperfections, our blemishes and defects, and if necessary, He presses us against the spinning wheel, tearing down the old us, so He can build us as a new person, one without the flaws we had before.”