Final Act

by Dianne Yetman

  Control. She smiled at the word. How many times had Roger called her a control freak? Too many to count – at the precinct, in the car, on the way to interview a suspect, while jamming at a bar, celebrating an arrest, and once at an autopsy. His broad, handsome black face would break into a smile and he would begin his rant – you’re more highly structured than a mechano set, Kate, lighten up, for God’s sake.

  He had no room to talk. She had no doubt about what he was doing with his Saturday. In his garage, face under the hood of his beloved Mustang, or at the race track with his buddy Randy, putting their cars through their paces. Structure, love of control, fresh air and exercise versus gas fumes – no contest. Control it is.

  Hoisting her parcels, she strolled back to the car, dumped the packages in the trunk, popped one of her favourite CD’s into the surround sound system and listened to the brilliant guitar playing of Jimi Hendrix. She made her way to the trendy north end of the city. It wasn’t always trendy; it had been one of the areas to avoid if you didn’t want to be mugged and the like. If she knew how and why neighbourhoods spiralled upwards, she’d invest what remained of her trust fund stash in real estate, but it would be a waste. She’d sucked at forecasting winners and chances are she could predict a winning lotto ticket before cashing in on the real estate market.

  Pulling up in front of June’s hair dressing shop, she couldn’t believe her luck. She had called on her cell from the cafe to see if she had any openings and bingo, a cancellation. Opening the door to the salon, the familiar smell of shampoo, perm solutions, and scented candles wafted in the air. Fifteen minutes later she was caped, looking at her reflection in the mirror while the scissors chopped down her heavy mass of chestnut curls. The sounds of the magical jazz pieces of Scott Joplin filled the salon.

  June Grayson, a widow, a quiet, thoughtful woman, had been managing her fly away curls since her university days. They had a unique relationship, neither one infringing on the privacy of the other, both comfortable with silence. Hair cut, she left her usual generous tip and drove to the gym.

  4:15pm

  She cued up for the machines and 60 minutes later, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, she headed for the exit. There was just enough time to drive home, shower, change and meet her friends for pre-dinner drinks. She bounced her way towards the exit.

  And there, on the other side of the glass door, stood the stalker. She pushed open the door; he closed in; they stood toe to toe.

  “Hi Kate. What are you doing here on a Saturday? Caught your workout, impressive.”

  He made a show of looking at his watch.

  “Close to cocktail hour. How about joining me for a drink?”

  Kate wondered how he knew her name then quickly realized the vulture had hung around the front desk picking up name droppings.

  “The answer is the same. No. Not now, not ever. Now please set aside.”

  He didn’t move.

  “I like a woman with spunk Kate. Turns me on.”

  “I’m only going to repeat myself once. Get out of my way. Now. Surely, the message’s simple enough to get through to the tiny brain in your muscle bound head.”

  She watched as the red welt on his neck spread up his face. A direct hit.

  “Nasty bitch, aren’t you. Get a kick out of putting men down. Prefer women do you, Kate? Should have told me before this, leading someone on isn’t good manners.”

  She looked at his clenched fists, ran her eyes over his frame and though he was a bodybuilder, her gut told her he wasn’t a fighter. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t afford to push him any further. It was time to take control before things got out of hand.

  She swung her gym bang onto her opposite shoulder, moved her body sideways, and stepped around him. She was reaching into her bag for the car keys when she felt his hand slam down on her right shoulder and his fingers squeeze her muscles. Her inhibitions melted.

  She grabbed his hand, pushed upwards, and slammed his palm into the bottom of his nose. Maintaining her grip, she twirled out from underneath him, drops of blood dripping through his hand onto her face, and spun him out on the sidewalk with the speed of the dentist’s drill. The slam of his body hitting sidewalk was loud. She knelt down to determine the extent of his injuries - a bruised body, a bruised ego, but no broken bones.

  She whispered into his ear.

  “Don’t ever come near me again. Hear? Now, I’m going forget I ever saw you. I recommend you do the same.” She started to get up then leaned down again. “And you might want to think about changing your gym membership because I’m not changing mine.”

  She pushed her way through the small knot of gathered people, got in the car and drove off. Moments later she hit her brakes hard, narrowly missing the car in front of her. The feel good moment of flipping the bastard like a pancake had dissipated.

  How could she have been so stupid, jeopardizing her career over the jerk. Throwing civilians to the sidewalk wasn’t a career maker especially after yesterday’s conversation with Gordon. She shuddered at the thought of this getting back to the precinct. If it did, she’d be toast. Reaching into the console, she grabbed the bag of jelly beans and began a serious munch.”

  7:30pm

  Any of the cast and crew watching Andrew, the Stage Manager, barrelling through the brightly lit, twisted backstage hallway, ignoring everything and anything in his path, knew something had gone seriously wrong. And that is exactly what he wanted them to think.

  He had planned it all out very carefully. Five minutes earlier, he stood eyeballing the props table, a frown on his face. Then he bellowed for Ed, who ran errands, cleaned the stage and dressing rooms, and anything no one else wanted to do. His most important job, however, was looking after the props.

  Knowing where Ed was. Duties finished until the curtain went down, he’d be in his small back room drinking tea and reading one of the westerns he loved. Andrew walked over to the group of actors standing nearby and asked if they had seen the silverware for the second act. None had. Andrew risked a quick look to his left. Yes, the Board members were still standing outside the main dressing room.

  He knew it was his only opportunity to make his mark. Board members did not attend the plays, even on the last night. They were here for the farewell toast that the Director of the Company, Jeffrey Stone, was giving to the cast and crew on stage before flying to New York to take over the reins of the Hamlet production from an ailing Director. He wasn’t expected to return. Andrew wanted Jeffrey’s job. Rehearsals for the Christmas run of Death of a Salesman would have to start up soon. Director of the small company of actors and crew of the Strand Theatre was high on his list of acquisitions.

  He wasn’t alone in his ambition. The Strand’s Producer, Henry Ward was a strong contender. Descended from a long line of distinguished Halifax actors, he had spent his free hours as a child backstage; none was more familiar with the inner workings of the theatre. But he didn’t have it in him to make a good Director. Now, if only the Board members agree.

  Time to strike. Andrew bellowed at the group of actors standing in the hallway. They shook their heads. Had no idea what had happened to the silverware. It worked. He had the attention of two of the Board members. They walked towards him, looks of concern on both of their faces.

  Andrew, stressed but polite, filled them in on the missing props. They asked if they could help. He smiled and invited them to tag along. The three headed for Ed’s office. He looked at his watch, picked up his pace, hoping to ratch up the urgency as the two Board Members struggled to keep up.

  “The curtain was due to go up on the final performance in fifteen minutes”, he said. “Ed better be in his cubbyhole, or there will be hell to pay”, he said.

  They bought into his panic as he steamed rolled his way towards the backstage exit. He gave them a weak, thankful smile, talking all the while, as he made his way towards the very bac
k of the theatre.

  “It’s nothing that would attract a thief. Its silver plated Wal-Mart, for Christ’s sake.” He picked up his pace and then, without warning, braked to a full stop in front of a door adjacent to the exit sign. He pushed it open so hard it banged up against the wall.

  A startled Ed looked up from his book. He didn’t know what was up but by the look on the men’s faces, he knew it wasn’t good. Just my shit lady luck, he thought, never, never would she dance with me. For Ed was a hard working with a sick wife and three sons who weren’t worth the dole they lived on. Ed pasted a sickly smile on his face and waited for life’s blow. And there was no doubt in his mind, a blow was coming.

  “Damn you to hell Ed” Andrew said. “If I had any sense at all I would fire you this instant. And I’ll tell you what, if you don’t find the silverware missing from the prop table before the opening of the second act, I will fire you. Now get off your skinny ass and go find it before the cast has to eat with their fingers.”

  Andrew watched him scurry away. It should take him no more than five minutes to find it. And then it came, just as he hoped, the expected question.

  “Why do you keep him on”, the tall, skinny one asked.

  He smiled at the two worried looking men. “Ed’s not that bad really. He does his job the best he can but he’s not had an easy life. His wife took sick years ago and his sons are useless. Jeffrey wanted him gone, but I fought to keep him. Just didn’t have the heart to kick someone when they’re down.”

  A hint of a smile on the skinny one’s face. The short, heavy one looked stern. “Are you willing to take the risk of no silverware because you feel sorry for the man.”

  “Of course not. There’s no real danger, I spouted off to a fire under Ed’s butt. Can’t have him complacent. When I discovered the silverware was missing, I sent Brenda Parsons, my assistant, off to Wal-Mart in a taxi to pick up another set. She should be back any moment. I’ll return it tomorrow if Ed turns up the missing one.”

  The two men said nothing but Andrew knew he had their approval and the three of them headed back towards centre stage at a more leisurely pace.

  From the large, common dressing room, a chorus of laughter, jokes, shouts, and curses melded together into a bizarre orchestration of excitement and spilled out into the hallway. It was music to Andrew’s ears for he loved the theatre, the excitement, the chaos, the stress. All of it. It was the reason he got out of bed in the morning and it was the reason he had hood winked the two bozos tagging along with him.

  The theatre and the Director’s chair was centre to his hopes but not the only reason he got up in the morning. There was Rusty, his Golden Retriever, his Dashiell Hammett collection, his single malt whiskey and until a week ago, there was Stella. Darling Stella, the bitch betrayer, who slept with the talent scout. The sleaziest schemer in town.

  Time to demonstrate how well thought he was by the cast and crew. He stuck his head in the door of the common dressing room, waved and shouted hello, hoping for a big response. Not too bad. Some waved, said hello but others didn’t notice him; they were too busy jostling for mirror space, applying makeup, or adjusting their costumes.

  He continued on, the two men rubber necking behind him, passing more actors in the hallway, some who were pacing, others rehearsing their lines, and the more introverted, insecure ones were sitting Zen-like on chairs in empty rooms. From the costume/design room, the shouts of two actors arguing over scene stealing assaulted their ears. He ignored them and winked at the Board members a knowing wink.

  Coming down the home stretch, a dressing room door opened that Andrew was sure would have stayed shut until it was time for the toast. No such luck. Charlotte Beauvoir, aka Big Mama, stood centre hallway blocking his path, motion unleashed - emerald costume jewellery on the move, necklace springing out from the fat folds of her neck, dangling ear rings swinging two and fro, plastic rings on her right wrist clacking and her ample, heaving bosom.

  Damn, deep breath. Here we go.

  “Andrew, I was just setting out to find you. Something has to be done about the noise. Those morons may not be serious about their roles, and that’s why they can’t get within sniffing distance of a lead, but I’m trying to focus, get in character. Speak to them, please, ask them to show some consideration for others.”

  “Impossible, Charlotte; it’s the last night and their adrenaline is flowing faster than a New York City fire hydrant. Relax. You’re a pro; your performance won’t be hurt. I know your powers of concentration – phenomenal. Tune them out, dear heart, just like you do the Director.”

  Amused and appeased, she tweaked his left cheek and closed the door.

  More approving glances.

  When the next one to open a dressing room door, Andrew wasn’t surprised. He had hoped his timing would be good. Now he had his chance to really show his stuff for the person who opened the door wouldn’t be so easy to appease. Tall, gangly, Philip Lawson, aka angst driven Rick, was a powerhouse among actors. His skills were admired and envied by all who worked with him.

  He had a problem though, a big problem. The man was a quaking, quivering mess on the first and the final performance of every play. Never bothered by the performances in between. But on these nights, the thought of the rising curtain draining his confidence. Andrew had worked with him on two previous plays and had coaxed, cajoled, and manipulated the terrified actor to go on stage.

  Wringing his hands, voice quavering, Philip made his appeal. “Look, Andrew, I’m sorry but I’m in an awful state. I don’t know if I can go on stage tonight. My guts are in knots, I can’t breathe. It’s really got a grip on me. I’m scared shitless.”

  “Calm down, Philip, you’ll be okay. You always are.”

  “I don’t think I can do it, honestly. Can you get John, stand-in? I can’t go on.”

  “Listen, Philip, if you don’t go on, nobody goes on. You’re the lead. John, your stand-in’s, left town for a try out in Toronto. He checked with me this afternoon to get the ok. I gave it to him Philip because I knew I could count on you. Listen; can you hear the noise back there? It’s your colleagues. They can’t contain their excitement. They just want to go out there on the night of the last performance and give their all. Are you going to deny them? Can you do that to them? And what about all those people filing into the theatre, making their way to their seats, looking forward to the play, most of them faithful fans of yours. Can you do that to them?”

  “John’s in Toronto?”

  Andrew looked at his watch. “Yep, plane should’ve landed an hour ago.”

  Someone poked their head out of the main dressing room.

  “Hey, Philip, give ‘em hell tonight buddy. And don’t forget the party at Salty’s.”

  Philip turned, waved at the actor, and took a deep breath.

  “Okay, Andrew, I’ll go on. My ulcer is jumping. I’ll be in bed for a week, I know it.”

  “You’ve made the right choice, Philip. You’re exuding positive energy. Why don’t you give the deep breathing exercises another try? If they don’t work, I think I have something in my office that will fix you up.”

  That’ll keep him puzzling for awhile.

  The door next to Philip’s opened up and Camira, a black eyed Aboriginal beauty, a truly graceful woman, aka Maggie the Cat, smiled and winked at him. The young woman was a gift from the gods, talented, warm, and caring. Andrew returned the smile, signalled her not to speak and hurried down the hallway before Philip changed his mind and made another anxious appearance.

  He mounted the three steps to the empty stage, the two men at his heels. He looked around the stage expecting to see Jeffrey. He wasn’t there. His hopes and heart plummeted. He had acted too soon. He wasn’t going to New York. Andrew hoped the two men couldn’t see the tremor in his right hand.

  He his heart leapt at the sound of footsteps mounting the stairs. Eleanor Foste
r-Sutton, Set and Costume Designer, made her way across the stage, embraced Andrew, the breath from her air kiss tickling his left ear. He introduced her to the Board members. They chatted for a few moments. Andrew fought to quell his anxiety and broke into their conversation as soon as opportunity allowed.

  “Eleanor, darling, Ed’s on a prop mission. Can you do me a huge favour and round up the troops for the toast? I’d better wait here for Jeffrey.”

  Eleanor nodded her perfectly coiffed head and left.

  He watched her exit; a glorious performance. A tall, cool, award winning, blonde, aristocratic beauty nearer 60 than 50, possessing a regal stance that some had been heard to compare to the famous Ms. Hepburn. But no fear of her coveting the Director’s chair, the woman, after countless awards and kudos, was still striving for the perfectly designed set, having no clue it would never happen. Andrew couldn’t never understood why some people stalled but he knew there were more that did than didn’t.

  She’s a talented woman, but she’s cold, cold enough to cause a toothache.

  Andrew smiled at the Board members and did what he always did so well. Started a conversation and turned on his never fail charm. He nodded, smiled, and chuckled his way through the conversation as he tried to subdue his mounting anxiety. A familiar voice broke his tension in two.

  “So this is what you do when you’re not being watched, Andrew”, Jeffrey said. “Making time with the power brokers, shame on you.”

  Andrew smiled and said nothing. Jeffrey bantered with the two men for a few moments then walked over to the stereo, opened the liquor cabinet, took out his bottle of bourbon, grabbed one of the crystal glasses from the tray on top of the cabinet and poured himself a generous amount for the toast.

  Andrew hid his disgust at the thought of the toast. A time wasting, stupid, arrogant affectation he insisted on every night of the last performance; the only difference, this time it would be done as quickly and quietly as possible on stage. It was nothing but an ego trip. A waste of the actors’ time who had better things to do than stand on stage and watch him slurp his bourbon. One consolation, he thought, it’ll be the last one he makes.