Stage Fright / Goodbye, Sweet Prince / Brotherly Love

by Catherine Marshall

  “Can’t you even finish your tea?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m too excited.”

  Miss Alice watched, grinning, as Christy raced for the door. “Christy?” she called.

  “Yes?”

  “I was going to say ‘break a leg.’ After all, it’s an expression of good luck in the theater.

  But I’m afraid you’re so frantic, you might just take me literally.”

  “How about giving me a hug instead?” Christy asked, rushing to her side.

  “Even better,” Miss Alice agreed.

  Six

  I can’t believe I’m really on this train,” Christy whispered. “I’m not dreaming this, am I?”

  Doctor MacNeill pinched his arm. “No. I seem to be quite awake. I definitely felt that. How about you, Aunt Cora?”

  Aunt Cora was seated across from the doctor and Christy on the red velvet seat. “I’m happy to report I’m quite awake,” she said.

  They had spent the previous afternoon traveling from Cutter Gap to the small town of El Pano. There, they’d spent the night at a boardinghouse. Christy had stayed there on her first trip to Cutter Gap months earlier. Now, at last, they were on their way to Knoxville.

  “My, my,” Aunt Cora said, her head cocked to one side.

  “What?” the doctor asked.

  “Has anyone ever told you two you make a rather handsome couple?”

  Christy felt certain she’d turned as red as the cushions. But Doctor MacNeill just winked. “I think what you have here is more like the pairing of Beauty and the Beast, Aunt Cora.”

  “Neil’s just being modest,” Christy whispered to Aunt Cora.

  Christy lay back against the cushion and watched the deep green forests flash past. Riding in this train reminded her of her trip to Tennessee several months ago to begin her work in Cutter Gap.

  The smells and sights and sounds were so familiar! The scent of coal dust in the railroad car. The brass spittoons. The potbellied stove in the rear. The sacks of grain and produce piled toward the back. And, of course, the shrill whistle of the train.

  The car rocked gently back and forth. The steady click-click-click of the wheels was deeply soothing. Christy’s eyelids were heavy, but she didn’t want to sleep. She couldn’t let herself miss a moment of this adventure.

  In the window glass, she caught sight of her reflection. Again she was reminded of that cold day last January. That’s when she’d left her parents’ home in Asheville to teach school at the Cutter Gap Mission in the Smoky Mountains. She was wearing the same fawn-colored coatsuit, but she had changed in many other ways. Her hair was longer now and streaked by the sun. Her skin was bronzed. Her hands were calloused from working in Miss Ida’s garden. She looked older than her nineteen years, and maybe even a little bit wiser.

  She’d been so afraid that January day! And she’d felt so very alone. Now, here she was, seated next to two good friends, with so many more back home in Cutter Gap. Perhaps that was the most important—and the most wonderful—change of all.

  Christy reached into her satchel and pulled out her diary. “Are you taking notes?” Aunt Cora inquired.

  “This is my diary. I started it when I left Asheville to teach in Cutter Gap.”

  Christy opened to the first page. There, in her pretty, flowing handwriting, was the entry she’d made her first day:

  The truth is, I have not been this afraid before, or felt this alone and homesick. Leaving everyone I love was harder than I thought it would be. But I must be strong. I am at the start of a great adventure. And great adventures are sometimes scary.

  Doctor MacNeill peeked over Christy’s arm. “I’ll bet that’s interesting reading. Do I make an appearance?”

  Christy slapped the little book shut. “You’re as bad as George.” She winked at Aunt Cora. “That’s my younger brother. I used to keep my old diary under lock and key to prevent him from sneaking a peek at it. Once he actually managed to open it with a screwdriver. Fortunately, I caught him just in the nick of time.” She pointed her finger at the doctor. “Trespassers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law, Neil.”

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. I guess I’ll just have to take a nap instead.”

  He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. Aunt Cora opened up her book of Shakespeare’s plays and began to read. Confident she could write in privacy, Christy got out her pen and began to write. The jiggling railroad car made it difficult to be neat, but she did the best she could:

  I’m on another adventure! And I’m almost as nervous as I was the day I headed to Cutter Gap on that train, pulled by the engine everyone called “Old Buncombe.”

  Of course, this time I know there’s not so much at stake. As Miss Alice pointed out, I have nothing to lose but some dignity. And who knows what I might learn from this experience?

  As we were leaving Cutter Gap, Miss Alice whispered something in my ear, a favorite Bible quote of hers: “He which soweth bountifully shall reap also bountifully.”

  I think what she was trying to tell me was that there is no telling what I might gain from taking this risk.

  But fear is a funny thing. I feel excited and nervous all the way down to my toes. My stomach’s doing flip-flops. I’m still hours away from Knoxville, and nowhere near that big theater where I may actually make my big-city debut.

  I know the worst that can happen—I’ll end up a little humbler. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? Still and all, it would be awfully nice if I could shake this feeling that I’m getting in way over my head.

  Christy closed up her diary and tucked it into her satchel. Telephone poles flew past outside her window.

  Doctor MacNeill opened one eye. “Done writing?”

  “For now, anyway.”

  He smiled. “I sure would like to know what’s in that diary of yours. It’s tantalizing, knowing that the secrets of your heart are only a few inches away.”

  “If you want to read a diary, you’ll have to get one of your own, Neil.”

  “Now, that would be some boring reading,” he replied. “Try to get some sleep. It’s a long trip.”

  “How can you sleep? I’m too excited—and nervous.”

  “Nervous?” Doctor MacNeill asked. “What’s there to be nervous about?”

  Christy grinned. “Nothing, I hope. But I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”

  Seven

  Look out, Aunt Cora!” Christy cried, for what had to be the dozenth time.

  Aunt Cora braked her car in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding a man pulling a mule and a small cart. “Whoopsie,” she said with a smile.

  It was early evening when they arrived at the train station in Knoxville. Aunt Cora had insisted on driving home. She’d left her old car parked in the street, right in front of the station. Doctor MacNeill had offered to drive, but Aunt Cora wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Nonsense. You haven’t driven since you were in medical school, and then it was just when your friend Peter Mulberry would lend you his old rattletrap,” Aunt Cora had said firmly. “And it’s not like you have the opportunity to drive much in Cutter Gap, Neil. Trust me. Ever since your Uncle Robert died, I’ve taken care of all the driving. And I’m a natural, if I do say so myself.”

  Now, after several minutes of lurching stops and breathtaking turns, Christy wasn’t so sure. Aunt Cora was so busy pointing out the sights that she often lost track of the road.

  “And over there—see that little white clapboard church? That’s where Neil’s Uncle Robert and I were married.”

  “It’s lovely, Aunt Cora,” Christy replied, gripping the seat till her knuckles were white. “By the way, I think you were supposed to stop back there—”

  “Pish. I checked. Didn’t see a thing.” Aunt Cora pointed out the window with her gloved hand. “And that park over there? That’s where Neil and his cousin Lucy used to play when they came to visit us in the summer. Remember, Neil? You were cute as a bu
tton—”

  “Aunt Cora?” The doctor cleared his throat.

  “I think that fruit truck was honking at us.”

  “People can be so rude!” she muttered.

  Finally, to Christy’s great relief, Aunt Cora stopped the car in the driveway of a lovely, white brick home.

  Sitting in a rocker on the porch was a thin, balding man with wire-rimmed spectacles. He was bent over, elbows on his knees, hands cupping his chin. He looked very forlorn.

  “Oh my,” Aunt Cora whispered. “It’s Oliver. This doesn’t look good at all—not at all.”

  “Who’s Oliver?” asked Doctor MacNeill.

  Aunt Cora waved at the man, who simply gave a sullen nod.

  “Oliver Flump,” she explained, “is the assistant director of the Knoxville Players. He’s a very nice man, but he tends to get a little . . . well, flustered sometimes. The slightest little thing will set him into a tizzy. I left him in charge of the play in the hope it would boost his self-confidence.”

  “He doesn’t look very self-confident,” Christy said.

  “No, indeed he doesn’t. Well—” Aunt Cora flung open the car door, “I suppose we might as well see what the problem is. I’m sure it’s nothing. It usually is.”

  While the doctor retrieved their bags, Christy and Aunt Cora joined Oliver on the porch.

  “Mr. Oliver Flump, I’d like you to meet Miss Christy Huddleston of Cutter Gap, Tennessee.”

  “How do you do, Miss Huddleston?” Oliver said. He had a mournful, high voice. It reminded Christy of one of Jeb Spencer’s hound dogs, whining for supper.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Flump.”

  “Please, call me Oliver. Everybody does.”

  “Are you just here as a one-man welcoming committee, Oliver?” Aunt Cora asked. She held open the front door. Christy headed inside, followed by a slouching Oliver. “Or has something gone wrong with the play?”

  Oliver went straight to the parlor and dropped into an overstuffed chair. He groaned. “It’s too awful to say out loud. My career in the theater is doomed. That’s all I have to say on the subject. One word— doomed.”

  “That’s what you said when we did our last play. And the play before that, as I recall,” said Aunt Cora. “Christy, come. Help me light the lamps while Oliver recounts his tale of woe.”

  “This time it’s no laughing matter, Cora,” Oliver said defensively.

  “What have I told you about that hangdog attitude, Oliver?” Aunt Cora asked cheerfully as she lit a lamp near the mantel. “How will anyone else ever believe in Oliver Flump, if he doesn’t believe in himself?”

  Christy lit a lamp on a walnut table next to Oliver. “You have a lovely home, Aunt Cora.”

  “Why, thank you, Christy. See the framed theater programs on the wall? Those are from my days in New York City. I was much younger then—thinner, too—” she added with a chuckle. “I must have seen every show I could afford, and more I couldn’t.

  Sometimes I just got the inexpensive seats up in the balcony. Oh, but the plays I saw performed! All of Shakespeare’s comedies, and most of his tragedies! Oh, my—” she put her hand to her heart, “what days those were!”

  Doctor MacNeill entered, carrying the bags. “Shall I put these upstairs?”

  “No, no. Come sit a spell. We’ll make a fire in the fireplace, and Oliver will tell us his tale of woe. Oliver, meet my nephew, Doctor Neil MacNeill. Finest physician in the entire United States. I’d say the whole world, but I don’t want to sound like a boastful relative.”

  The doctor shook Oliver’s hand. “I understand you’re Aunt Cora’s right-hand man.”

  “No longer. Not after all that’s happened.” Oliver sighed. “I’m doomed, you see—and so is our play.”

  Aunt Cora clucked her tongue. “Oliver, dear. Please tell me what’s wrong, without any dramatics.” She sat down on the couch across from him. “I’m sure we can make a quick fix of it. You know you have a tendency to over-react.”

  “I most certainly do not!” Oliver cried.

  “Remember the posters for The Taming of the Shrew? Remember how you offered to resign over them? Three times, as I recall.”

  “That was a definite crisis,” Oliver explained to Christy and the doctor. “You see, they’d printed them wrong. The posters read ‘The Taming of the Shoe.’ Who, I ask you, wants to see a play about a shoe?”

  “At least it was a tame shoe,” Aunt Cora said lightly, “and not one of those wild, ferocious, man-eating shoes.”

  “It wasn’t funny, Cora.” Oliver rubbed his eyes. “It was a nightmare—a true nightmare.”

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Cora said. “We all got a good laugh out of it.”

  “Well, try getting a laugh out of this,” Oliver said bitterly. “Sarah McGeorge has laryngitis. She can’t even whisper her lines.”

  “No problem. Pansy Trotman will make a fine Juliet,” Aunt Cora said with a wave of her hand. “She’s Sarah’s understudy,” she explained.

  Oliver folded his arms over his chest.

  “And as if that weren’t enough, the entire theater company is threatening to quit unless I quit!”

  “Oh, my,” said Aunt Cora. “That is a bit of a pickle, I must admit. Have you been short with them, Oliver? You know you can be rather demanding.”

  “I have most certainly not been short with them,” Oliver replied. “In fact, I’ve exhibited saintly patience, despite their insults and belligerence.”

  “Well, I’ll have a little talk with them. We’ll work things out.”

  “It’s too late.” Oliver sighed. “I’m resigning. The production is yours. The truth is, I’m glad to be done with it. This play is doomed.”

  Eight

  There it is,” Aunt Cora said the next morning, “my home away from home. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Christy gazed at the ornate brass doors of the theater. A large poster at the ticket window announced the upcoming production of Romeo and Juliet. In the bright sun, the whole building seemed to shimmer.

  “I can’t believe we’re really here,” she whispered.

  “We’re here, all right.” Aunt Cora swung open the doors. “Come on. I’ll introduce you and Neil to all the gang.”

  Christy and the doctor followed Aunt Cora through the silent, empty lobby. An oriental carpet covered the floor. Posters from other performances hung on the walls.

  Aunt Cora led them to another set of doors. “Hear that yelling in there?” she asked. “Welcome to the glamorous world of the theater!”

  Doctor MacNeill opened the doors. Christy gasped. There, spread before her, was the theater of her dreams—the hundreds of seats, the broad stage, the thick velvet curtains. Everything was just as she’d imagined it.

  On the stage, a large group of people hurried to and fro. Some were carrying pages, reciting lines to themselves. Some had paint cans or brushes. A young boy was hammering away at a wooden set.

  In the center of all the turmoil was a familiar face. “Isn’t that Oliver?” Christy asked.

  “I knew he wouldn’t really resign,” said Aunt Cora. “He never does. He loves the theater as much as I do.”

  “I am not overacting,” a young man cried from the stage. “I am emoting! I am having emotions, Oliver! You, on the other hand, are not directing! You are dictating!”

  Aunt Cora hustled down the aisle, clapping her hands to get attention. Christy smiled. It reminded her of her own attempt at directing seventy schoolchildren.

  “People, please!” Aunt Cora yelled. “Let’s have a little civility! We have guests!” She crooked a finger. “Christy, Neil, come sit down here. You can have front-row seats today. Tomorrow I’ll really put you to work, Christy.”

  “Cora’s back!” somebody yelled, and the people on stage broke into applause.

  “Thank goodness!” someone else said. “The reign of terror is over!”

  Oliver threw up his hands. “See, Cora? Do you see what I’ve had to put up with in your absence?” />
  “You!” cried a dark-haired woman in a purple silk dress. She raced to the edge of the stage. “Cora, Oliver has been a tyrant! An absolute tyrant! He’s been changing my set designs, belittling the actors, and nit-picking over every little detail! He’s been impossible. What a relief it is to have you back!”

  “Now, now. Let’s everyone settle down.” Aunt Cora took a seat next to Christy. “As I told you all before, Oliver is in charge of this production. I am here to offer advice and hold hands and dry tears. But in the end, Oliver is the boss.”

  “Then I quit!” the woman shouted.

  “Me too!” someone else cried.

  “You can’t quit,” Oliver said, “because I’m quitting first!”

  “You already quit,” said the dark-haired woman. “But here you are, back again, like a bad penny.”

  A young man with curly brown hair and the wide, innocent eyes of a fawn stepped forward. “It’s like this, Cora,” he said calmly. “We just can’t work with Oliver, not when he’s in charge.” He cast an apologetic glance at Oliver. “He just plain gets too upset. And when he gets upset, I get upset. And when I get upset, well . . . I can’t remember my lines, no matter how hard I try.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I guess what I’m saying is, if Oliver stays, I have to go. That means you will have lost your Romeo and your Juliet. Although, of course, the understudies could handle things just fine.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, that’s my two-cents’ worth.”

  Aunt Cora hesitated. “Oliver, what should we do about this situation? The cast seems to think you’ve been rather demanding.”

  “They’re prima donnas, all of them,” Oliver sniffed. “They don’t realize that pain is the price of perfection.”

  “One thing I’ve learned from this job, Oliver,” said Aunt Cora, “perfectionism can get in the way of having a good time. Suppose you and I direct this production together? Share the power, as it were? Maybe next time you can take a whack at running the show yourself.”