For the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon, I remained miffed at the broker. My situation was frustrating enough without being complicated by the bungling of this man.
By 3:00, I was still peeved. Even Tyler’s buying me a caramel brownie at the bakery across the street (a place I’d come to think of as Iris’ bakery) didn’t make me feel better. I finally decided that I needed to go see Crest.
Howard’s office was on River Road, the other major commercial street in town, and the one that led directly to the Pine River Bridge. This was a funkier spot, with a number of bars and ethnic restaurants scattered between office buildings. The company Howard worked for dealt in both commercial and residential real estate, and Howard was the head of the commercial division. I’d never been in this office before, and as I drove over to it, I half expected to find it disheveled and uninviting, with cigarette-burned desktops, coffee-stained floors, and a couple of distracted brokers ineffectually shuffling through piles of papers. Instead, the place was crisply appointed, with each broker’s work area partitioned by glass bricks, and original local art on the walls. I think the biggest discrepancy between my image of the business and reality came when I arrived at Howard’s mahogany-accented office off the main floor. He sat in a high-backed leather chair, speaking on the phone in his clipped manner when I entered his doorway. He gestured me in and then held up a finger to indicate that he would be finished shortly.
“I had a feeling I might see you today,” he said after he hung up. “I was planning to give you a call, but things got crazy.” Even in this environment that attested to his success, he seemed unusually skittish.
The setting threw me off for a minute, but now that I had Howard in front of me, my irritation returned.
“I assume your client wasn’t interested,” I said.
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Howard, you knew about the work going on in the store. What made you think you should just drop in like that?”
He reached for a can of Diet Coke, took a sip, and then shook his head.
“I know,” he said. “You told me about all of the water damage and I should have come in to see it myself before I brought anyone with me.”
“Or at least called to let me know you were coming so we could clean things up a little.”
“You’re right. It was stupid. But when this man came in and told me what he was looking for, he seemed so right for your father’s store. I have to admit that I leaped at the opportunity and did it without even thinking.” He looked down and then took another sip from his can. “There hasn’t been much activity on this.”
“All the more reason to be careful about how we present it when we get some.”
He held up his hands. “You’re right. Completely. I just really want to do this for your dad.”
It was difficult to continue to be angry with Howard when he was being this contrite. I simply shook my head. “Why has there been so little activity. Is the market slow right now?”
“No, the market isn’t slow at all. Like I said, things have been crazy around here. It usually is. But when people think of buying a business on Russet Avenue, they think of galleries or jewelry stores or gourmet shops.”
“But the store has been doing okay, hasn’t it?”
“It’s been fine by all indications. Not sensational, but fine. But if I can be honest with you, Hugh, stationery stores aren’t exactly what people dream about owning.”
“Tell me about it.” Howard Crest was perhaps the last person on the planet I wanted underscoring this point for me. I’d come into his office charged with annoyance. Now I felt as drained as a Duracell that had been sitting in a child’s toy for ten years. “Are there any other prospects?”
“Nothing at the moment. You never know, though. That’s one of the good things about this business.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to take up any more of Howard’s time. But I also really didn’t want to go back to the store after this soul-sapping conversation. When it was clear that Howard didn’t have anything more to say to me, I stood up, shook his hand, and left. Before I got back into my car, I took a walk down River Road, looking into the shops. So few of the storefronts were the same as they were when I was last there. A restaurant menu seemed interesting and one of the bars had live blues on the weekend. At some point, it might be worth going to one or both of them.
Considering how long it might take Howard to sell the store, it seemed wise to re-familiarize myself with the area.
I didn’t say anything about the episode with Howard to my father that night. We ate dinner on tray tables in the den, as my parents did every night now, while The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer played. My mother didn’t even suggest eating in the dining room any longer, and the sofa bed was open all the time.
When we finished eating, I helped my mother bring the dishes into the kitchen.
“We struck out with a potential buyer for the store today,” I said while she loaded the dishwasher.
“Too bad,” she said, concentrating on her task.
“Howard brought the guy into the store while the carpenters were banging away and there was plaster dust everywhere. He picked the worst possible time.”
“Howard knows what he’s doing.”
She moved over to the stove to get a pot. My mother had been stiff and disengaged since I’d come back to town. I assumed that this had something to do with my father’s illness. But she had rarely made eye contact with me since his return from the hospital and I was starting to take it personally. I’d begun to wonder if this was a response to my refusal to take over the store. In this context, she would of course have little sympathy for how Howard’s error scuttled my day.
“He might know what he’s doing most of the time, but he certainly didn’t know what he was doing today. The store is a mess. If he had given me some warning, I could have at least made the place look reasonably presentable.”
She continued to wash the dishes without saying a word. I brought a mixing spoon and another pan over to the sink for her. When she was finished washing these, she shut the water off and turned in my direction.
“You know,” she said, looking past me rather than at me, “I don’t think we’ve ever had a pipe burst in that store before.”
I understood the implication and decided not to get into it with her. If she was angry with me for making the only appropriate decision I could make, she was going to have to work this out for herself. I left the kitchen and went up to my room, planning to go out for a drink. I picked up the copy of Couples I was reading. It was now obvious to me that I would indeed finish all of Updike’s novels before the store sold. Perhaps months before the store sold. Maybe I’d move to the Faulkner canon next.
I put the book back on my dresser and headed out the door.
CHAPTER NINE
A Difficult Set to Light
The next Wednesday was the opening night of the new production by the Lenox Ensemble. I’d spoken with Iris once since the last time I saw her, and the days leading up to the premiere had been predictably chaotic for her. We were probably on the phone for ten minutes, though I don’t think I actually spoke with her for more than two of those. About halfway in, I could almost guess when the next midsentence interruption was going to occur.
Other than the sound of the carpenters, the store was very quiet. In addition to the usual midweek slump, there had been a perceptible decline in sales since the water damage occurred. Since my father didn’t keep detailed reports of his revenue stream, it was difficult to know whether this was because of the merchandise that wasn’t available in the back of the store or because of the environment created by the contractor. Though I usually stayed until the early evening and sometimes even closed the store, it had become clear to me that my presence wasn’t necessary during the trough of the week. Faced with the option of another catatonic dinner in front of the television with my parents or a drive to surprise Iris, I chose the latter.
I had
dinner in downtown Lenox before going over to the barn. While I ate, I read a copy of the local paper, the Berkshire Eagle, skipping through the national news to get a better sense of the community. There was so much going on here, and there was a brimming sense of anticipation for the approaching summer season and the performances, festivals, and fairs that would accompany it. I found a small article about the premiere by the Ensemble. The artistic director had several quotes in the piece, and though I’d never met the man, his voice came into my head with the intonation that Iris gave to her own voice when she spoke about him.
I hadn’t wanted to risk Iris seeing me at the box office, so I waited until just before the curtain to get a ticket. This nearly backfired on me, as I bought one of the last three seats and would have missed out entirely if I’d had that second cup of coffee. While this left me sitting in the very back of the theater and I chided myself for the folly of committing to four hours of driving without securing a seat first, I was impressed that the Ensemble could fill the place with a midweek opening before the official start of the season.
The production was the world premiere of the latest work from Miller Citron, a New Hampshire play-wright who’d begun to generate regional attention for his earlier dramas. His previous play had in fact gotten excellent notices for a version staged in downtown Manhattan. Iris had told me that she expected it wouldn’t be long before Citron opened a play off-Broadway, and there was even talk of taking this work there.
The play, titled The Last Week in October, was about a couple in Martha’s Vineyard closing down their small inn for the season. As the play progressed, however, it became clear that what they were actually in the process of closing down was their marriage. The writing reminded me of Edward Albee. It was acerbic with a deep core of cynicism, yet occasional flashes of romance and charm elevated it and made me care about the people on the stage. The two lead actors gave nuanced performances, balancing anger, disappointment, sadness, and longing without ever allowing any one emotion to dominate. The small handful of other players was less accomplished. The best friend was too consciously sympathetic, the lawyer too openly flirtatious. Having heard so much about the set designer, I was especially interested in seeing how he dressed the stage. It was spare, offering the suggestion of a country inn rather than the depiction of one, using muted colors with the occasional touch of a vibrant red.
The play was very powerful. It moved me and caught me up in its complexities. At the same time, I remained aware that Iris had helped bring this play to the stage and I felt a strong surge of pride at her involvement. When the audience applauded appreciatively at the end, I couldn’t help but think of how Iris received that appreciation.
One of the guys I’d seen at Iris’ office on my visits recognized me and let me backstage afterward. The entire area was a swirl of motion. A couple dozen people either milled or darted and others made their way in behind me. I saw Iris moving quickly from one end of the room to the other and I called to her. She stopped and turned in my direction. For a moment, her eyes opened widely in obvious (and, I hoped, pleasant) surprise, but then her brow furrowed and she put up one finger to indicate that she was in the middle of doing something else. She headed toward the far corner of the room. I didn’t want to crowd her, but I took a few steps in that direction. Doing so allowed me to see what she was dealing with. The male lead and the man who played the best friend were exchanging heated words. I couldn’t make out all of it, especially when others in front of me began to comment on the proceedings, but it appeared that the lead felt this was the appropriate time to question some of his fellow actor’s choices. His subordinate took exception to this. Their verbal sparring quickly descended to profanity and name-calling. An actor I’d admired just minutes earlier now seemed petty. I wondered if there was a history between the two or if perhaps the lead had a reputation for belittling his fellows.
There seemed an excellent chance that things were going to come to blows, especially when one actor put his hand on the shoulder of the other. But then Iris intervened. She said something sharp but sotto voce to the lead actor and he responded to the comment by briskly turning his back to her and walking off in the other direction. Iris then put her arm around the other actor’s shoulder. The man was obviously having trouble regaining his composure and he gesticulated harshly for a minute or two before Iris turned him toward her, patted him on the chest, and calmed him down.
This fire doused, Iris started walking in my direction. Since she hadn’t made eye contact, though, it wasn’t clear whether she was actually coming to see me or not. She didn’t get particularly far. The director intercepted her about fifteen feet from me.
“Can you believe the incompetence of those lighting people,” he said.
“It wasn’t that bad, Art,” Iris said in response.
“Not bad if this were dinner theater. The audience must have been cringing from all the gaffes.”
“Most people probably didn’t even notice. I only saw a couple mistakes myself.”
The director drew back from this comment. His body language suggested that Iris’ statement had diminished his estimation of her.
“Don’t give me that crap, Art,” Iris said. “You knew it was a difficult set to light and you knew that we were going to have to make certain compromises. Did they do a great job tonight? No. Did they do it appreciatively differently from what you agreed to in the last rehearsal? No.”
“Pardon me, Iris, I thought you cared about excellence as much as I do. It seems I was wrong about this.”
“Art, is there any chance you might consider the possibility that you’re a little too close to this?”
“A director can never be too close to his work.”
Iris glanced off in the other direction and waited a beat. She was obviously trying to avoid saying something that would escalate the situation. “We’ll do a run-through of the scenes that you think need to be corrected tomorrow afternoon. I’ll set it up.”
The director sighed theatrically (which I suppose was appropriate) and said, “See what you can do. Right now, I need a scotch.”
He walked away and Iris stood in her place for a moment, staring off toward the back wall. I was about to approach her when she started walking away. Someone stopped her and congratulated her on the production and she smiled and offered thanks. While she was doing so, she glanced up at me and I could tell from her expression that she had forgotten I was there. She said a few additional words and the man walked away. Her face dropped as she turned to me and took a few weary steps.
“Congratulations?” I said warily.
She shook her head. “What a disaster this was tonight.”
“I’ve gotta tell you, it didn’t seem like a disaster from out there.”
“Trust me; I know a disaster when I see one. This was a classic. Theo delivered his lines like he was on Seconal – and Walt nearly punched him out because of it. Art thinks the lighting director should never work in this town again. The reviewer for one of the local papers had to beg for his tickets because there was a screwup at the box office, and even the ushers botched their jobs. Sounds like the definition of the word ‘disaster’ to me. Do you have a better one?”
“Under the radar?”
She dropped her head and took a deep breath. “Did you like the show?”
“I loved it. I really did. That guy can write. And Walt might be an asshole, but he’s an excellent actor.”
Iris’ face relaxed a little more. I’d never seen her this tense before. “Yeah, he is. And yeah, he’s definitely an asshole. I don’t know how someone who is that much of a jerk can show so much tenderness on-stage.”
“That’s why they call it acting, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.” She looked toward the back of the room and I could see her shoulders stiffen. When she turned back to me, though, she smiled. “I had no idea you were going to be here tonight.”
“Spur-of-the-moment thing. I wanted to see what your opening night
s were like.”
She gestured toward the rest of the room. “Now you know. It’s a glamour profession.”
“Hey, not everyone gets to have their chains yanked by artists. Some of us only get carpenters and real estate brokers.”
“I feel so much better now.” Whatever had concerned her in the back of the room was continuing to bother her. She looked in that direction again and her eyes remained there for several moments. She turned back to me and said, “Listen, I’ve gotta get over there. Art is talking to the Eagle, and considering his state of mind, he could wind up saying anything. You’re going to stick around for a while, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.”
Iris moved as if snapped from a bungee cord. I went to get something from the buffet table. This scene didn’t exactly mesh with the one I had in my mind while I was driving to Lenox. I’d envisioned a small cast party with champagne and erudite banter and me standing by Iris’ side as she celebrated. Most specifically, I’d envisioned Iris seeing me backstage and hugging me close as she thanked me profusely for sharing this important moment with her. I’d imagined that I might even get a chance to toast her privately at a bar later in the evening.
Instead, I hadn’t even gotten a kiss on the cheek.
The crowd thinned over the next twenty minutes. I milled around, eating a pastry, listening in on some conversations. I didn’t know anyone here other than Iris and I was beginning to feel a little awkward about being in the room. Iris had disappeared with Art a few minutes after she walked away from me and hadn’t been back since. I wondered if all opening nights were like this for her. I probably should have asked at some point. Regardless, she very obviously didn’t have time for me.
Crossing the Bridge Page 10
