by Hildy Fox
Looking at it in the Spring afternoon sun, Lahra understood the impact that the grand cathedrals of the middle ages must have had on all those who saw them. To Lahra, the Miracle was a cathedral. And in truth her annual trip home was just as much an exodus to this holy place. Its grand, Art Deco façade was the welcoming face of a dear old friend. Its row of frosted glass doors smiled at her. Its long, square windows gazed warmly upon her. And the neon 'Miracle Cinema' sign, even switched off, was as much an alluring invitation to come on in as it had ever been.
She stepped slowly out of the Jeep and began walking across the road towards the Miracle, her eyes not leaving it for a moment. Suddenly she was seven again, and her parents were bringing her to her very first movie outing—a re-release of Dr Zhivago. The movie itself was some three hours long, but to Lahra it seemed to finish way too quickly. They were sitting in the first row of the balcony, smack in the centre. Her father had bought her a large popcorn, but it was barely touched. Once the film began Lahra forgot about the real world. Her young mind was in a faraway land of romance and tragedy and danger. It didn't matter that she couldn't understand all of the story. Just being witness to the spectacle was magic enough. The big, bright screen, the loud, majestic music. Yes, the music. The same beautiful music that her mother and father had danced to in the living room from time to time. The same music her mother and father had had as their bridal waltz. The music she herself had cried to almost a decade later after hearing that her they had been killed.
Lahra stood before the building and let her memories filter through her. The Miracle Cinema was where her love for the movies began. It made her what she was today. It was indeed the best friend she had ever had.
One of the six swinging doors before her was half open, Lahra noticed, which was unusual for this time of day. The Miracle screened double bills every night except Monday, beginning at about seven o'clock. Sunday and Wednesday nights had always been her favourite because they were the nights that the old classics –and not so classics—played. It was now mid-afternoon on a Thursday and the cinema would normally have been locked up tight for another few hours.
She took the three steps to the open door and poked her head inside. A musty, ancient smell greeted her nostrils, familiar and friendly. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light within, but it quickly became apparent that nobody was in the foyer. She stepped into the stillness, and goosebumps ran up her arms.
"Hello, anyone home?"
Directly ahead were the doors to the stalls. They were shut. To her left the men's and ladies' restrooms, closed and silent. To her right were the box office and candy bar flanking the marble staircase which led up to the balcony. The lights were switched off. The office doors behind were shut.
"Hello?"
Lahra moved to the stairs, glancing around as if someone might emerge from the shadows at any moment. She climbed up to the landing, then turned left and up again and emerged onto the mezzanine. It was just as still up here. A large oval opening in the floor skirted by railing allowed her to see back down into the foyer, but there was nothing new to see. She moved along the wall to the balcony entrance, swung the door open and entered.
It was as if the Miracle was sleeping. Dark and still and silent, waiting to awaken that evening when the front doors were flung open and the house lights were turned up. The rows of low-backed leather seats faced a blank, darkened screen. The curtains were open, but there was no show. Lahra moved to the centre of the front row, and looked out over the stalls, the stage, and the strangely lifeless screen. If it weren't for the fact that she knew that in a few hours’ time the place would be alive with light and sound, she'd have said there was a distinct feeling of sadness in the air.
A sudden burst of light accompanied by an enormous noise made Lahra jump so violently that for an instant she thought she might go over the balcony. The cinema had abruptly and very unexpectedly awoken. Colourful images filled the screen and sound blared from the speaker system. It took a moment for her nerves to settle enough to recognise the film playing as River of No Return, a CinemaScope western from the fifties. Marilyn Monroe was dressed in a shimmering orange and red dress, singing a ballad to a saloon full of men in cowboy hats.
Lahra whipped around to look at the windows of the projection booth, knowing that only one person could be up there. A second later and she was bounding back out onto the mezzanine, through the door marked 'No Entry' and up the narrow flight of steps that led to the booth. She emerged breathlessly in the long, dim room and saw the man she expected to see hunched over the projector.
"Knock knock," she said excitedly.
The man turned to answer, obviously surprised at having a visitor. But the surprise quickly turned to delight when he saw the beaming face of Lahra Brook in the doorway. "Doc! What the devil are you doing here?"
"Oh Wally," Lahra said as they fell into a natural bearhug, "it's so good to see you again."
"You're not supposed to be here until tomorrow!" Wally exclaimed. "Not that I'm complaining. It's been too long as it is."
They finally released each other and stood holding hands between them. Lahra looked up into the happy, wrinkled face with the trademark bushy moustache and soaked up the joy of their reunion. Letters and the occasional phone call could only achieve so much. She’d tried to introduce him to the wonders of email, but Wally wouldn’t have it. The old ways were the best in his book, and standing face to face, in both their books, was best of all.
"Looks like you've got a few more grey hairs," she joked, knowing full well that Wally had had a thick mop of silver hair in all the time she'd known him.
"Hey, I wouldn't be joking about grey hairs if I were you, young lady. You'll be my age soon!"
"In forty years, you rat!" She slapped him playfully on the arm as he laughed huskily.
Wally regarded Lahra from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Still as pretty as ever. What's wrong with the men out there today? In my day they'd have been beating down your door."
"Well, you know me. If he ain't Cary Grant, he ain't got a chance! Besides, who said there wasn't an eligible suitor in the wings?"
"Oohhhh!" Wally sounded intrigued by this prospect. "So has someone actually managed to pass the formidable Doctor Brook selection test?"
Lahra laughed teasingly, and then out of nowhere the image of Marcus Dean leapt into her head, waist deep in cold, running water, fixing her with those green-gold eyes. Her laughter stuttered as the dripping Marcus began stepping towards her, rising out of the water-
"So, there is someone then!" Wally pursued, seeing the flash of thought on her face.
"No, Wally, no," Lahra assured, shaking the image out of her head. "Sorry to disappoint you. I know how eager you are to see me find the right man. And with you as my matchmaker, how can I fail?" She smiled at Wally and again felt the urge to hug him, so she did.
"Wah! Hug them like that, Doc, and they'll be yours for life."
Lahra let go and took Wally's big, fatherly hands in hers. She looked at him earnestly. Marilyn Monroe continued to sing in the background. "So tell me Wally. How are you?"
As Lahra watched, a transformation took place on her old friend's face. The big moustache drooped as the smile beneath it faded. The boyish glint in the eyes dissipated. The lines on the forehead gathered and deepened above the converging eyebrows. Watching the change take place, Lahra could feel her own features go from bright to curious to concerned. She tightened her grip on his warm hands. "Actually, Lahra, things aren't so good."
She waited for him to continue. But the old man moved away from her and went back over to the projector, continuing his checks. "Wally, what is it? What's wrong?" She went to him, and she could see by the look on his face that he wanted to say something but didn't quite know how. His eyes concentrated on the projector gate. "Are you ill? Is it your heart again?"
"No, no, I'm fine. It's nothing like that."
"Well what is it then? You're scaring me."
&nb
sp; "It's strange timing you should arrive here now," Wally began. "The only reason I'm here is because Perkins called me in an hour or so ago."
"And?"
There was a moment's silence as Wally seemed to gather all the strength he could. "He fired me."
"He WHAT?" Lahra's thoughts reeled at the incredible news. Her shock couldn't have been any greater had she been slapped across the face. "How could he do that? You've been the projectionist here for over forty years. Nobody knows this place better than you. If it weren't for you the Miracle wouldn't be half the cinema it is today. What do you mean he fired you?"
"There's more to it, Lahra." Wally looked at her again with an almost apologetic face. Her eyes searched his for any possible clue of what he was about to say, but saw only blankness.
"What, Wally? What is it?"
"The Miracle's been sold. Next week they begin tearing it down."
*
Wally's bluestone cottage was set in a big, picturesque garden not far from River Fork. The front yard was dominated by a towering white gum, complemented by patches of wildflowers that were just now beginning to blossom. A gravel drive leading down from the access road ended at a worn out timber shed that acted as a garage for Wally's old but reliable Ford wagon. Lahra pulled up behind him in the late afternoon light. For the year or more that this place had been her home, Wally had looked after her as if she were his own. As she followed him inside she thought that maybe the time had come to return the favour.
The shock of Wally's news was still sinking in. The Miracle Cinema had brought Lahra the love of film, a passion so strong that it had turned into a career. And it had brought her the love of friendship with Wally, the closest thing she had to a parent since the death of her mother and father when she was seventeen. Now it seemed that all of that love counted for nothing. That there were forces more powerful in the universe that steamrolled such emotions without the slightest consideration. All Lahra could think as they made their way into the kitchen and she filled the kettle, was that two of the most important things in her life were being hurt and there seemed to be nothing she could do to stop it.
Wally slumped into one of the wooden chairs at the wide, pine table and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Lahra tried to disguise her concern. If Wally saw her worrying it would probably only make him feel worse. She lit the stove and began preparing some peppermint tea.
"Remember Sunday nights?" Wally asked suddenly. Lahra smiled as the memories came back. "Every Sunday night we'd prepare a thermos of peppermint tea and take it with us to the Miracle."
"You know, these days when I watch old films I feel funny if I don't have a cup of peppermint tea," Lahra admitted.
"Well, it was a tradition that lasted almost three years. When things go on for long enough it's hard to shake them out of your system." Lahra joined him at the table while the kettle boiled. "Who'd have thought that the little kid who kept pestering me to come into the projection booth to have a look would still be around the day they gave me the boot." Wally laughed, but here was little humour in it. He took Lahra's hand. "Thanks for sticking around all these years, Doc. Not everyone's lucky enough to have friends like you."
"I'm the lucky one," Lahra replied. "Look at all the things you've done for me. You gave me a box seat at the cinema since I was eight years old. You let me stay with you after Mum and Dad died and helped me finish school. You looked over the house while I was away studying in the city. Everything you've done has been beyond the call." Lahra's thoughts suddenly darkened. "I just can't believe that you were sacked after all that you did for the Miracle. You are the Miracle."
"And the Miracle's being knocked down," Wally added. "I don't know, Doc. Life isn't like the movies. It doesn't always have happy endings. I can't complain about my lot, I've had a long and happy reign. I've seen a lot of wonderful movies and met a lot of wonderful people. I'm just sad for the cinema. It's a beautiful place. Sure, it's seen better days. The walls are cracking in places and the curtains and seats are a little worn. But it's still beautiful. Heck, I don't need to tell you that. I don't know. Maybe things just have to change. Maybe it’s inevitable that the old makes way for the new. It's our time to make way. That's all. Nothing we can do about it."
"Rubbish!" Lahra retorted. "Of course there are things we can do. And it's not your time to make way, or the Miracle's. The only reason we lose things is because we don't care enough about them. We hold them for a while and think we care, but one day they slip through our fingers and just go away. If we hold tight and keep holding tight we'll always have the things we love and we won't have to keep looking for replacements. This isn't a peppermint tea ritual we're giving away here. It's something dear to both our hearts. And who says life isn't like the movies? Life has happy endings. And movies don't always end on an up. Dr Zhivago doesn't exactly have the most uplifting ending I've experienced."
Wally smiled warmly at Lahra's passionate outburst. The kettle started to whistle. "You and Dr Zhivago," he chuckled. "I knew I called you Doc for good reason."
"I mean it, Wally," Lahra went on, getting up to pour the tea. "We shouldn't just accept this. There must be something we can do. Did Perkins say anything else to you—anything at all?"
"All he said was that he'd received a very attractive offer for the cinema and it would be closing down as of Monday. I'd be paid out until the end of the month. When I asked why it was being closed down all he said was that there were plans to redevelop, and they were going to start knocking it down next week."
"They? Who's they?"
"I have no idea. I could barely believe what I was hearing, I didn't even think to ask."
Lahra sat down with the steaming mugs of peppermint tea. "Well that's the first thing we have to find out—who's buying the Miracle and exactly what they intend to do with it. Maybe we can work something out, come to some sort of deal." A sudden inspiration excited her. "Or maybe we could buy the Miracle!"
"And where do we get the money from? I know I don't have it, and I'm pretty sure you don't."
"We could take out a business loan. Do everything properly."
"Lahra, your intentions are admirable, but you've got a wonderful career ahead of you to think about. That's what you should be concentrating on. You're going to win seven Oscars, remember?"
Lahra knew that Wally was right. To take on the responsibility of a business venture at a time in her career when things were just starting to happen would be foolhardy.
"You are right, though," Wally continued. "We ought to find out who's responsible and exactly what's going on. Maybe there's something we can do. When I go in tonight, I'll corner Perkins and find out all I can."
Lahra took a long sip of her tea. None of it made sense to her. The Miracle Cinema was a landmark in Riverbank. Why would somebody want to come along and demolish it? True, from the day he inherited the cinema from his father, Perkins never had his heart in it. Patronage had dwindled and the building had suffered from slack maintenance. If it weren't for Wally's efforts in programming and what little odd jobs he could manage, things would have been a lot worse.
The bottom line was that the Miracle Cinema was far from ready to take its final bow. And whatever it took to ensure that it continued better than ever, Lahra would do.
*
Two cups of tea and a slice of carrot cake later, Lahra and Wally had managed to talk of things other than the impending closure of the Miracle Cinema. Their conversation filled the gaps that their letters had left out. Time passed quickly and it was almost time for Wally to get back into town to prepare for the night's screenings.
"In case you missed it, I cut you some fresh fire wood last week," Wally said as he cleared the table. "It's still a bit chilly after the sun goes down."
"You're too good to me."
Lahra looked at her watch. Six thirty. She was well aware that Marcus Dean would be expecting her in another half an hour. Her stomach began doing somersaults as she thought about it.
"So what ar
e you going to do tonight?" Wally asked.
"Well," Lahra began, not having a clue as to what she was going to do, "I still have some unpacking, a bit of cleaning. Have to start building some more bookshelves. I don't know. Just settle in and relax, I guess." She only wished she could relax. As if the Miracle Cinema wasn't stress enough in her life, she also had to contend with Marcus Dean in the short term. She didn't even have his number to call and say she'd had a change of plans. In any case, Wally didn't need to hear anything about her little dilemma.
They walked out to the cars. Lahra looked up at the first stars of the evening. Always so much brighter out here.
"You know, Doc, ever since Helen passed away I've had two loves in my life. The Miracle, and you. As much as I love the Miracle, if it goes it doesn't really matter. People are much more important than buildings."
They hugged again. In her heart, she knew that he was right. If worse came to worst with the cinema, the things that mattered would still be there. They'd still have their friendship.
But even so, that was no excuse for not trying. As far as Lahra was concerned, tomorrow was the start of a new era for the Miracle Cinema.
"You go and build your bookshelves," Wally said. "And I'll go crank up the old projector."
"Okay. I'll talk to you later."
"I'll call if I find anything out."
"Alright. I'll be up."
"Drive safe."
"Yeah, you too."
Their cars got out on the main road, and headed in different directions.
*
The bottle of chardonnay sat open on the kitchen bench. Miles Davis played on the CD player. And Lahra Brook finished putting away the last of her groceries, deep in thought.
She moved to the verandah door, sipping her wine, and looked out across the blackness of the evening. There was no moon. The only light came from the stars, and a single, orange globe that burned at the front door of the old Taylor house on the hill opposite.
