by KD McCrite
Dress rehearsal, which crept up way faster than I’d wanted it to, was on the Friday night before we actually put on the play. Let me tell you, that rehearsal was not a barrel of laughs.
For one thing, ole Ethan Cole did not show up because he had a date with his girlfriend, Binkie Shumacher, who had threatened to break up with him if he did not take her to the basketball player/cheerleader Christmas banquet.
“Very well,” Isabel said, miffed as all get-out. “I will read his part.”
On top of that, wouldn’t you know that every blessed one of us muffed our lines. For instance, Christy said, “We need children to buy milk,” instead of “We need to buy milk for the children.” And I completely forgot my mini-speech at the end. The more we messed up, the more Isabel thinned her lips. I was afraid she was gonna lose her temper and yell at us like she yelled at Pastor Ross that time.
“Isabel, we’re messing up ’cause you make us nervous,” I said.
She blinked a thousand times. “I fail to understand how.”
“It’s just ’cause you’re the professional, and we’re just kids.”
Her face relaxed. “I see.” She gathered us all around her on the stage. “Now listen to me, all of you. Forget that I’m reading this part. Banish from your mind that I am an adult, a female, and a professional. Replace that with the image of George Miller, a man who cares about his family and is desperate to help them. Can you do that?”
We all looked at each other and did not know what to say.
“I can,” Myra Sue said after a moment.
“Me, too,” Melissa piped up. But she had no lines, so why’d she even say that?
“I can, too,” Christy Sanchez agreed.
I nodded, and in a minute all of us had promised to forget Isabel and pretend she was George. I don’t know about anyone else, but it was easy once I put my mind to it. Maybe that was because ole Isabel was actually a good actress. When she read that part, it was like she became poor George Miller. It was like she believed what she (as George) said at the end about how God worked through all of us, from the most powerful to the most humble.
“Neither is more or less His child,” she read. “We are all equally His children.”
When she caught us gawking at her, she kinda shook herself and gave us a smile and a little shrug.
“When you allow yourself to be totally immersed in the character, you reach a depth that is almost mystical in nature,” she said. We looked at her and at each other, and no one said a cotton-pickin’ word because the way she’d read that part surprised us right into silence.
She clapped her hands. “Back to it, people! Nancy Burke, it’s your line.”
I closed my eyes, remembering where we were in the play, and jumped back into rehearsal mode.
We went through the play three times that night, and let me tell you, when I got home, I fell into bed and went smack-dab to sleep without knowing a thing about it until I woke up the next day. The day of the play.
That was Saturday, December 20, and the play started at seven o’clock that night. I was so nervous, I could not eat anything the whole livelong day.
With all the trouble and hard work we had put in, I surely hoped the weather would cooperate, even though it meant I’d have to be up there in front of the entire church and town and world and speak the words of that store owner’s mean wife.
As it turned out, though, the day was sunny with a December kind of cold—not piercing and sharp the way it gets later on, but quiet and gentle. The kind of cold that closes around you softly, bit by bit, until you have to fasten your coat or go inside. In December in our part of Arkansas, you can walk through the woods and enjoy it more because the snakes are hibernating and the ticks and chiggers and mosquitoes are dead or asleep or whatever they do in the winter. The leaves are down and you can see the shapes of brown tree branches and the squirrels’ nests up in them. In our neck of the woods, you’ll find big green clumps of mistletoe hanging off the branches.
Let me tell you a little something: that year, I hoped no one got the bright idea to cut down fresh mistletoe and hang it in our house. My mama and daddy smooched every chance they got, it seemed to me—even more since that baby was on its way, if that was possible. In my own personal opinion, there had been enough kissin’ in the Reilly household that year to last a century or two!
My mama begged the doctor to let her go to the Christmas program. I don’t know what she told him, but he agreed. I wasn’t convinced that her riding all the way to church and sitting on those pews for two hours was a good idea. But I’ve said it before, and I bet I’ll say it a million more times: I’m just a kid, and no one listens to me.
We left way, way early that evening, and Daddy drove so slow, you would’ve thought he was 112 years old. Once we were on the highway, Mama said, “For goodness’ sake, Mike, we won’t get there until tomorrow if you don’t speed up a little.”
We got to the church earlier than most. Pastor Ross was there, of course, and a couple of the deacons and their families. Ian and Isabel were there, and had probably been there since noon, because ole Isabel had been nervous as a cat for the last two weeks.
One thing about it, though: she knew how to make the place look the way she wanted. Inside our church, fat white candles burned in all the windows. A big ole candelabra stood on the piano, and it held about five million candles, all aglow. Big old runners of greenery were looped near the ceiling along every wall, and each pew had a pretty wreath of cedar and a red velvet bow.
“Understated elegance” is what Isabel called it. She did not want lots of lights and tinsel and colors, so we didn’t have them. I have to admit, that church looked good and smelled nice, too.
The Tinker twins were dressed up and slicked up and looked right handsome for a couple of rotten, rowdy boys. It was a good thing they didn’t get a part, or that Christmas play would have been a Total Disaster ’cause they woulda probably stood up there onstage, grinning like goons, waving at folks in the audience, elbowing each other, and snickering. They handed out the programs to people as they came in, and they acted like they had some sense because they were quiet and respectful.
The platform looked nice, like a real stage, even if the curtains had been made from two king-sized sheets strung on a wire.
“Just be glad Lottie’s mother donated them,” I whispered to Isabel shortly before the play started. “Otherwise, we would’ve had nothing.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Her face was white and pinched as she walked around on that stage, moving things a fraction of an inch this way or a slight turn that way. All of us were standing around, waiting for her to tell us to take our places.
“Isabel,” I said, grasping her thin arm. She was wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress that reached about halfway to her ankles.
Her skin beneath my fingers was so cold, I like to have got frostbite.
“Isabel,” I said again, “everything is gonna be just fine. You’ve done a real good job, and all us kids are grateful for you teaching us what to do.”
“You’ve been great, Mrs. St. J.,” said Ethan. “Without you, we’d never have been able to pull it off.”
“And the sets are awesome,” added Christy Sanchez. “All this makes me wish Cedar Ridge had a real theater so we could have live plays more often.”
And guess what? Nearly everyone agreed with that. Not me. I did not ever want to face this kind of terror again.
“Truly?” Isabel said, her face all soft and surprised.
“Yeah!”
“You bet!”
“Yes!” everyone chimed in.
“Radical,” ole J.H. said.
Isabel looked at her wristwatch and beckoned all of us to gather around her like a flock of chicks.
“Thank you, young ladies and gentlemen, for your hard work. It hasn’t always been smooth going because I know I’m not always the easiest person to get along with. But you’ve given your time and your talent, and you’ve worked har
d. I’m very proud of each of you. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully tonight. Don’t worry if you forget a line. I’ll be right there on the front row with the script and I can prompt you, so be sure you’re listening. Remember to enunciate, emote, project, and pause.” She looked around. “Any questions?”
Myra Sue raised her hand somewhat timidly.
“Yes, darling, what is it?”
“Could someone say a prayer? Please?”
Ole Isabel blinked about ten times, but she nodded. “Very well. Shall I get the pastor?”
“I’ll do it, Mrs. St. J.,” Ethan said.
So we all bowed our heads and he prayed, “Thank You, Lord, for this opportunity to share this great play with our friends and family. We thank You most especially for Mrs. St. James, who has taught us so much. We ask that You bless her and hold her close to Your heart, and we pray that You will bless this play and all of us who will be in it so that the words we speak will have meaning for all who hear them. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
We echoed his “amen,” even Isabel, who opened her teary eyes and gave ole Ethan a big smile.
“That was lovely, dear. Thank you so much.” She glanced at her watch again. “And now, kids, it’s showtime. And as they say, break a leg!”
She stepped quickly and carefully off the platform and sat down on the front pew. We took our places. The lights in the sanctuary went out, and the pulpit and platform lights were all that were left shining.
Two deacons pulled the curtains.
I thought for sure I was going to throw up from sheer terror, but I closed my eyes. Without forming words, I prayed for strength and smarts. I remembered that, right then, I was no longer April Grace Reilly, eleven going on twelve, but a selfish woman named Nancy Burke who wanted diamonds for Christmas, even if it meant someone else would go without a place to live or food to eat.
I opened my eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke my first line to my pretend husband: “I’m tired of hearing these sob stories every Christmas. If these people want to eat and stay warm, they should get jobs, not come into this store expecting handouts!”
From then on, it came natural as you please. I left the stage at the proper time and returned on the right cue. All us actors moved and spoke and did just what Isabel had taught us. Except for Lottie, who could not remember her lines at all. When I was close enough to where she stood, I murmured them to her as I brushed imaginary dust from my sleeve or adjusted my jewelry. But the rest of the time, Isabel had to prompt her from the audience. That caused some giggles from backstage at ole Lottie’s expense, let me tell you.
Then it came time for ole Myra Sue and her theatrical debut. She walked out on that stage—no, that’s not right. Instead of entering the scene with a dignified walk, she gal-lumphed out on the stage as if big, heavy strides would give her courage. Instead of making a graceful gesture with her hand toward Holly Burnside, who played the blind woman, my sister threw her arms wide open like she was distributing candy from a float in the Christmas parade.
“Why does that blind woman just stand there?” she yelled, instead of projecting with a strong but refined voice.
Well, I tell you what. She had obviously forgotten every blessed thing Isabel St. James had taught us about becoming and believing the part and not acting all over-the-top, but one thing about it: everybody in the church (and probably out in the parking lot and down the street) heard her.
Ole Myra Sue’s face got red, and then it got redder. I was sure she’d bust out bawling and run off the stage, but she didn’t. She walked stiffly to the place where she was supposed to stand during most of that scene, and she stood there. I don’t think she blinked one time.
I felt sorry for her, but then, I didn’t have much time to think about that because I had to be Nancy Burke, and it was nearly the end of the play, and Nancy Burke, who had learned something about being a good person, was about to say something important.
“How can a blind person see? How can the homeless give comfort? Where do the elderly find hope?” Step, step, step across the stage until I stood beneath the pulpit light. “From a heart that overflows with God’s love.”
When the deacons pulled the curtains closed, you never heard so much applause in the Cedar Ridge Community Church in your whole life. Isabel slipped back up onstage, smiling all over herself.
“You young people did beautifully!” she said. “I’m sure your parents are so very proud of each of you!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Myra Sue in the Spotlight
After the play, I thought I might just pass out, I was so happy it was over. Even though I was so hungry that my stomach was gnawing on my backbone, I let everybody hug me or shake my hand or tousle my hair and say how much they enjoyed the play. Somewhere in or beyond all those people squishing me were my folks, but I couldn’t see over the heads of everyone else. I knew I’d see them right soon in the fellowship hall, so I made a beeline to that big, long room where there sat more food than you’ve ever seen in one place in your entire life. I’m telling you, when it comes to a potluck or a party, Cedar Ridge Community Church knows how to put on the dog. In a good way. And just in case you don’t know what “put on the dog” means, I’ll tell you. It means going all out. If I’d eaten even a little bit of all the good stuff that was spread out there, like fudge and divinity and chocolate cake and red velvet cake and ham sandwiches and sausage balls and guacamole with chips . . . Well, you get the idea . . . But if I was to eat just a little of everything, I bet my whole stomach would explode and my body right along with it.
“April Grace, honey!” Mama said right behind me just after I crammed the biggest ole hunk of fudge you ever saw into my mouth.
I whirled around and tried to smile, but who can smile with a mouthful of black walnuts and creamy milk chocolate fudge?
“Globglob!” I said (which translates into “Mama!”). It’s a good thing ole Melissa was with her own grandmother right then, or she’d have hollered at me for hollering at her previously for talking with her mouth full.
“Oh my,” Mama said, laughing. “You do like your chocolate, don’t you, sweetie?” Then she gathered me into her plump, soft arms and pressed me against her round body. “You did so good, sweetie! That was the best play I’ve ever seen.”
I swallowed as much of that fudge as I could without choking to death or having it dribble out of my mouth. I looked up at her.
“Really?”
“Absolutely. You didn’t look scared at all.”
“I was awful scared at first, but then I just remembered what Isabel told us before the play, and I was okay.”
All of a sudden, Mama gouged me right in the chest. Except it wasn’t Mama who did the gouging.
“Ooh!” She laughed, pulling back a little. She rubbed her hand over her big, round tummy. “The baby is active tonight.”
“Did it just kick me?” I asked.
“Sure ’nough!” Mama said, laughing. “Every time you spoke a line tonight, April Grace, this baby kicked and moved. I think he recognizes your voice, honey.”
I jerked back and looked at her belly. “Really?”
“Seems like, yes.”
I thought about that for a minute. It was kinda neat that the baby knew me already.
“Hey, baby,” I said, leaning close to that big bump that used to be my mama’s trim tummy. “This here is your sister, April Grace Reilly.”
“Oh!” Mama gasped.
“I saw it!” I said, gawking at her belly. “I saw it moving around right there under your clothes. Wowee! Hey, kiddo, do it again.”
And it did.
Right about then, I got pulled away from my little brother or sister and into some stinky arms and smothered with the biggest ole hug you can imagine.
“Tootsie Roll! I have never seen such a wonderful play. You were super!” And here came all kinds of kisses all over my face. Good grief.
“Thanks, Temple,” I said, refraining admirably (if I do say so myself) from wip
ing my face. The Freebirds do not go to church, but it was sure nice of them to show up for that program.
“It was great,” Forest agreed, grinning real big.
Those two looked all clean and combed for a change, and the odor wasn’t too obnoxious—if you didn’t get pulled into it like a giant vacuum cleaner the way I just did.
I tell you what: I got passed around and hugged by every grown-up I’d ever known, and while it was plenty nice to be praised and complimented, I was terrified there would not be any food left before I got to it because, believe me, that church was packed to the rafters and then some.
When people around me finally moved on to other people and other things or the food tables, I said to Mama and Daddy, “Where is Myra Sue? I bet she feels awful after she messed up that line of hers by hollering it out at the top of her lungs.”
“I looked for her, but it’s so crowded in here,” Daddy said.
“Is she with Isabel?” I stood on my tiptoes, trying to see, but like Daddy said, there were so many people in that room, it was hard to see past them all.
“Isabel’s over there, surrounded by her adoring public,”
Mama said, smiling. “I’m glad it all went so well for her. Why don’t you see if Myra is with her, honey? I need to sit down.”
I was mighty hungry, I tell you, but right then I sorta thought my sister was more important than my stomach. While Daddy led Mama to a chair, I went looking for Myra, and I’ll tell you where I found her. I found her up on that platform, sitting beneath the pulpit light, with the sheet-curtains pulled where no one could see her.
All the lights were out except for that pulpit light, and it shone down like a beam right on top of her blond head. She sat there, knees drawn up to her chin and face buried in her arms. I did not hear a sob, a sigh, or a whimper. I wondered if she’d gone to sleep.
“Myra?” I said softly.
She kinda jerked, then real slow she raised her head and looked at me. There was something in her eyes I had never seen before, and it kinda scared me.
