Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  We had planted that garden when we arrived and it had thrived under the constant care of the PBT minions. Barrows picked off the top of a tall purple cosmos and after a beat flipped the petals into the street. He then turned his attention to the dining hall and the arrival of some of the company’s early risers, straining to hear the morning banter of youth as they greeted the day.

  Barrows’s visage never changed, stoic was his expression, a smile nowhere to be found. He walked across the gravel driveway that was fresh and bright, free of the potholes and decay we had found when we first arrived. He stopped at the redwood table where Trudy and Zach were running lines and drinking steaming hot coffee. Their exchange was friendly, and Barrows shook hands with a slight bow and moved on. He found his way to the box office and stared at the seating chart beside the ticket window. After a long while he walked to the front of the theater and disappeared into the old barn.

  I watched this all, alone and silent, in the office. I wanted to scream. I felt nauseous and frightened. None of this made any sense. I half expected to see the theater ablaze and in ruin. I had aged more than a decade by the time he exited the building. His face wore a smile, something I had never seen in the old man. And his eyes, his eyes, . . . well, they had light behind them instead of the soulless dark stare I had seen only hours, but seemingly days, earlier.

  Ellie Foster was running a dance step on the deck and he stopped to watch her from a distance. She ran the routine several times and then called Janet Kessler over from her breakfast where she sat holding hands with ASK and inquired how it looked. Ellie then taught the step to Janet and they danced it together happily, like puppies rolling through a pile of autumn leaves. They hugged one another when finished. The Cape Cod morning sun cast a halo over their glossy, pretty hair and shone upon their young, flushed faces. They walked over to the redwood table to join their friends.

  Kasen walked out from behind the scene shop unshaven, weary, and covered with paint. He asked Barrows if he could help him. Barrows indicated no with a shake of his head, and then Kasen shook his hand and an introduction had been made. They walked over to the breakfast table under the giant maple and Barrows took a seat surrounded by youth. ASK appeared out of nowhere and placed a plate of Ma’s breakfast specialties in front of Barrows. Pleased, the doctor took the offered napkin, placed it over his lap and began to eat breakfast!

  What’ll happen next? I wondered. Is Barrows going to smoke a joint with James? Just when you think you know something, you realize you don’t.

  Elliot was rehearsing certain members of the band behind the red house and more music found its way into the morning. Soon Mary Holly’s crisp, bight soprano joined the band; breakfast was now accompanied by talent and lyric and joy, a trifecta you couldn’t buy at any price.

  Barrows stood and backed away from the group waving friendly goodbyes. He then parked himself in the center of the compound and turned slowly in a circle, taking in the PBT grounds. His focused gaze was steady, as if gathering information. He spotted a small piece of paper that marred the driveway, bent over, picked it up and placed it in his jacket pocket. He noticed a lone flower withering on its stem and broke it off and placed that in his jacket as well. Barrows then turned toward the office window that looked out on the compound and his eyes met mine. He seemed to know I’d been standing there. Time had run out.

  I walked toward Barrows and as I closed in he said, “Come with me, Mr. August.” He headed back toward his black limo and I followed. “Mr. August, might you join me for a discussion in my car?” he asked. And then he added, “Please.”

  When I didn’t respond he repeated his request, this time making it more of a command.

  “Dr. Barrows, after last evening’s events I don’t think it wise that I meet with you without my counsel in attendance,” I replied.

  “All right, young man, but counsel is not needed. I heard you last evening. I heard your anger and then your passion. You had valid things to say on both accounts. Your first verse only gave me greater resolve to shut you down. You see, a summer here is much like a long race, a marathon, and I still believe you will run out of air before you reach the finish line.”

  “Dr. . . .” I began.

  “Shut up, August, and listen. I did so last evening and now it is your turn.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied.

  “When you get to be my age you have lived so many lives. I forgot that I was your age once, as it was so long ago. The years have blurred those memories and . . . well, I have come to resent that loss of clarity. You remember every word of our meetings yet so do I.

  “My counsel, Miss Golden, told me to ‘give you boys what you want’— that you were not responsible for the world turning. She was right. The world will continue spinning until I am gone and long after. So I have chosen to leave you alone and see if you can finish this race you have so eagerly begun.

  “I am not an ally, but until you trip up I will no longer be a foe. I have told you that I thought it took more than charm, good looks, and biceps to be a leader and, my young friend, it takes much more than words—which you never seem to be short of.”

  “I am now, sir. Are you letting us continue?” I asked, my voice choking with emotion.

  “I am offering an uneasy, tenuous truce. You have done well here. Your friends admire you and they work with all their heart. There is something in you, August, that deserves a chance to swing the bat. Finish the job, or I will make sure you end up on the bench where glib, clever references to Fred Lynn won’t save you.”

  He gave me a letter on the foundation’s letterhead that backed up his promise, then got in his black limo without another word or an acknowledgment of goodbye. As he drove away I breathed deeply and held back tears. “And good luck to you as well, Dr. Barrows. You unmitigated son of a bitch,” I said. I was grateful of course, but I guess I need the last word.

  “The ghosts are singing again, doctor. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. Don’t fuck with the ghosts once they’ve reawakened.” I reread the letter he had given me. Then I folded it and put it in my back pocket

  I watched the tail lights of his car disappear down Rocky Hill Road. Looking over at the PBT compound with all its happy and, yes, youthful activity, I noticed that the entire place was bathed in sunlight. It was  a.m., so I walked to the dining hall to get some breakfast.

  83

  We returned to rehearsal promptly at ten that morning. No tardiness, a sense of purpose in the air. The day off had proved valuable. Although short in duration it tossed certain pettiness asunder, and once I was back to work my skirmishes with the town bully, although still rattling inside my brain, did so in a whisper. PBT was reinvigorated for the days ahead.

  The company finished its run of Anything Goes with panache. Tickets continued to sell. New laughs were discovered and joined the established money moments in the bank of mirth. We rehearsed Funny Girl during the day, and sometimes after the curtain had come down we ran a number or two until the clock hit midnight. We did not have a single streaker, naked bouncing breast, or visit from the local extortionist. The police did not summon me for a powwow and no fisticuffs were caused by the women who worked and played under our banner. PBT had settled in the way a good team does during the dog days of August. We played steady and hit in the clutch. We made the big play when necessary and the dead, red punch-outs kept us in every game.

  Funny Girl premiered the following Monday. The show was in terrific shape, as were its stars Fitzgerald and Rush. Lizzy Barrows brought thirty people with her to the opening and mingled with members of the cast long after her guests had gone home. I still didn’t understand, so the blackness in my heart toward the Barrowses remained my secret.

  Veronica had no contact with Lizzy that night, part of our uneasy truce. We were a couple, as entwined in one another’s lives as we were when we slept entangled like vines in the jungle. We’d figure out the rest
of her story when the time was right.

  Johnny Colon had been booked on assault charges for his indiscretions with Ellie Foster.

  We ran the table on Funny Girl. On its closing weekend we had one expected visiting group, a friendly, loving surprise, and a black limo that arrived with the promise of turmoil and a smoldering simmering scent of trouble.

  First the good news. Michael Kasen, who worked tirelessly as our tech director, had his dad visit for the last performance. Mr. Kasen was blown away by what he saw—not just the show itself but the entire gestalt of PBT. Michael’s dad was a powerful attorney who represented transport owners in New York City. He was a tough guy, for sure, but underneath really a gentle giant. Late Saturday night, he approached me.

  “Freddy Kasen, Michael’s dad,” he said extending his hand. He had a firm handshake. I’d been taught you could judge a great deal about a person from their handshake.

  “Yes, sir, I know that. He looks like you.”

  “I’m better looking.” He laughed and his tough-guy demeanor faded away.

  “Of course you are, Mr. Kasen. What was I thinking?”

  “Sam, question. Would it be all right with you if I spent the day here working alongside Mike? Help out any way I can?”

  Here was a man who had gone toe to toe with the Teamsters, stared down New York City unions, and prevented strikes that would have crippled a city. As a young attorney he had represented Robert Moses, who built Jones Beach and much of the New York City subway system. Mr. Kasen was the real thing, a man of substance and fire, and he wanted permission to work in our house. “It would be an honor, Mr. Kasen,” I said with a small, respectful bow. “Let me get you a hammer.”

  From that moment, Fred Kasen threw himself into everything. He built sets alongside his son. He commented throughout the day that the time he spent with us made him feel young. He flirted with the girls and offered praise to everyone on the premises. He ate breakfast in our dining hall on Sunday morning and even gave a toast to “youth and opportunity and fearlessness.” He hugged me when he said goodbye and promised to invest in my first New York venture. Then he shook his son’s hand and drove off in his white Lincoln Continental. Mr. Kasen was our lovely surprise.

  Mr. Foster, the man in the limo wore a dark suit and a red tie with a matching pocket square. He had a jutting jaw and an almost military manner. He was gruff yet polite with everyone and asked at the box office for the best seat in the house. Informed there were no seats to be had, he got a bit in Diana’s face and insisted to talk to someone in charge. I saw the exchange and interceded immediately.

  “Mr. Foster, sir, welcome. I’m so glad you made the trip.”

  He looked at me with a distrustful and professional eye. “You are . . .?”

  “Sam August, sir. We spoke about Ellie over the phone. Let me get you a seat and then I’ll run and get her.”

  “So, Sam, you were the pushy young man throwing around words like ‘damage.’”

  “Sir, I used that word because I thought it was true that she could be hurt and you needed to hear it. I’d also like to believe I was caring and not pushy, but as you know in your work, whatever it takes to get the job done, right, sir?”

  “I have to say that this is an impressive place you have here, much more than I would have expected. I guess congratulations are in order for you. Ellie writes that she has really prospered here and that she has enjoyed the dancing and wants to continue with it after the summer.”

  “Yes, sir. She is a great person and she is so dedicated and so talented. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  “Well, you’ll have to figure that out, son. I’m taking her home tonight. I’ll see your show and then we’ll be off.”

  I countered with a quick jab. “No, that won’t be happening.” My eyes met his and held their own. “Ellie has a contract with me, and we’d suffer real damages if she breached that agreement. Also, Mr. Foster, I have no tickets to sell you. We’re completely sold out and I won’t be able to find you that seat I mentioned a minute ago. Sometimes it pays to plan ahead. Sorry, sir. It was nice to meet you. I’ll let Ellie know you’re here.”

  As I started to leave, he took my arm and spun me around to face him. “You listen to me, kid. That contract you’re throwing at me is for what, a hundred, two hundred dollars? I’ll buy it out for lunch money and this will all go away. I am taking my daughter home tonight. This whole situation is too dangerous for her to get vested in; she has other more important things to do with her life. So let’s not play games here, boy.”

  “My name is Sam, sir. I don’t play games, but I do honor my commitments and I expect others to do the same. Ellie has friends here who are counting on her.”

  “I don’t know her friends.”

  “Perhaps you should. It might help you know your daughter a bit better.”

  “I’ll buy out her contract for five thousand dollars. I am taking her home.”

  “Neither her contract nor her soul are for sale! Neither am I, sir. Now, if you’d like to see our show, I can accommodate you. But if you’re here to cause a problem for me, then I’m respectfully ending this conversation.”

  He was seething. His power tie and scowl weren’t working on me. I had no stock options in his corporate tower, nor was I vying for his approval.

  “I’ll pass on the show,” he said briskly and waved for his driver to come around.

  I dashed to the office and grabbed the PA mic. “Ellie Foster, please come to the compound immediately. Your father is here to visit. Your father is in attendance. Please come to the compound ASAP!”

  My recklessness had halted Mr. Foster before he climbed into his car and hid behind the tinted glass that shielded him from being human. Ellie appeared and dashed to his side, hugging him tentatively. He softened ever so slightly. Diana, knowing somehow that her girlfriend needed assistance, ran out from the box office waving a ticket as if it carried the winning numbers to the Irish Sweepstakes. She proffered it to Mr. Foster and he had no choice but to take it. Unless he was Houdini, it looked like he’d be seeing Ellie’s work on stage tonight. After that it would be up to the two of them to figure it all out. I had my parents arriving and needed to prepare. One must, even for the best of invasions.

  Mom and Dad arrived minutes before the final performance of Funny Girl on Saturday night. It was so good to see them both. My father was a very handsome man in his early fifties who carried himself with great confidence. My mom, Phyllis, was a beauty even as she approached the big five-oh. She had red, curly hair, an easy smile, and a figure and long legs that matched any of the girls working at PBT. My aunt and uncle were with them, and they all beamed as they raced to their seats just in time for the downbeat.

  The show went extraordinarily well. It had that special magic closing nights always have, sparked by the company’s desire to hold on to something that will never come around again. True, there would be other shows, but it was the last time for this particular one.

  I worked throughout the performance and needed to do so after curtain as well. Our next show was Company and, as I had feared, the heavy hydraulic scenery Duncan had designed was nearing the clusterfuck stage. We’d have to work through the night to strike the Funny Girl set and quickly mount the complicated machinery that was part of the modern design and character of Company. Additionally, we had a new light plot that needed a refocus and numerous costume quick changes to cover. Most important, because of the sophistication of and difficulty learning it, we had yet to stage the Act Two opening or rehearse Fitzgerald’s big eleventh-hour number. I’d have very little time to visit with my parents, if at all. I truly hoped they’d understand.

  I joined everyone outside about twenty minutes after the applause ended. I had been working in the scene shop on the set problems, and as I walked across the compound I was delighted to see my folks chatting animatedly with my friends. They rose to greet me.

  “Sammy, oh Sammy, it is so
good to see you,” my mom said as she hugged me, smelling of Shalimar and gin. She proceeded to kiss me relentlessly, as if I was five and she was putting me to bed. My dad offered a more dignified hug. His scent for as long as I could remember was Canoe, warm and comforting.

  “I am so proud of you, Sammy,” he said. No praise could have meant more.

  I said hello to my aunt Rene, my father’s younger sister. Rene was a true beauty and would have been a big-time fashion model if life had dealt her a different hand. Her husband, Morris, was so happy with the evening he pranced like a puppy and shared his delight in a jumble of words. The kindest man I knew, he spoke as if his mouth were filled with marbles. Throughout the years, I’d responded to his energy rather than what he was actually saying because I could never really understand him.

  My mother strolled over and began to dance with me as she sang a song from the show. She never could remember a lyric, but she could sing “Dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah” with the best of them and make it her own. She was always sweet when she sang, and it reminded me that my mom was once a young girl.

  Zach cut in and took over the song and dance, and for a moment I thought my mother was dancing with Clark Gable. I was uncertain whether to enjoy the moment or call for a gurney in anticipation of her passing out.

  “Dad, Uncle Morris, we have things to do. We have to strike the set and ready the new one by morning. Pizza and beer are on the way. Come in and grab a hammer. Mom and Aunt Rene can visit with everyone while we work. It should be fun. Then on my break in the morning we can all have breakfast.”