Her lashes lowered, shaping her eyes into blue half moons. “Let’s hope there is no traffic.”
With that, my first day of work was over. I gathered my purse, reclaimed my cell phone from the guard at the front door, and limped out onto the street, gulping in fresh air like a tourist who’d been stuck in a high-rise elevator all day.
I hadn’t made it five steps when the phone rang. Kim was on the other end. She was talking before I could get the thing to my mouth and speak into it. “Oh my gosh, it’s about time you finally came out! I’ve been waiting forever. Did you see the cowboys?”
My mind stuttered slightly, processing the barrage of information. I was still mentally cycling and recycling the end of my day with Tova—rewriting it into a scene in which one of two things happened. In the first scenario, Tova found the basement rooms acceptable and was impressed with all my hard work, as well as my resourcefulness. In the second scenario, Tova aired her complaints to him, whoever he was, and by tomorrow, I didn’t have a job.
“Allie, can you hear me?” Kim demanded. “My gosh, you look like a wreck. What did they do to you in there?”
My hand went to my hair. “What . . . Where are you?”
“I’m across the street. I was down this way anyhow, so I thought we could grab some dinner. I didn’t know you’d be in there until after eight o’clock, though. I was about to give up.”
I peered toward the little hole-in-the-wall Italian place nearby, and there she was, standing in the window waving wildly.
A rush of friend love filled me. Aside from Grandma Rita, there had never been anyone in my life who liked me just the way I was—quirks and all. Despite the lurking presence of Tova Kask, Kim and I were going to have the adventure of a lifetime this summer . . . if she landed a spot in the cast. I’d almost forgotten that today was her big day—the final decisions were being made. No wonder she’d been waiting for me to come out. She was probably about to explode.
When I stepped into the restaurant, she already had the waiter on his way over with a warmed-over half plate of spaghetti. She slid a Dr. Pepper across the table along with the Parmesan. “You’re lucky there’s any left. It’s really good, but I only ate half. I need to lose weight. Seriously.”
Dropping my backpack, I collapsed into the seat and grabbed a piece of garlic bread all in one motion. “Holy cow, I’m starving. I think I died an hour ago.” I stretched an arm across the table. “Pinch me so I can check, okay? I might be passed out in the theater basement, and this bread is nothing more than a really good dream.”
Kim swatted my hand away. “You’re so weird.”
“You don’t know what it’s like down there in the basement. You can’t imagine what it’s like.” I couldn’t wait to tell Kim all about my day, about the sound and lighting equipment being delivered, and the five-thread sergers for wardrobing and the old treadle machine that was just like Grandma Rita’s.
She grabbed a napkin and handed it to me. “Wipe that stuff off your chin. You look like old Tom Ball.” Tom Ball had owned the store next to Grandma Rita’s place. Nice guy, terrible table manners. All you had to do to find out the daily special at the café was take a look at Tom Ball’s shirt.
“Thanks a lot.” I laughed, the stress melting away.
Kim’s lips pursed and her nose crinkled. “So, aren’t you ever gonna ask if I got on the cast . . . or should I say . . . in what way I got on the cast?”
“Sorry. There’s no glucose left in my brain. So . . . wait . . . did you say . . . what . . . You’re in? They told you? Is it final?” Kim seemed mildly excited, but not ecstatic. I wondered what that meant. Maybe her friend with the connections hadn’t hooked her up as well as she’d hoped.
She released her hair from a binder clip, and golden strands cascaded to her shoulders. “Well, I didn’t get a named historical character, like I was hoping I would. I wanted to play somebody I could research and learn about. Someone who was in actual historical records of this mystery town they’re basing the show on. I was thinking that once they finally give us some details, I could dig around in the library, visit genealogy sites, learn about my person’s life. Really get into the character and become her.”
Now I was confused. “But if it’s all supposed to be historically accurate, how can they just add people?” More than once today I’d heard team members on the phone ranting about how the structures, props, and fabrics had to fit the time period to the finest detail. Set design and costuming couldn’t use anything with synthetic fibers or press-bonded details, whether it would be visible on camera or not.
The research assistants were digging like crazy. Makeshift desks were already strewn with photographs featuring groups of men posed around old wagons, pictures of women in long gowns, an old tintype of immigrant masons building the high rock walls of a house, and a picture of a family standing beside an oxcart filled with belongings. I’d slowed down on my way through different rooms and looked at the photos, trying to imagine the everyday lives of those long-ago people.
“They explained it all.” Kim sighed. “It’s not like they can just pick up the Yellow Pages and see who was in the town. Records were sketchy back then, and in a boomtown, it was even more that way. A lot of folks came and went, and there’s no surviving record of them. We know they were there, because of the businesses in the community, but they don’t know exactly who the people were. You are looking at Bath and Laundry House Girl Number Three.”
“Oh, Kim, come on.” I almost choked on a sip of my soda. “This is supposed to be a semi-serious docudrama, not an episode of Gunsmoke. Did they hire Miss Kitty too?”
Kim blinked at me once, then again, then a third time—her attempt to convey that she did not appreciate my humor. “I wish I were kidding, but I’m not. Saloons, bathhouses, and laundries were part of the town. They liked me for the part because I look really young, and German. A lot of the girls in saloons and bathhouses back in those days were like thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old. Which makes me really sad, when I think about it. When girls got to be that age, if their families kicked them out or moved away or couldn’t provide for them anymore, the girls either got married or found some way to support themselves. They had to.”
Her gaze drifted out the window. “So picture this: There I am standing in this room at yet another callback, and there are seven people behind the table, and I don’t know who they all are, but they’re having this discussion about me like I’m not even there. Then, at one end of the table, a guy points out that maybe I’m too fat. He asks me, right in front of everybody, what size I am. To my total and complete mortification, he goes on to guess about a size sixteen—which is bigger than I actually am. By this time, I don’t care if I get a job or not. I just want to crawl off in a hole somewhere and go belly-up. Maybe this kind of stuff is pretty typical in Hollywood, but I’m not used to having people analyze me right in front of me. I thought the next thing they were going to do was ask to look at my teeth. I was so glad when it was over and they let me go back out to the hall. I almost just left.”
“Oh, Kim . . .” Suddenly, I wanted to rush the doors of the Berman and thump some heads. How dare they!
Sighing, she rested her chin on her hand. “And then a few more people came and went from the room. All girls about my age. There we are, trying to figure out who’s the prettiest and who’s the skinniest. It wasn’t too long before they called me into there again and explained to me about the part. Then they handed me a packet of information for Bathhouse and Laundry Girl Number Three, including the schedule for costume fittings, legal meetings, and cast meetings. Then I had a preliminary legal debriefing where they threatened me with my life if I leak any details about the show. There’s also a massive health questionnaire to make sure I’m not likely to drop dead out there in the boonies, and then they sent me on my way. I tried to hang around and find you, but a security guy nabbed me and said I should check my packet for my designated times to report downstairs. I tried to chat him up
, but even my considerable folksy charms had no effect on him. I know you find that hard to believe, but it’s true.”
She pushed her empty glass to the edge of the table, so the waitress could pick it up. “How was your first day as a great big production assistant?”
“Scary.” It was the best way I could think of to describe it. “I’m telling you, Tova Kask neither eats, nor takes coffee breaks. She hates me and wishes I weren’t there, but other than that, there were some really neat things about the day. . . .”
Chapter 5
ALLIE KIRKLAND
MARCH, PRESENT DAY
Work. Day four. Complete insanity.
When I arrived at 11:42 after morning classes as usual, the corridor outside the costuming rooms was piled with boxes of fabrics, ribbons and notions, fasteners, vintage buttons, hats, gloves, shoes, and accessories.
“What do you mean by telling me the costuming crew cannot report here until April ninth?” Tova’s voice echoed down the hall. “They must take charge of their area now! How am I to accomplish anything when he has saddled me with a part-time, untrained college girl and a full-time ninny at the loading dock, as well as costuming personnel who will not report for two weeks? And now this edict to hire pre-production help locally? Where am I to find qualified people in this backwash of a town? I need underlings who know what they are doing. I haven’t time to nursemaid them. I have already been given one of his pets to look after, and now this? It is impossible even for me!”
The slipknot in my stomach yanked tight. I considered running the other way, but there was a man waiting with a large crate down there. He gave me a look that said, Lady, I’ve got a wife and kids to support, and I need this job. Please don’t make me go in there and ask where she wants this.
I skirted Tova’s door and met the deliveryman at the end of the hall. Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor a tyrannical boss was going to rob me of the opportunity this summer could provide. Strange though it may be, this was my dream.
I routed the delivery, then went back to Tova’s office to make sure she knew I had arrived on time and started work. Dread circled as I walked in the door.
Tova had just finished her call, but she was still clutching the cell phone, trying to strangle the life out of it. “It is eleven fifty-eight.”
I thumbed over my shoulder toward the other rooms. “The installer was in the hall with the CAD system and the pattern plotter for costuming. I figured he was waiting for you, but I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I took care of it. I hope that’s okay.”
Despite the fact that her cheeks were red with emotion, she looked fresh as a daisy . . . or a pitcher plant—something attractive to look at, but deadly. “Please, do check with me when you wander in, so I can help you to prioritize your tasks.” Standing up, she dropped the cell phone into a suitcase-sized Coach bag before slinging it over her shoulder.
“I’ll be sure to do that in the future.”
She began gathering notebooks. I hesitated, unsure if I had been dismissed or if I should wait to be insulted some more. The office looked like a storm had blown through. Where in the world had all the new stuff come from?
She looked up suddenly, the way people do when they realize innately that you’ve been analyzing.
“Is there a purpose in your hovering there, Allison?” As far as I could remember, it was the first time she’d addressed me by name since the interview.
“I was just wondering . . .” If you have a pulse. “Should I go back and help the installer, work on the costuming rooms, or help with routing the backlog at the loading dock? It looks like Stevie’s got more than he can handle. There’s stuff piled at the end of the hall.” I’d already noticed that Stevie, the full-time production assistant, spent as much time upstairs as he could. “Or is there something else you want me to do?”
“Yes, that will be fine.” She returned to her notebook, dismissing me. “I will be leaving shortly for our first team meeting at the airport Hilton. The principals are flying in, and our time is limited.” Her fingers trembled as she sought the opening on a plastic sleeve, then gave up and stuffed loose papers into the binder. “Just try not to screw anything up, Allison. That will be enough of a task, now, won’t it?”
“I’ll do my best to manage.” The smackdown smarted, but it was my own fault for walking in like a little lamb once again, hoping to make friends.
A glance at her watch seemed to heighten her frustration. “Take care of the costuming rooms, and I want to see the loading dock deliveries in order when I return.”
She whooshed past me, leaving me alone to contemplate that last request. Ohhh-kay. Yes, and while I’m at it, let me realign the earth’s axis, conquer world hunger, and come up with a detailed analysis on that global warming thing too.
“Oh, man,” I muttered as I walked back down the hall to look for Stevie. With Tova gone, the atmosphere in the basement was considerably brighter, but the loading dock was worse than I’d ever seen it, and Stevie was nowhere to be found. A quick junket through the building clued me in to the fact that he’d officially turned in his badge at the theater office and walked out the door an hour ago, muttering expletives. The loading area was a mess for a reason.
“Okay, okay, just chill.” Leaning against a crate tacked together from multicolored recycled wood, I pulled in a breath. “It’s just a job. Think it through a step at a time.” My college counselor’s advice punctuated the dialog in my mind: Organization and analysis prevents paralysis.
“You can figure this out . . .” On the side of the crate, a set of roughly carved numbers caught my attention: 6-14-55. I traced a finger across them, a sense of wonder sprinkling over me, washing away the silt of the day.
Grandma Rita had always promised that life was filled with divine appointments, if you looked for them.
June 14, 1955, was my father’s birthday.
For a moment I imagined that this bit of lumber had been salvaged from the old school in nearby Buna, Texas—that my father had carved these numbers himself, probably while his mind was drifting off, spinning a story. Just like mine.
He’d be so happy I was here this summer, even if I was just a small part of a big project. In my mind, he leaned close to my ear and whispered the same thing he had years ago when he’d placed me on a stool behind the camera: You can do it, Allie. You can do anything you set your mind to. Never be afraid to try. . . .
The tension ebbed as I sorted, pushed, pulled, and scooted containers into groupings by department, then decided to take some invoices upstairs to the guys with the dollies.
A noise from the other side of the loading area stopped me just as I was rounding the corner. Footsteps. That half of the building was completely unused, yet the steps were undeniable, slow and measured. The kind made by long legs in no hurry. A man’s boots.
That strange sensation slid over me—the one I’d had the first time I walked into the Berman Theater. Heebie-jeebies rattled my shoulders, shaking loose a couple of invoices. They seesawed gently to the floor, the paper crinkling amid the echo. A sound I understood against one I didn’t. The footsteps seemed to flit off the arched ceilings and come from everywhere. I walked a few paces to the left, and the noise vanished. Then it returned, originating from the vicinity of the costuming rooms. In the opposite direction.
No one could move from one end of the building to the other that quickly. . . .
Gooseflesh prickled, and I wondered about all the people who may have come and gone from this theater in its lifetime. The place had probably been here since the days of speakeasies. What was its history? What things had it seen? What human dramas, both real and imagined, had seeped into these walls?
Were there hidden entrances? Secret passageways?
My mind went wild imagining.
A chill crept up my back. I wished Stevie were here, or Tova. Even ghosts would be afraid of Tova.
Not that I believed in ghosts. I didn’t. At all.
The footsteps c
hanged sides again, returning to the unused corridor, seeming to travel toward an old storage area filled with theater props, gray with dust and draped with lacy spider webs.
I tiptoed closer, stopping near the corridor’s entrance, the invoices clutched to my chest.
“Hello? Is someone down here?”
The walking stopped, but no one answered.
“Can I help you?”
No answer. More noises, behind me this time, in the costuming hallway. I whipped around and looked. No one. A door creaked open, then slammed shut. That was not my imagination.
A man murmured, the sound passing overhead like smoke, seeming real at first, then fading into what could’ve been only pipes groaning.
I had three choices—pursue, ignore, or make a run for the stairwell and the security guy in the box office. If he came down here and didn’t find anything, I’d look like a nut. Word might get back to Tova. She had made the point in my initial interview that they weren’t looking for people who were superstitious. No ghost hunters allowed.
And I wasn’t one. I did not go in for that kind of thing. Not, not, not.
Old buildings do make noises. . . .
A shadow slipped past the doorway. At least I thought I saw something, but no one was there. The footsteps went silent.
The adrenaline of fight or flight surged through my body. One final step, and I slid around the hallway corner. Nothing.
Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back as the air conditioner clicked on overhead, eclipsing any sound. The ventilation system. Of course. The building had probably always made these noises. Most of the time, the climate control units were chugging away constantly, but today the temperate weather had caused them to kick off. That could explain why I’d never heard . . .
Wildwood Creek Page 4
