CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday, Rehearsal Week Four, 22 Days till Performance
The day I walked from school to Miss Magnus’s house was the first warm one that spring.
By warm, I mean Plattsfield warm, over fifty degrees and drippy. Still, a few daring crocuses showed their colors on marshy lawns and in flower beds, and a kid could almost imagine the day it would be summer and he’d be wearing flip-flops instead of boots, a ball cap instead of a beanie.
Number 1750 was in the middle of the block, a house smaller than mine with yellow wood siding and blue trim, a covered porch, and a shuttered front window overlooking the lawn. Under the window was a flower bed where maybe there’d be zinnias like at our house in summer, even though now it was nothing but dead gray stems and mud.
I stood on the front porch. I took a breath. I rang the bell. I hoped there would be cookies. I wondered why the famous chihuahua didn’t bark. Had something terrible happened to him?
Of course I’d seen Miss Magnus around school, but she’d never been my teacher. I didn’t know her except for the legend part. If something had happened to her dog, she might be in a bad mood, might not want to answer questions.
And then what would I do?
A voice called, “Come in, Noah. It’s open.”
I opened the door to a house much more jumbly than mine, full of what Gigi would call gimcrackery: photos and paintings in fancy frames, books on every table, little statues—figurines, I guess—on dark wood shelves.
Miss Magnus sat in a stuffed tan chair near the cold fireplace. Her legs rested on a red footstool, the left one bound in a brace. Next to her on the floor was a basket, and in the basket lay the chihuahua, which raised its head and looked around but could not be bothered either to locate the disturbance (me) or to bark.
“He’s not much of a watchdog anymore,” Miss Magnus said. Then, “You must be Noah. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up.”
“Hey, hi, yeah,” I said, took three strides across the small room, clasped her outstretched hand. “Noah, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you and, uh”—I looked down at the dog, who appeared to be snoozing—“him, too.”
“His name is Ducat,” she said.
“No way! Like ‘dead for a ducat, dead’?” The dog looked up. Was he frowning? “No offense,” I said.
“I named him because as a puppy he was small and gold. I wasn’t thinking one day it might seem morbid,” she said.
I bobbed my head yes, then realized I was being over-the-top charming and eager. Maybe I should dial it back a bit, as Mike might say.
I took a breath and, trying not to be too obvious about it, studied Miss Magnus herself—small for a grown-up, not much bigger than me; white with straight brown hair and bangs; big, slightly anxious smile. She was wearing red earrings and pink-framed glasses and a caftan, which I know the word for because Gigi wears caftans around the condo. Miss Magnus’s had diamond shapes and squares all over it.
On the table beside her was a book called Contemporary Poems for the Naughty and Nice. I was embarrassed when she noticed me looking, but she only said, “Ducat likes the naughty ones best.” She added, “The tea tray is in the kitchen, if you don’t mind bringing it in.”
I found the kitchen, found the tray on the counter set up with a carafe of tea, two mugs, sugar, cream, and—yay!—a plate of cookies.
“Do you mind pouring out?” she asked. “Sorry to be so lame—ha ha. Literally. I hobbled around getting things ready, and now the busted leg is feeling it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t spill tea everywhere. “I didn’t mean you should go to any trouble.”
“I’m glad to do it. The PT—physical therapist—says I’m supposed to put weight on my leg. Besides, it’s nice to be civilized on occasion. We really ought to have cups and saucers, not mugs, but this was the best I could do. Now, take a seat. I think there’s room on the love seat if you just move over those old Playbills.”
Tea is not bad with sugar in it. The cookies were crunchy with icing on top. Miss Magnus asked how the play was going, how my school year was going, and did I prefer skiing or snowboarding because in her experience sixth graders in Plattsfield had strong preferences one way or the other. She was easy to talk to, but that made sense. Talking to kids was her job.
“Now,” she said, when the cookie plate was empty and so was my mug. “What is this ‘matter of importance’? How can I help you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I had known Miss Magnus would ask this, of course. I had practiced my answer with Clive so I’d get the wording right, not give anything away. Miss Magnus might be a legend, but she was also a grown-up. If she thought I was asking about the guy helping Fig out with Hamlet, if she thought there was something strange, she’d go straight to Mrs. Winklebottom, and Emma would have succeeded, and bye-bye-the-show-must-go-on.
“I’m trying to identify somebody. He knows a lot about theater. He might be a director. His first name is Mike.”
“All ri-i-i-ight,” Miss Magnus said, taking this in. “Do you have a photograph?”
I shook my head. “There were, uh… technical difficulties.” At rehearsal, Clive and I had tried three times to sneak a photo of Mike. Snapping one without anybody noticing is hard. Snapping one of a ghost turns out to be impossible, even with Clive’s way-superior-to-mine phone. Twice, where Mike should have been, there was only a blobby blur.
The third time there was a grinning skeleton labeled RIP MIKE.
Funny guy.
“And why is it you want to know this person’s identity?” Miss Magnus asked.
I was ready for that one, too. “Homework,” I said. When you’re dealing with a teacher, “homework” is all-purpose, right? Every teacher believes in homework.
“This must be a very unusual assignment,” Miss Magnus said. “Whose class is it?”
“Oh, you don’t know him… her, I mean,” I said.
“I don’t? I’ve been at Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial a long time.”
“This teacher is new,” I said. “Like, really new.”
“Oh—you mean the gentleman who’s helping Coach Newton with Hamlet? But he can’t be assigning homework, can he? You’ve got plenty to do to get your lines down.”
“Not him!” I said. “Definitely not him! It’s… a girl, a woman, a sub. And she brought in this guy, see, and introduced him as someone with a background in theater, and he talked to us for a little while, and then she gave us the assignment of figuring out who he is.”
Clive and I had worked all this out in advance, of course. Convincing, right? Also, I was smiling my biggest, most boffo smile.
Never mind ratcheting it down.
Miss Magnus looked skeptical.
“What else do you know about this Mike? Approximately how old is he?” she asked.
“How old does he look, you mean?”
Miss Magnus knit her brows, puzzled, then smiled. “Ah yes. I see. If he’s in the theater, it’s likely he’s had work done—plastic surgery—and he may look much younger than he is. But take a guess.”
“Not really young. His hair is almost white,” I said.
Miss Magnus tugged a lock of her own brown hair. “Doesn’t color it. Well, typically a person doesn’t go gray till their midforties anyway. Fat? Thin? Race? What about wrinkles?”
“Thin, pretty tall. Wrinkles around his eyes and frown lines on his forehead. He’s white and, oh, does this help? I think he’s Jewish.”
Miss Magnus raised her eyebrows. “All right. But why do you think that?”
“He has a Star of David pin on his… what’s it called? Lapel?”
“I see.” Miss Magnus nodded. “Perhaps that does narrow it down. Unusually handsome? Movie-star handsome?”
I shook my head. “No, but not ugly or anything.”
“So an average-looking white man in his sixties, most likely Jewish. How was he dressed?”
“Different,” I s
aid, then hesitated, afraid again I might give too much away. On the other hand, if I told her his clothes were old-fashioned, it’s not like she’d jump to the conclusion he’s a ghost. “Do you know that movie It’s a Wonderful Life? Clive—he’s my best friend—his family is into old movies, so I watch it with them at Christmastime, even though I’m Jewish.”
“Jewish like your mystery man,” Miss Magnus said.
“Is that a clue?”
“We will take it under consideration,” she said. “And I’ve seen It’s a Wonderful Life a hundred times, so I understand about his attire. Now tell me this: How do you know he was involved in theater?”
“Well, that’s what the teacher, the sub, told us, like I said. But besides, there’s the way he talks,” I said. “He, uh… mentioned directing, like maybe he’s done it before. And, uh, he mentioned how important art is, real art, not the No-Trauma Drama kind.”
Miss Magnus’s hands were folded in her lap. Now she looked down at them. “You’re shaming me, Noah. I never liked those scripts. But Mrs. Winklebottom was the boss. I did what I could, hoped my sixth graders would catch the theater bug, find the real plays for themselves one day.”
I felt bad. “I didn’t mean to shame you, Miss Magnus.”
“Never mind. Perhaps I should have fought harder. Perhaps I will next year. As for your mysterious Mike, I have an idea. If he has a career in theater, he might be quite accomplished, and still you wouldn’t recognize him.”
“I thought of that, too,” I said.
“You see that pile of old Playbills beside you on the love seat?”
I never heard of Playbill, but I saw a stack of magazines with that title on the cover, pulled one off the top, and saw it was actually the program for Wicked, a famous show I want like anything to see. Looking at the others, I saw they were programs, too.
“Have you seen every one of these shows?” I asked Miss Magnus.
She nodded. “I save the Playbill as a souvenir. I’m afraid I have piles of the things all over the house. These are all from the early 2000s. I pulled them out thinking this is my chance to get organized, but I got distracted, started reading them instead.”
I thumbed through the Playbill for Wicked, then one for Hairspray, and another for Newsies. All of them had tiny photos of the cast and the director, sometimes of the tech crew as well.
Miss Magnus shifted in her chair, efficient all of a sudden. “You take the rest of the ones on the love seat. And I’ll start with a stack from the shelf. We don’t have much to go on, but maybe something you said will jog my memory.”
There were a lot of Playbills, and in each one a lot of photos. From math class I knew that a lot times a lot equals a ton, and it would therefore take a ton of time for me to search. I didn’t have a better idea, but after a while—and no sign of Mike—I wished I hadn’t drunk quite so much tea.
“Uh… Miss Magnus?” I looked up.
“Off the kitchen to the right,” she said without looking up.
Whoa—just like when Mike read my mind!
Was Miss Magnus a ghost, too?
Hoo boy, Noah, buddy. Get a grip.
When I came back, Miss Magnus had marked three potential Mikes. One was a stage manager, one a lighting designer, and one a director.
“I think these guys are all too young,” I said.
Miss Magnus cocked her head. “But these photos were taken twenty years ago. These Mikes would be in their fifties or sixties now.”
“Ye-e-e-e-es,” I said, “but, uh… I think my Mike is very well preserved.”
Miss Magnus made a face. If she ran out of patience with me—and who could blame her—I would have to go to plan B.
Whatever that was.
But then, at last, I got lucky.
Miss Magnus was staring at the Playbill for a play called Waiting for Godot, which starred Robin Williams, the guy from that old movie Hook. “Hmmm,” she said. “Here’s another possibility. He is Jewish, escaped Nazi Germany as a child, in fact. But there’s one slight problem.”
She didn’t say anything more, just handed me the program. The name of the play’s director was Mike Einstein. I flipped the page, and there was the tiny photo and—even though he was much younger and wearing black-frame glasses—it was absolutely Mike.
“That’s him!” I said. “We did it! What’s the problem?”
But I knew the answer before the question was out of my mouth.
“Mike Einstein is dead,” she said.
That was the moment I realized maybe Clive and I hadn’t entirely thought this through.
“He had a twin?” I tried.
“Also named Mike?” Miss Magnus said.
“Parents lacked imagination?”
“Hmmm,” Miss Magnus said.
“Well, uh… if we could just forget for a sec that this Mike Einstein fellow is dead… what do you know about him?” I asked.
“Mike Einstein? Well! He’s only the best Broadway director of the twentieth century,” Miss Magnus said. “That is, to begin with.”
“But…,” I said, doubtful, “I never heard of him.”
“Noah?” Miss Magnus said. “Can you name any Broadway directors?”
I thought for a sec and couldn’t.
“Fans know actors and occasionally playwrights. Only the most devoted know the directors,” Miss Magnus said. “But I still don’t see how…?”
Uh-oh. I’d found out what I wanted to know, and I was super grateful to Miss Magnus, I was. But now I had one more quick question, and then it was time to exit stage pronto.
“This Mike Einstein guy, he wasn’t dangerous, was he? I mean to people or sixth graders or anything?”
Miss Magnus raised her eyebrows. “Dangerous? Not that I ever heard. His reputation was excellent, but if he’s dead, how could he—”
I was on my feet. “ ‘More things in heaven and earth’?” I tried. And then I had a brainstorm. “Does Ducat need a walk? I can take him out for you.”
“Oh, Noah. How nice. Yes, I’d appreciate that and so would he, wouldn’t you, Ducat?”
Ducat looked up, looked at me. There might have been gratitude in those watery old eyes. I couldn’t tell.
“His harness is hanging by the front door. Do you mind getting it? And I’ll do the buckles.”
Walking Ducat didn’t take long. The poor guy was really eager for relief, if you know what I mean. Soon he was settling back in his basket and Miss Magnus was thanking me again.
“No problem. Thank you. You’ve been super helpful. Super helpful.” I scooted toward the door fast, talking my head off to avoid questions. “So, you’ll be at the show, right? It’ll be great to see you again. So great.”
Miss Magnus shook her head. “If my leg’s better, I’m planning a little trip. I’m afraid if I were in the audience, I’d only second-guess Coach Newton and his assistant. And that wouldn’t do anyone any good. But, Noah—”
“All righty, then.” My hand was on the doorknob. I was turning the doorknob. I was pulling the door. I was making my escape. “I mean, uh, that’s too bad. Seriously. But I’ll see you around, I bet. Thanks again. A lot. Goodbye!”
Exit to front stoop, wipe pretend sweat from brow, silently whoop for joy. Mission accomplished! Deed done!
Noah McNichol saves the day!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I started to text Clive on my walk home, then changed my mind and called. I was eager to bask in my well-deserved glory.
He picked up first ring. “What happened?”
“I ate her whole plate of cookies,” I told him. “It was embarrassing, but I was hungry because—”
“Noah!” Clive interrupted. “I have no time for Miss Magnus’s cookies! Yes or no—did you find out who Mike is? Was?”
“Yes,” I said, then I told him, then there was a pause while he digested this amazing news.
Finally, Clive said, “I am being directed by one of the best Broadway directors ever?”
“This isn�
�t about you, Clive,” I said.
“Heck it’s not. I feel special. Only—”
“Only what?”
“Only why? Of all the gin joints in all the world, why did he walk into ours?”
I guessed I was supposed to know what Clive was talking about, only I didn’t, and I walked all the way to the corner trying to puzzle it out so I wouldn’t have to show my ignorance by asking.
It was no use.
“Noah? Earth to Noah?” Clive said. “Do you need me to explain the reference?”
“Is ‘gin joint’ from Gossip Girl?” I asked.
“Not from Gossip Girl. It means a bar, dummy. Where they sell gin. It’s from the movie Casablanca. The amount of culture you lack is sometimes stunning.”
“Uh-huh, and I’m your biggest fan, too.”
“Humphrey Bogart says it to Ingrid Bergman.”
“Whoever they are. What’s your point?” I had stopped walking, was standing on the corner of Oneida and Beekman. The sun was descending toward the western hills, turning the evening sky pink.
“So in the movie, Bergman is Bogart’s old girlfriend, and he owns this bar in the town of Casablanca, see, and out of nowhere she shows up one day…”
I started walking again. I fiddled with my jacket. To zip or not to zip? Two blocks and I’d be home. “Uh-huh.”
“And he says something like, ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world, you walk into mine.’ ”
I gave up on zipping, tried to take in what Clive was telling me. “Gin joints are bars, you said. So the point?”
“It’s an amazing coincidence!” Clive said. “Mike the superstar could be helping out any drama club anywhere, a way better one than ours. Why is he here?”
By now I was two front yards from my own and, I don’t mind saying, I was ticked. Didn’t I deserve congratulations? Instead I was being reminded how ignorant I am. I turned onto the walk that leads to our front door, noticed our car wasn’t in the driveway, realized I must’ve beaten the parentals home.
“Clive?” I interrupted him.
“What?”
“ ‘Cudgel my brain no more with this.’ Okay?”
“Act five,” Clive said.
Noah McNichol and the Backstage Ghost Page 9
