Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Our waitress, Lauren, filled our water glasses with an expert flair, and took our order for baked Brie with raspberries and almonds.

  When she trotted off to the kitchen, Camille tapped my arm. “Gus?”

  I looked up from the menu, unable to decide between the crock of French onion or the wild rice and mushroom soup. “Huh?”

  She rested her hand on my arm. “Do you think the snake incident was sour grapes from yesterday? Could it have been someone I cut from the first round of auditions?”

  I remembered. There had been a bevy of untalented girls who'd left in tears and several boys who'd sworn and slammed out of the auditorium.

  I laid the menu down and took a long drink of water from the crystal goblet. A slice of lemon floated above the ice cubes. “It’s certainly possible. Some of them seemed humiliated. Really angry.”

  I paused for a moment when Lauren delivered the Brie. When she left, I approached Camille’s question from another angle. “How well do you know Agnes Bigelow?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Argh. Too well. She’s obsessed, Gus. Stage mom personified. She means well, and she’s devoted to her daughter, but she’s constantly trying to get on my good side. I’m sure it’s to curry favor, and it’s so darned obvious. ”

  Camille poured the wine. I swirled the ruby liquid, inhaled the bouquet, and sipped. Perfect.

  “Our conversations are always so one-sided! She never asks me how I’m doing. Remember when Mom was in the hospital last February with her asthma? She barely waited for me to answer about Mom’s condition before she started pumping me for information about the summer theatre production.”

  “Is she really that fixated?”

  “Yes.” Twin pink spots appeared on Camille’s cheeks. “She calls me all the time. Emails me with every new photograph of Lisa. It’s actually hard for me to divorce myself from my feelings for her and evaluate her daughter fairly. I’m afraid I’m a little biased against her at this point.”

  She spread Brie on a thin sesame cracker and took a bite. “Don’t get me wrong. Lisa is very good. She’s a great little actress and her voice is passable if she stays within a certain range. I’ve cast her in wonderful roles in the Community Players’ productions and she's done well for me. But Molly’s better. It’s as simple as that. Her voice is superb and she’s a more reliable performer. I have to choose the one who will do the absolute best, right? I can’t pick actors just to be fair. The public expects a quality performance, and I’m determined to give it to them.”

  She paused as our efficient waitress returned to take our order. Camille chose broiled haddock and I selected pecan-crusted chicken. After Lauren quietly swished away, I returned to the topic of Agnes Bigelow.

  “Do you think there's any chance Agnes planted the snake and screamed just in time to sabotage Molly’s audition? Would she stoop to that level?”

  Camille hesitated. “I don’t know...If so, then she’s a better actress than her daughter. She really seemed terrified, didn’t she? And the snake was injured, which makes me think he actually was dropped from above. ”

  “Good point.” I remembered the unguarded look of loathing Agnes had directed at Molly. “You don’t think she’d hire someone to drop the snake near her, do you?”

  She shook her head. “I don't think she'd go that far.”

  I grimaced and smeared a cracker with Brie, hoping she was right.

  Chapter Eight

  A fter several minutes of thoughtful silence, I leaned across the table, took her hand, and smiled. The flickering candlelight in the darkened room soothed away the tension. “Change of subject?”

  She brightened and looked up with interest. “Okay.”

  “Let’s talk about us. I know we've discussed getting married in June, but lately I’ve been thinking about May. How does that grab you?”

  “May?” She dipped a cracker in raspberry sauce. “May would be wonderful. June does seem awfully conventional.”

  Encouraged, I released her hand and helped myself to more Brie. “My classes at the university are done on the fourteenth. Would you be able to get away then?”

  She looked thoughtfully into the distance, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “I'd have to get another counselor to fill in at the school. But to be honest, I’m a little uncomfortable leaving the troubled kids, even for a few weeks. I’ve worked so hard to earn their trust. I’d feel kind of guilty about turning them over to another counselor.”

  “Couldn’t you break in another therapist over time? May is a long way from now.”

  “I could. I’m sure most would do fine. And who knows? By then, they might have straightened out. Let’s see...My usual caseload at the office could probably wait 'til I returned. And if I got the kids involved early with another counselor, it could work.” Her expression softened. “I'm sure May would work out fine, honey. But, you know what? I really don't care when or where we hold the ceremony. Long as I’m marrying you.”

  My heartbeat kicked up a notch.

  The reflection from the candles danced in her dark-lashed eyes. Mahogany hair framed her delicate, heart-shaped face, curling above her high cheekbones and tumbling down to the creamy hollow in her neck.

  I slid my fingers beneath one lock that had strayed from the rest, and tucked it behind her ear.

  She smiled, lowering her eyes.

  “You’re too much, Camille. You bowl me over.”

  She looked down at her hands, embarrassed by my sudden rush of emotion. “Oh, Gus.”

  “Then it’s settled,” I said. “I’ll have four weeks of vacation left by May. As long as I schedule it in advance, the department can’t say no. So, let’s go for it.” I sighed contentedly and squeezed her hand.

  After a few moments, she frowned. “Mom's been pushing me to plan an elaborate wedding. I honestly don’t want all those trappings, Gus. My wedding with Greg cost a fortune, and look where that got me.” She shook her head. “I just want something simple.”

  Camille divorced Greg five years ago. The years of physical and emotional abuse had destroyed her, and lately she’d started divulging bits and pieces to me about the extent of her suffering. I couldn’t believe she’d stayed with the monster as long as she did.

  Dragging myself back to the conversation, I leaned sideways to pick up my dropped napkin. “You know, I always felt a little guilty that Elsbeth and I eloped. Sorry for her, I mean. She never had a proper wedding. Although she never said it out loud, I think she regretted it later in life. It didn’t matter to me, of course. I’d rather put the money toward one helluva honeymoon.”

  “Amen.” A broad smile eased onto her lips. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  I took a sip of wine. “How do you feel about a small ceremony in my church?”

  Camille attended the Conaroga Presbyterian Church with her mother Maddy, and hadn’t yet visited our Methodist parish in East Goodland. Maddy also happened to be my secretary in the music department at the university. It was odd to picture her becoming my mother-in-law in the near future.

  She tilted her head as if considering it. “It’s a pretty little building, right? A historic site?”

  Lauren deftly deposited the chilled bowls of salad on the table.

  I took a bite of escarole. “Right. It was built in 1829,” I said. “Reverend Hardina could perform the ceremony. You have to meet him, Camille. He’s so warm and funny.”

  “Can’t wait to meet him.” Camille stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork and popped it in her mouth. When she finished it, she patted her mouth with the corner of her napkin. “We could limit the invites to family members and a few friends.”

  “I’ll bet the ladies from the church would help with a potluck dinner if we donate a new refrigerator. That old Frigidaire is on its last legs.”

  “That’d be great.”

  We finished our salads. Lauren returned to clear the plates and to place shallow soup bowls before us. We’d both chosen the wild rice and mushroom. I blew across the
steaming spoonful before taking a sip. The broth was excellent and tasted of fresh woodland mushrooms.

  Camille dipped a corner of her bread into the broth and took a bite. She smiled at me, embarrassed. “Sorry, I always do that. Can't help myself.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” I copied her and grinned, enchanted by her candor and loving that she felt comfortable enough around me to be herself.

  She sipped her wine. “Anyway, about the honeymoon. I seem to remember a promise of Vienna, Professor LeGarde.”

  I thought back to the family feast we had in August. I’d blurted out the marriage proposal in front of the entire family, rather than wait for the previously imagined romantic moment. The proposal came courtesy of her mother’s persistent teasing, when she suggested “You two lovebirds should go to the Caribbean for a vacation. ”

  I smiled, remembering the moment. I had spontaneously suggested we go to Vienna instead, if Camille would have my hand in marriage. Camille’s eyes had lit up. She’d flashed me a conspiratorial look and had casually accepted on the spot, silencing her mother for the first time in decades.

  I dragged myself back to the present. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that, honey. What do you think about flying to Paris for a few days, and then onto Vienna for two weeks?”

  She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I love it. I love the whole idea! We could have a simple, stress-free ceremony and spend time alone in two of the most romantic cities on the planet. It’s perfect. Let’s do it, Gus.” She leaned across the table to drop a soft kiss on my lips.

  The deal was sealed.

  Chapter Nine

  L auren placed our entrées before us.

  We switched to the topic of the cast list and spent the remainder of the meal deciding on the actors’ roles. I was glad to discover that Molly Frost would play Celeste Freespirit opposite Randy Sherman, who Camille chose for the Damian Firebrand character.

  The parts of Porter and Lana were given to sophomore Maurice Potter and Takeema Billings, as anticipated. Camille had chosen Lisa Bigelow for the wonderful teen role of Rikki Mudd, which minimized solo singing, but would take advantage of her acting skills. The character of Rikki was a Broadway wannabe who worked as a waitress in the diner. It seemed perfect for Lisa.

  Molly’s boyfriend, Armand, wasn’t given a principal part, but he’d play the minor role of a beat cop. Camille had vaguely referred to an “Armand incident” last season that had upset her. She mumbled something about trust and dependability. I didn’t push to find out more, and she didn’t offer. I realized she knew these kids well and let it go at that.

  The mission was completed during tangy key lime pie and coffee. Camille smiled with satisfaction and said she’d post the list on the chorus room door the next morning.

  When she dropped me at home at eight-thirty, I waved and ambled across the gravel driveway toward the old house. Built in 1811, the two-story Greek revival had been home to my family for generations. I looked toward the renovated carriage house beside the barn. White light from Siegfried’s bedroom spilled onto the grass below. I opened the screen door to the darkened kitchen, and wondered if he’d brought the injured snake home to live in his terrarium. Smiling at the thought of my gentle friend and his frequent animal rescues, I hung my jacket on a hook in the mudroom and went upstairs. My daughter Freddie’s bedroom was dark. Soft snoring sounded behind her door.

  Following my nighttime routine, I peered into my grandson’s room and crept toward his crib. I looked forward each night to watching Johnny sleep, pulling up his covers, softly stroking his hair, and whispering a little prayer of thanks over him. His very presence helped diminish the pain of Elsbeth’s death.

  Soft blankets bunched around his tattered Velveteen Rabbit. A startled Eeyore stared at me with widened eyes. His furry tail was detached again, ready to be pressed on via Velcro with Johnny’s chubby fingers. I lifted the blankets to locate my grandson, but he wasn’t there.

  Where is he?

  I raced to the wall and flipped on the light, looking around the room. My heart began to pound.

  He probably crawled into Freddie’s bed after a nightmare.

  I hurried down the hall to Freddie’s room, pushing the door open so the hall light illuminated her bed. She lay alone in the king-sized bed with one long leg thrown out from her comforter. I checked around to be sure he hadn’t climbed into a chair or was curled up on a blanket on the floor.

  No Johnny.

  Now I was really getting worried. I turned and headed to my room. Outlandish thoughts of kidnapping raced through my brain, courtesy of an event that happened eight months earlier. Johnny was missing for nearly an entire day. We were frantic with worry. Thankfully, he showed up unharmed, but remnants of the knife-like fear from that day stayed and resurfaced whenever he wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to be.

  I pushed the thoughts away, moved swiftly across the room, and switched on the lamp beside the bed. A cone of light flooded the area, illuminating the sleeping figures of boy and dog.

  Relief poured through me. I sat down on the edge of the bed and laid the back of my hand against his cheek .

  Johnny lay on my pillow with his arm flung around Max’s neck. The dog lazily opened one blue eye, and then closed it again, his tail thumping slowly on the bedspread. I smiled with relief and decided it was time to speak to Freddie about a youth bed. The crib rails had lost their effectiveness months ago.

  Johnny’s glossy hair hung like an inverted-soup-bowl over his angelic features. His pudgy lips formed an open circle that alternately opened and closed. One pajama leg was pushed up, exposing his leg from knee to toes. The wrinkled pajama top had risen halfway up his back. I straightened his nightclothes and removed a well-worn book from his hand. It was his favorite, Disney’s Mickey Meets the Giant .

  Feeling guilty for missing our bedtime story hour, I carried him to his crib. He stirred, but didn’t wake, sagging against my shoulder.

  “There ya go, buddy.” I laid him next to his Velveteen Rabbit, pulled the blanket over him, and tucked it beneath his cold little feet. “Sleep tight.”

  I changed into my flannel pajamas and slid under the covers with Dress Her in Indigo, by John D. MacDonald. Max had moved to the foot of the bed and was snoozing on his back against the footboard with all four paws in the air. I shifted around to get comfortable, and something poked into my thigh.

  Reaching beneath the covers, I pulled out Max’s rawhide chewy. He’d been burying his bones around the house since he was a puppy, and now he was burying them in my bed. I chuckled and tossed it next to him.

  My eyelids drooped. I sat up straighter and fought the urge to sleep. After reading only a few paragraphs, my eyes closed. A kaleidoscope of images flashed through my mind. I fell asleep to the visions of prancing, frolicking teenagers, followed by a transformation of Agnes Bigelow into the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Chapter Ten

  T he next morning I sat on the edge of my desk and faced my students. Twenty-four juniors tapped their feet and drummed their fingers to the profound blues rhythm sweeping across the room. The CD played, and my mind drifted back to last night’s high school auditions.

  My admiration for Camille had risen yet another notch. I’d never seen her in this role. When she bustled around the stage and managed that throng of hormone-crazed adolescents, I sat up and took notice. My beloved had surprised me with her brisk commands and take-charge attitude. Not that it was a bad thing, mind you. I actually quite liked it. She was such a multi-dimensional woman—I wondered if I’d ever peel all her complex layers.

  I compared our roles. Here I stood, watching my own well-behaved students. Most of them had abandoned childish high school antics long ago, and had moved into some semblance of their adult personas. I rarely had to discipline them. I surveyed the group with pride, and a smile crept onto my lips. I really am spoiled.

  Music pounded across the classroom, and to my surprise, the hall door opened. Maddy Coté shift
ed quickly from one yellow high heel to the other, waving to catch my attention. A dozen silver bracelets clattered up and down her arm.

  I motioned to my teaching assistant, asked her to take over, and strode quickly to the back of the room. We stepped into the hall and I closed the door.

  “Sorry, Gus. There’s a call for you in the office. She says it’s an emergency. I didn’t recognize her name, but thought I’d better get you, just in case.”

  I followed my secretary across the hall to the office, wondering if there had been an accident at home. Maddy passed me the phone .

  I pressed it to my ear, my pulse racing. “LeGarde here.”

  “Mr. LeGarde? It’s Agnes Bigelow.”

  Not Professor LeGarde, Mr. LeGarde. Was it on purpose? “Mrs. Bigelow? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. Your housekeeper gave me your number at work. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Actually, I was in the middle of teaching a—”

  She rode roughshod over my words before I could finish the sentence.

  “I need Camille’s cell phone number. I’ve tried her office over twenty times and she won't answer. I really need to talk to her.”

  I bristled at the woman’s gall. “Mrs. Bigelow, she’s probably counseling a student. What’s so important that it can’t wait until rehearsal tomorrow?”

  The state and the school had joined hands in recent years. Although Camille officially worked for the County Mental Health department, her counseling skills were sorely in need in the understaffed high school. She had been assigned on-site duty for three days of the week, sharing her time with the Child Welfare Bureau on alternate days.

  Agnes huffed dramatically. “Lisa just called about the cast list.” Her voice cracked. “She’s done it again, Mr. LeGarde, and it must be stopped!”

  “Mrs. Bigelow, what are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”