Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  After opening a can of shredded pineapple, I poured it into the pan with coconut milk, red curry paste and fresh shrimp. I washed the fresh-picked cilantro leaves. The best flavor was attained if the pungent pieces were added to the mixture in the last few minutes of cooking. While the shrimp simmered, I started the beans in the steamer. In ten minutes, they were ready, sitting under a pat of butter in their covered dish. I chopped the tomatoes, cukes, and dill and set them in a bowl to marinate while the remainder of the meal cooked. Last of all, I peeled and sliced two ripe mangoes and arranged them on a cobalt blue plate with two forks.

  Boris continued to work on his treat, grabbing it between his stubby legs and chewing on the rawhide. Ginger had fallen asleep on top of the refrigerator.

  When it was ready, I placed two servings of beans onto dinner plates, spooned the shrimp and curried pineapple over mounds of fluffy rice, and scooped out two portions of the tomato-cucumber salad. Cracking ice cubes into tall glasses, I filled them with sweet well water from the tap and set them on the tray. Finally, I placed the plate of mangoes between the two dinner plates and hoisted the tray onto my shoulder. Ginger woke from her nap, dropped down to the kitchen floor, and circled around my ankles, purring loudly.

  “Sorry, kitty. This isn’t for you.”

  The tabby had already polished off her can of tuna and demolished her dish of kibble. I balanced the tray and walked up the stairs, and the cat wove in and out of my legs, nearly tripping me on several occasions. When we reached the bedroom, she leapt onto the windowsill and perched on the ledge with white lace curtains billowing lightly around her. She closed her eyes halfway and began to snooze again.

  I placed the tray on Camille’s bureau and passed her a yellow dishtowel. She tucked it obediently under her chin and sat up. “Mmm. Is that curry?”

  I nodded, handing her the plate. “It’s a Thai red curry paste.”

  She brightened, pulling herself up and reaching for the fork .

  I pulled a spindle-backed chair to the nightstand and set up my own place beside her.

  The cozy room was a study in whites. Camille had decorated with white walls, white painted furniture, white lacy curtains, white bureau scarves, and a white bedspread. A large crystal vase of white cosmos from her flower garden complemented the pure white of the bureau. The curtains fluttered at the windows and a late summer breeze wafted into the room.

  Her dark hair formed a striking halo against the pillows. Although her complexion was wan, the lively spark in her eyes encouraged me to believe she’d be back to normal in no time.

  Between mouthfuls, she commented on the meal. “I didn’t know I was so hungry. Gus, this is fantastic.”

  I smiled, leaned back in the old chair, and took another long drink of cold water. The antique creaked when I shifted my weight. “Thanks. Glad you like it.”

  Her eyes shimmered. “Like it? Good heavens, Gus, I may just have to devote my life to you now.”

  I stabbed another piece of mango from the blue plate. “Good. The plan’s working. That was the intention all along, Miss Coté. All along.”

  She tilted her pretty head to the side. Her eyes watered.

  I was surprised by the swift transition from light humor to near tears and reached for her hand.

  She looked down and spoke in a suddenly husky voice. “Just try to get rid of me, now, Professor.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  O n Monday night, I picked up Camille for rehearsal. As expected, she insisted on going to work during the day and to rehearsal at night in spite of her pain.

  “How’d school go today?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “It was a zoo. Lou Marshall and the cops had meetings all day about the attack on me. They dragged in student after student, and asked me questions over and over again. You know, trying to get leads on who might hate me enough to knock me off the stage.”

  “Did they confront Armand?” I asked.

  Camille shifted her weight gingerly and pulled the seat harness away from her sore ribs. “They interviewed him for an hour.” A soft sigh escaped from her pursed lips.

  “Did he admit it?”

  She shook her head and stared at the trees rushing by the window. “No. He flipped out. Denied it, over and over again. Said everyone in this country was out to get him, just like they persecuted his father. He got pretty violent, I guess. Tried to take a swing at Marshall. Told them he was quitting the show, anyway, since he had such a crummy role.”

  “What did they do to him?”

  She turned back to me with a sad smile. “He's been expelled. Permanently. It's such a shame. He was a pretty good student until his father was deported last year.”

  We drove in silence, and I digested what she'd said. It had to have been Armand who attacked her. The guy was truly unstable. I began to worry about Camille's safety in general. What if he lost it and attacked her at her home?

  I pulled into the parking lot and my mind flipped through potential solutions. Camille could move in with us until it was resolved .

  But what would constitute “resolved?” Would getting Armand deported, like his father, solve the problem? And what would be required to get him kicked out of the country? Catching him in a violent act?

  I still hadn't learned what Armand had done last year to upset Camille. She'd quickly changed the subject each time I asked.

  I was about to slip into a free space when an old, rusty yellow Camaro careened past, narrowly missing our fender. The driver revved his engine, his tires screeched, and he almost hit two young boys who were jogging along in their football gear. Armand's face leered out the window.

  I slowly pulled into the parking spot, and the car sped away.

  Molly stood on the sidewalk, looking alarmed. Her hand fluttered to her mouth. I figured that Armand had dropped her off for practice.

  On the verge of tears, she clutched a notebook and she waved to get Camille's attention. “Miss Coté!”

  I walked around to help Camille get out. She grimaced in pain, got up slowly, and turned toward Molly.

  The words spilled out of Molly's mouth in a jumble. “He didn't do it, Miss Coté. He was sitting right beside me, I swear.” Tears streamed down her face. “You've got to fix it for him, please.” She looked from Camille to me, wringing her hands.

  Camille placed an arm around her shoulders, leaned into her face with concern, and answered, “Honey, calm down. Please, calm down. What are you trying to tell us? That he wasn't responsible for—for pushing me off the stage?”

  “Yes, oh yes! Please, fix it. His mother will send him back to Brazil and I’ll never see him again. He was right beside me the whole time. I swear. I would take a lie detector test, Miss Coté, I swear to God.”

  We began to walk into the school. I supported Camille's left arm and the tearful Molly clung to her right. A few students who lingered in the school stared at Molly while we walked Camille to her office and closed the door .

  “Please Miss Coté, please listen to me. You know me. I wouldn't lie.” Fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

  Camille guided Molly to a chair. I grabbed a pillow from the old sofa that stretched across the far wall in her office, placed it behind Camille's back, and helped her settle down behind her desk. “Do you want me to stay, Miss Coté?” I asked.

  She looked at Molly and pushed a box of tissues across the desk.

  The girl wept freely now. “It's okay. He can stay.”

  I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the corner of Camille's desk.

  Molly hiccupped a few times and finally controlled her tears.

  “Molly?” I asked gently.

  She looked up from her wad of wet tissues.

  “Can you be sure Armand didn't leave your side even for a few minutes? It was pitch black in there. How could you tell for sure?”

  Molly's color faded. She looked at Camille with soulful eyes. Pushing back a lock of blond hair, she drew herself up in the chair as if summoning courage. “I co
uldn't tell this to Superintendent Marshall. It was just too embarrassing.”

  Camille got up slowly, grabbed the pillow, walked gingerly around the desk, and pulled up another chair so she could be close to the girl. She took her hand. “Sweetie, you can tell me anything. Whatever you say stays right in this room. I promise.”

  “Same here.” I smiled and nodded at Molly.

  “Okay.” The girl inhaled and closed her eyes. “When the lights went out, we were sitting together about halfway back in the auditorium. Armand started to—to become amorous with me. He started to—well, he—”

  She looked down at her hands in shame.

  “It's okay, honey. You don't have to give us the gory details,” Camille whispered .

  Molly shook her head. “No. I want you to believe me. He—he reached under my skirt and I was afraid when the lights came on that everyone would see! It happened exactly that way, Miss Coté, exactly!”

  I believed her. I believed her and was stunned. She’d spit the words out quickly, as if they were distasteful.

  I exchanged a surprised look with Camille.

  If Armand had his hand up Molly’s skirt the whole time, then who pushed Camille off the stage? Maybe one of the boys who were cut from the show had been lingering backstage.

  It was possible, but not probable. It sounded as if the footsteps clattered down the aisle from the back of the hall toward the stage. Of course, in the dark, it was easy to get disoriented.

  I helped Camille calm Molly. We both assured her we’d try to intervene for Armand. The boy obviously had anger issues, and needed some good therapy. It seemed as if being unjustly accused had broken him.

  I realized he probably was humiliated, too. Losing the lead role to a sophomore must have stung, particularly when his girlfriend was playing the female lead and his rival, Randy Sherman, was to play a major role opposite her. In the musical, “Damian Firebrand,” the rock star, takes advantage of Celeste’s innocence. The gyrating, leather-clad Damian is older, dangerous, and a bad influence. The thought of Molly playing out this scene with Randy probably drove Armand crazy. Perhaps that, on top of his escalating family problems, was enough to push him over the edge.

  Another thought occurred to me. I'd almost forgotten about it, but the snake incident happened the day before Camille posted the audition results. Armand hadn't been disappointed yet, and didn't have reason to try to sabotage the show, or frighten the actors. So who in the world had dropped the snake from the rafters?

  We walked with Molly to the auditorium, and I vowed to help set the record straight.

  Chapter Eighteen

  O n Tuesday morning, I called Lou Marshall from my university office.

  “Marshall here.”

  “Lou? It's Gus LeGarde. I'm calling about Armand.”

  He didn't hesitate. “It's all straightened out, Gus. Camille saw me first thing this morning and explained what she learned from Molly yesterday. Looks like he couldn't have done it, huh?”

  “Right. He's a troubled young man, but he couldn't have been responsible for what happened Saturday.”

  “I've already spoken to his mother. They're both coming in this afternoon for a conference. I'm going to apologize to him for the accusation, and then offer him a three-day suspension instead of expulsion. He still deserves some disciplinary action for letting that nasty temper of his go wild. Camille told me what he did in her office the other day, and I swear to God, I really thought he'd hit me yesterday. I hope it teaches him a lesson.”

  “What about therapy, Lou? The kid obviously needs some help.”

  “I know. The family can't afford a psychiatrist on the outside, that's for sure. Even if you're assessed to be in an acute state of depression, in most health care programs these days, the co-payments are at least fifty bucks a session. I'm going to recommend that he sit down with Camille two or three times a week. She's agreed to try to help him.”

  I didn’t like it. “Really?”

  “Something wrong with that, Gus?”

  “I just worry about him being around her with that temper of his. But if she feels she can handle him, I trust her judgment.” I said the right words, but didn’t mean it. I didn’t want that volcanic young man anywhere near Camille .

  “So that leaves us with no one to blame for Camille’s accident,” Lou mused.

  “Exactly. I’ve been trying to figure out who could have been responsible. When you combine that with the snake incident, it doesn’t make sense.”

  Lou expelled a loud breath. “It’s been bothering me, too.”

  “And somebody’s got to be very sick, I mean really disturbed. Who else would do stuff like that?”

  “I know. I’m worried about the kids in the show.” Lou paused for a long minute. “Gus?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Since you're there every night, would you mind keeping your eyes open for me? Let me know if you hear or see anything unusual?”

  “Count on it, Lou.” We hung up and I went back to classes, grateful that my students weren’t surrounded by such insanity.

  Chapter Nineteen

  O n Tuesday night, Siegfried was in charge of set building and Camille worked on costume sorting. The sound of the circular saw filled the air as students and their parents bustled about, assisting with the carpentry and costumes.

  I called to Lisa’s father, who’d been sawing lumber in the corner. “Mr. Bigelow?”

  George Bigelow turned off the skill saw, pushed his safety goggles up, and turned to me. “Yes?”

  “Could you give us a hand for a minute? We need to stand this platform up.”

  George nodded, wiped his hands against his overalls, and jogged toward us. Siegfried and I stood at opposite corners of the platform lying on its side. The deck spanned eight-by-ten feet and would tower over seven feet high when upright. I turned to the crowd of teens waiting to be measured for costumes. Lisa, Molly, Candy, Nelson, Takeema, Randy, Maurice, and others chatted excitedly, queuing around Camille and her mother. Maddy recorded numbers while Camille whipped the tape measure up and down arms and legs.

  I called over to the group. “Randy. Maurice. Come up here for a minute, would you please?”

  Both boys snapped to attention, bounded over several rows of seats, and leapt onto the stage. I turned to Siegfried and motioned for him to begin.

  Siegfried spoke softly in German accent, addressing each of us. “Gus, you please lift on that corner, nicht wahr ? Herr Bigelow, you please stand in the middle. Boys, you please stand between Herr Bigelow and the corners.”

  We obediently moved into position.

  “Das ist gut. Now we will lift when I count to drei . Lift up as far as you can, then we will hold it while three of you move around to the front to bring it down. ”

  We all nodded, ready to lift.

  “Eins, zwei, drei! ”

  The gargantuan structure rose, slowly lifting from the stage floor.

  I muttered through gritted teeth while we struggled to right the platform. “Keep your backs straight, men.”

  When we had raised it as high as possible, Siegfried directed the two boys and Mr. Bigelow to move to the opposite side to help pull it down toward the stage floor. Had Siegfried not been a six-foot-eight man of steel, I doubted whether he and I could have held it in place without being crushed.

  They pulled down. It tottered for a moment, but settled securely on the floor.

  “Dank e.” Siegfried beamed, admiring the first of two mini-stages. It would be used for Act 2, the scene set on the Cambridge Commons when Celeste, Porter, Rikki, and Lana attended a Free Love Festival. Twin platforms would mimic the performance stage of the concert bands and the bleachers where the hippie chorus would sing and dance.

  The boys jumped off the stage.

  Mr. Bigelow motioned to me. “Could I please have a word with you, Professor?”

  Curious, I followed him through the opening in the thick curtain and into the hallway leading to the maintenance d
epartment. I expected a question on saw blades or drill batteries.

  Mr. Bigelow turned his spectacled, portly face to me as if to speak. He lowered his eyes, wrinkled his forehead, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  I waited.

  After a moment of obvious internal struggle, he began. “I’d like to apologize for my wife. You know, the other day, at the Superintendent’s office?”

  I nodded in understanding. “Oh. Right.”

  “My wife has been, well, ah—she gets carried away sometimes. She hasn’t been feeling well and has been seeing a doctor for some time now. We’re trying various medications to see if they help, but so far we haven’t had much luck.”

  He paused briefly. His voice caught in his throat. “Would you please extend our apologies to Miss Coté? My Lisa just adores her, and was mortified when she heard what her mother had done.”

  I looked him square in the eyes. “It’s okay, George. I’ll pass it on to Camille. Please don’t give it another thought.”

  He grabbed my hand, shook it firmly, and jogged back onstage.

  Chapter Twenty

  I walked back to Siegfried. “How about a little break, buddy?”

  “Ja. Okay.”

  He didn’t listen.

  As soon as I turned my back, he dragged a set of stairs over to the raised platform and started hammering. I shook my head, smiled at his boundless enthusiasm, and walked down the steps to the floor level of the hall.

  Taking my seat at the piano bench, I reached for my water bottle, downed half of it in one long pull, and surveyed the scene around me.

  Rainbows of vividly colored costumes were spread across the auditorium. Tie-dyed tee shirts, faded green army jackets, crushed velvet dresses, patched denim bellbottoms and jackets, peasant blouses, satin Nehru jackets, leather pants, fringed suede jackets and vests, waitress uniforms, short order cook aprons and hats, and dozens of other sixties-style costumes were draped over the seat backs.