by Leslie Meier
This impression was reinforced when Lucy got to the church hall and found the rehearsal in full swing. Frank Cahill was seated at the piano, simultaneously putting the chorus members through warm-up exercises and coaching Rachel’s and Dave’s delivery as they ran through their lines. Brian was setting some of the finished scenery into place at the back of the stage, and it was possible to imagine what the finished set would look like. Tatiana and Fred were practicing on the front portion of the stage, where they were going through one of Og and Susan’s dance numbers.
As Lucy took her place in the back row of the chorus, she could feel a real change in the atmosphere. There was a sense of purpose and positive engagement, instead of the defensiveness and backbiting that had predominated before. People were relaxed and agreeable, and to her amazement, she found her throat opening up and her voice doing what it was supposed to do as she trilled through the do-re-mi’s and mama mia’s, which Frank insisted upon. Beside her, Pam noticed the change and gave her a nod of approval. Then they were off and running, singing a rousing rendition of “Great Come-And-Get-It Day,” which earned a big smile of approval from Frank.
“If you do it like that on opening night, we’ll have a hit on our hands,” said Frank. “Okay, places everyone. We’re going to run through the entire show from the top.”
Chorus members arranged themselves on stage as Frank played the overture. Then he gave the signal, and they began singing “This Time of the Year,” which was followed by Susan’s dance number. Then Rachel made her entrance as Sharon, singing her big song, the haunting “How Are Things In Glocca Morra?”
The song was meant to evoke the Irish countryside and to express Sharon’s longing for her homeland when she found herself in rural Missitucky, accompanying her father, Finian, who had a fantastic scheme to become wealthy. Until now, Lucy had never heard the entire song, because Moira had always found some self-serving reason to interrupt it before she had to hit the high notes. She’d stamp her foot and demand silence; she’d claim Frank was playing in the wrong key; she’d have to pause and spray her throat. Rachel, however, didn’t indulge in any of these tricks. She simply sang the song in a pure, clear voice that brought the beautiful images of springtime in Ireland to life. When she ended, the chorus spontaneously burst into applause. Lucy’s and Pam’s eyes met. Realizing that they were both blinking back tears, they laughed and hugged each other.
“Bravo!” exclaimed Frank.
Rachel, her face scarlet, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I wasn’t that good,” she protested. “Especially that part…”
“Nonsense. You are a breath of fresh air, my dear,” replied Frank. “It’s as if you transported us all to the auld sod. But enough. We have work to do.” He pounded a few chords, everyone shuffled back in place, and Rachel segued into “Look to the Rainbow.”
Again, Rachel was right on target, delivering a flawless performance. The chorus also managed, for the first time, to come in on cue and on key. What had been a confusing muddle with innumerable distractions and annoying stops and starts now began to make sense. It was working, and everybody was caught up in the momentum, thoroughly engaged and enjoying it. All their hard work suddenly seemed to be paying off in this glorious, magical moment.
The mood was shattered when Moira appeared, announcing her arrival by throwing open the door so hard that it banged against the wall. “What the hell’s going on here?” she demanded, striding through the folding chairs that were scattered about the hall and mounting the center steps to the stage, where she turned and leaned over, glaring down at Frank and shaking a finger at him. “You’re responsible for this! You couldn’t wait to replace me with this…this…amateur!”
Frank stood up. “First of all, you’re late, Moira. Just like you’ve been late for every rehearsal. Second, since I didn’t hear a word from you to the contrary, I assumed you would want to be at your husband’s bedside. And thirdly,” he continued, warming to his theme, “you stink. You can’t sing; you won’t learn your lines; you’re a pain in the butt. And since I’m directing, I’ve decided to get rid of you and give your part to Rachel.”
“Who says you’re directing?” asked Moira, archly. “I don’t believe my husband, the director, has resigned. He’s under contract, you know, and accor—”
Frank was definitely losing altitude. “Be reasonable, Moira. The man is in the hospital, he can’t possibly…”
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, there is a clause in the contract that covers exactly this contingency. If he is unable to direct, I will take his place, consulting with him frequently and relying on his excellent professional advice.”
“But I heard he was unconscious,” protested Frank.
“He is expected to regain consciousness shortly, and besides, I know him so well that I can divine his thoughts.”
At this, Frank simply sat down on the piano bench and buried his face in his arms.
“I will carry out my husband’s wishes,” declared Moira, flipping open her script. “I will direct and play the role of Sharon.”
There was a stunned silence as Rachel simply nodded her assent and stepped aside. Lucy searched her friend’s face for any sign of emotion, but Rachel’s eyes remained dry, and her expression was neutral, except for a fluttering little vein in her temple. Moira ignored her, furiously turning the pages of the script, finally finding her place. “Let’s continue. Where’s Woody? Woody?”
Dave Reilly emerged from backstage, where he’d withdrawn when Moira arrived. Lucy certainly didn’t blame him, after the scene in the hospital, but Moira behaved as if nothing had happened.
“There you are!” exclaimed Moira, slipping her arm through his. “Maestro!” She pointed at Frank. “Are you ready?”
Frank nodded glumly.
Moira waved her arm at the chorus. “Off with you, now. This is Woody’s and my big love song.” She was still hanging on to his arm, but poor Dave looked at her warily, as if she might lose her temper any minute.
But Moira was all pats and smiles. “We don’t need them, do we?” she cooed.
The chorus shuffled off, making a good deal of noise as they settled themselves on chairs and opened newspapers and began chatting to each other. When Rachel didn’t appear, Pam went to look for her in the ladies’ room, while Lucy perched nervously on a chair. Frank played the first few bars of the song, but Moira waved her arms, calling for silence.
“This is intolerable!” she shrieked. “How am I supposed to perform under these conditions?”
“I dunno, sweetheart,” muttered Frank. “Why don’t you ask that husband of yours? THE DIRECTOR!”
At this, Moira threw herself on poor Dave Reilly, burying her face in his chest and sobbing loudly. It was then that Rachel reappeared, accompanied by Pam, and slipped into the chair next to Lucy’s. “Here we go, again,” she said, her voice quavering slightly.
“Are you okay?” whispered Lucy.
“I’m better than okay,” said Rachel, her eyes blazing. “And on my worst day, I’m better than that Moira!”
Chapter Seventeen
With Molly in the hospital, time seemed to drag for Lucy. She wanted the clock to speed up and the days to fly by until it was time for Molly to deliver a healthy baby. But instead, they seemed to stretch out interminably, and if it was like that for her, she could only imagine what poor Molly was going through. Lucy had plenty to do every day, both at work and at home. She was out and about, talking to people, conducting interviews, covering meetings, writing stories, and then, when she was done at the paper, she was shopping at the grocery store, preparing meals, doing laundry, keeping tabs on the girls, walking the dog, talking to friends on the phone, and busy with all the little matters of everyday life. And, of course, there were the rehearsals for Finian’s Rainbow. With Dylan out of the picture, in the hospital, the rehearsals would have proceeded smoothly under Frank’s direction, but Moira’s increasingly frequent emotional outbursts drained e
veryone’s patience.
For Molly, there was nothing to do but lie in the hospital and wait and hope that everything was going to be all right. So far, things had gone well, and that was a blessing. But there was always that sense of life suspended, of waiting, and it was driving Lucy crazy.
Even Wednesday, deadline day, which was usually a frantic scramble to get the week’s copy to the printer, seemed unusually quiet this week. Lucy and Phyllis had finished the events listings with time to spare, and the police and fire logs were ready. Lucy had even finished the feature story about the metal prospectors, which Ted was running with her photo of the 1776 coin. All that was missing was Ted’s update on the Dylan Malone story, which he would write when he got back from yet another press conference at the police station.
“Are you sure we haven’t forgotten something?” asked Phyllis, taking a bottle of nail polish out of her desk drawer and shaking it.
“Nope,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “I’ve checked and double-checked the news budget, and we are good. Is that a new color?”
“Kelly green. I thought I’d get in the spirit for St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve got a green sweater with little shamrocks, a pair of green slacks, even green shoes.”
“You don’t think it’s too much green?”
“Not for St. Pat’s Day.”
“But you’re not even Irish.”
“Everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. Elfrida’s cooking up a corned beef and cabbage dinner—she asked me to make Irish soda bread, but I’m only going to have a teeny slice—and then we’re all going to the show. I bought the tickets Sunday, after church.”
“Since when do you go to church on Sunday?”
“Ever since I started seeing Bobby Monahan.”
“I didn’t know you had a gentleman friend.”
“I met him at the gym,” replied Phyllis, looking smug. “We were both doing the Atkins diet.”
“And is he coming to this family dinner?”
“You betcha. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, he says, though I warned him Elfrida’s cooking can be a bit unusual.”
“How so?”
“She’s been experimenting with food coloring. At Christmas, everything was either red or green, and I’m pretty sure the whole meal will be green for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“That’s no big deal. There’s green beer, green mashed potatoes, green jello, green salad, green cabbage….”
“Green corned beef,” said Phyllis.
“Oh,” said Lucy, looking up as Ted came in, seeming rather flustered. “Did you run the whole way?” she asked him.
“You bet I did,” he said, panting as he took off his coat and tossed it at the hall stand. It usually caught on the hook, but this time it missed and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, but Ted was too excited to notice. “You are not going to believe this.”
Lucy was doubtful. She’d been to too many police press conferences that were a waste of time. “Believe what?”
“What I’m going to tell you, but first, I’ve gotta warn you it’s kind of icky,” said Ted.
Lucy and Phyllis looked at each other. “I think we can handle it, Ted,” said Lucy. “I’m a mother, and Phyllis eats Elfrida’s cooking. Between the two of us, we’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“Trust me, this is weird,” replied Ted.
“We’re sitting down, Ted. Tell us, for goodness sake,” snapped Phyllis.
“Okay,” said Ted. “They finally got the report, the analysis, of the rock in Dylan’s head, and it wasn’t a rock at all.”
“A marble egg?” guessed Phyllis. “I always thought those things were dangerous.”
“Not a marble egg. It was a…” He paused.
“A what?” demanded Lucy.
“A petrified brain. A human brain,” said Ted.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Phyllis, whose face matched her Kelly green nails.
“Yuck,” said Lucy. “You weren’t kidding. Talk about icky.”
Phyllis was on her feet, hurrying to the bathroom.
“I tried to warn her,” said Ted. “Are you okay with this?”
“Like I said, I’m a mother. You name it, I’ve seen it and probably had to mop it up,” said Lucy. She thought for a minute. “I thought brains were kind of squishy.”
“Normally, they are,” agreed Ted, clearly fascinated by the story, “but this was a mummified brain. It was mixed with lime and shaped into a ball. See, here’s the picture they gave us.”
Lucy looked at the photo of a small gray lump. “Is this a whole brain or just part?” she asked as Phyllis emerged from the bathroom. “I mean, I don’t see how you could mash a whole brain into something this compact.”
“Bluuegh,” moaned Phyllis, grabbing her stomach and heading straight back to the bathroom.
“I was wondering about that, too,” said Ted, sitting down in his chair and booting up his computer in preparation to write the story. “They’re not actually sure if it’s an entire brain or not, but they know for sure that it is cerebral matter.”
“I suppose a lot of brain tissue is actually water,” said Lucy as Phyllis poked her head out from behind the bathroom door.
“Are you still talking about you know what?” asked Phyllis.
“Not if it upsets you,” said Lucy. “I’ll just read Ted’s story over his shoulder.”
“No, it’s okay,” said Phyllis. “I had an idea while I was in there. About the you know what.”
“What was your idea?” asked Ted.
“Well, I was wondering where a person would get, well, you know what, and then I remembered Old Dan and how his head was missing,” said Phyllis. “Maybe that’s where the you know what came from.”
“They thought of that. They’re doing DNA testing to see if it matches,” said Ted.
“The police think that Dylan was hit with his own brother’s…,” began Lucy, pausing as she saw Phyllis’s expression.
“That’s what they think,” said Ted.
“Somebody must really hate them both, both Malone brothers,” said Lucy. “Like it’s some sort of family feud. Maybe something going way back, even. Remember I told you about Celtic warriors making brain balls?”
“The cops are looking for an Irish connection,” said Ted, typing away on his keyboard. “They’re contacting Irish officials, but so far Dylan doesn’t seem to have any gangland or IRA connections. No record at all. Ditto for Old Dan.”
He looked up. “It’s half past eleven,” he said. “A half hour to deadline, and I don’t see the town meeting warrant.”
Lucy looked vacant. “Town meeting warrant?”
“It came Monday,” replied Ted.
“I wasn’t here Monday, remember?” said Lucy.
“Well, I need an overview, an explanation for voters of what’s important,” said Ted. “Like the five hundred thousand dollars for open space.”
“But I haven’t even read it,” said Lucy, who was frantically searching through the messy pile of papers on her desk. “Much less interviewed the selectmen.”
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” said Ted just as Lucy found the warrant tucked inside a brochure from the senior center, announcing April activities, that Lucy was saving to use for a story next week.
She groaned, flipping through the closely printed pages. “But there’s twenty-nine pages packed with one hundred thirty-four articles….”
“Thirty minutes.”
It was a struggle, and she felt more like a sprinter than a writer, but Lucy managed to condense the town meeting warrant into eighteen inches of copy, including a quote from the chairman of the board of selectmen about how important it was for voters to attend town meetings and to approve the entire warrant, especially a spending article calling for that half-million-dollar open space purchase.
“Good work, Lucy,” said Ted, giving her a rare nod of approval. “Now get out of here.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Phyllis, with a wave of her green-t
ipped hand.
Out on the sidewalk, Lucy buttoned up her coat against the chilly March wind and decided to air out her brain and work out a few muscle kinks by walking the few blocks to Miss Tilley’s house, where she was expected for lunch. As she passed the stores lining Main Street, she noticed that many of them had decorated their windows with green paper cutouts of shamrocks and leprechauns. The library had a sign announcing a St. Patrick’s Day tea, and there was a colorful sandwich board on the church lawn, complete with a rainbow and the dancing figures of Sharon and Finian announcing the show. Lucy counted the days until opening night and discovered it was in a little more than two weeks.
They were going to need a miracle, she thought, rounding the corner onto Miss Tilley’s street. A blast of wind blowing off the cove nearly knocked her off her feet and snatched her breath away, but it wasn’t the razor-sharp blast of cold that she’d grown to expect in the last few months. Spring was really on its way, she decided, spotting a clump of lavender crocus that had sprouted in the shelter of a rock. Another blast of wind reminded her that spring came very slowly in Maine, beginning with mud season and ending with the emergence of swarms of black flies, but in between there was always a handful of precious balmy days, when the grass suddenly turned green, vibrant emerald leaves erupted from gray tree bark, and the lilacs and apple trees bloomed, scenting the air.
