by Anne Pfeffer
While I averted my eyes, Storm pulled off Blake’s clothes and put him into a pair of slacks and shirt for the first scene, one of the few in which he wore normal street clothes.
Blake had turned totally inward, his eyes unseeing, his head thrown back. He sat on a stool, one bent leg moving up and down, his sneakered heel hitting the floor over and over again.
I put my hand on his knee to quiet it.
“Stay with me, Pru? For the whole show?”
“I’ll be right here in the wings,” I said.
Five minutes!
Blake and I shared a long look into which I threw every ounce of faith, friendship, and comfort that I could summon. I wanted this. I wanted it for Blake, for Ellen, and for me.
“I believe in you, Blake.”
He nodded, gave me a small smile, and went onstage.
Dragged by unseen hands, the curtains parted. I caught a glimpse of Ellen’s red dress in the back, behind the last row of chairs. If I hadn’t promised Blake to stay here, I would have joined her. Like me, she would probably spend the whole performance on her feet, pacing like a caged tiger.
Storm slipped up next to me and wordlessly slid her fingers through mine.
Are you Duncan Martin?
Is there news of my wife?
We stood there, holding hands, as the play began.
Chapter Twenty-Six
From Pru’s Journal:
Adam’s parents were in the Army, so he has lived practically everywhere. He’s been to every continent except Antarctica, has ridden a camel, and speaks a little bit of five different languages. I’ve seen Mount Hood from the car window and once rode a pony for about ten minutes. Here’s a long-term goal for you, Dr. Abbot. I want to visit every continent, including Antarctica.
##
Duncan had been unjustly accused of murder, convicted, hauled to prison and strip searched. He—and Blake along with him—had begun his descent into hell.
Ellen had been determined not to over-rehearse the actors. “I want it to be raw and real. I want the actors nervous; better they make mistakes than be stale.”
I’d wondered how she felt about that decision an hour ago, as she paced the back of her theater, waiting for the curtains to open. So far so good, but now Blake had a grueling three-scene roller coaster ahead of him, in which he would be raped in the shower, soliloquize about suicide, then climb a tall ladder and hang himself.
All scene changes would occur on the open stage, in the dark. What looked like a prison wall also served as a divider behind which actors changed clothes if they had to between scenes. It was Storm’s job to help them and make sure all costume changes went smoothly.
There would be no intermission. Ellen wanted to preserve the momentum of the story, but the absence of even a few minutes to rest was really rough on Blake, who was in every scene.
He, as Duncan, was onstage with his attorney, Samantha. It was really Becca’s scene, and she was tearing it up. Enthusiastic applause filtered back to us, and I found myself smiling, glad for her.
Behind me I heard movement and rustling noises. It was Trent, Jamal, Ricardo, and Mark, the guys in the next scene with Blake. I turned to signal them, Break a leg, only to find myself facing four dangling sets of naked male parts.
How could I have forgotten? It was the rape scene.
The guys were oblivious to me, tense, stretching their arms above their heads, rolling their shoulders around. Jamal dropped down to do pushups, the muscles in his bare posterior bunching and unbunching as he moved.
If Lloyd and Phyllis carted me back to Oregon, I would probably never again see a naked man in real life. And these guys were studs—young actors, fit, built. Oh my goodness.
I decided to take advantage. I looked.
The scene onstage was ending. Blake had no time to come backstage to undress. This was Storm’s cue. As the lights went out, she skittered silently out into the dark to meet Blake behind the divider. She was back soon, holding his prison suit and briefs. “Ready!”
A spotlight hit the stage. Blake stood stark naked under a faucet, taking an imaginary waterless shower.
A murmur went through the audience. Blake had been good up until this point, but now, like a runner who hits his stride mid-race, he was taking off—and bringing us all along with him. Through the simple everyday act of washing himself, joylessly turning his face up to the faucet, the stoic soaping of his torso and underarms, by cleaning his feet, he made me feel—in a way that was almost painful—how alone Duncan was, how vulnerable, how shattered by grief.
As Jamal and Mark sauntered in, followed by Trent, each brought a growing sense of menace that had us all on edge and culminated in a jolt of genuine terror as Ricardo entered with an insane, sinister grin. Honey, I’m home! he called.
An audible shudder ran through the audience. The hair on my arms raised as Duncan’s head jerked up in alarm and he instinctively backed away, reaching for a towel.
Utter silence in the theater as the grisly scene played itself out, the terror in Duncan’s cries for help, the violence of the movements, combined in a strange way with the beauty of the male bodies in their different colors of black, coffee, and ivory. I stood in the wings, arms crossed over my chest, biting my lips, and praying Blake would be able to handle this.
Then it was over, the stage dark, the small audience unloosing a torrent of applause that grew and refused to stop, while Storm again ran out to pull Blake back into his prison costume.
Unbelievably, he had to deliver his soliloquy now. His four attackers lay exhausted on mats in the wings, while Becca brought them some of the water bottles that Ellen kept around for the actors and crew. I would have helped her, but Storm caught my arm. “He says stay in the wings where he can see you.”
I stood as far out as I could without revealing myself to the audience.
Blake didn’t—couldn’t—look in my direction, but I hoped he sensed my presence and took strength from it. He was painfully thirsty. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but I did. I grabbed a water bottle, thinking I would find a way to get it to him.
The theater was silent. Blake again stood center-stage, alone with his anguish and shame. In a broken voice, he cried out his sorrow and loss, his grief for his daughter. He railed against his wife’s fate and the brutality of his fellow prisoners: it was too much to bear. He would end his own life.
Hearing Blake’s voice waver, seeing him sway, I knew he was fading. The scene was almost over. Storm stood by with the harness. She held a pair of briefs in her hand.
“Are those Blake’s?” I asked.
“Yeah. We didn’t have time for them during the last scene change.”
Storm hadn’t made any effort to pad that harness or make it comfortable. I knew from having worn it: you did not want to go commando in that thing. And those little briefs in Storm’s hand weren’t much better.
Trent had put on his boxer shorts. I turned to him. “Take off your shorts,” I whispered.
A blank look.
“Your shorts. I need them for Blake.”
He stripped them off and handed them to me.
“Tell them to hold the lights off until we’re back. It’s important.” I ran to Storm. “I’m going out there with you.”
Blake had crumpled to the ground as the scene ended and the lights went off. Storm ran, while I stumbled behind, a water bottle under my arm and Trent’s boxers in my hand.
Completely exhausted, Blake sat there in the dark. Working as a team, we pulled him behind the divider and knelt beside him. Fumbling, sightless, we stripped him naked.
I sensed a question in Storm as I whipped out the boxers and pulled them up his legs. “For chafing!” I hissed.
“Okay,” she whispered back.
As she put on the harness, I opened the bottle and managed to hold it to Blake’s lips. His hand came up. He took the bottle and drained it in two swallows.
The audience, which had been silent, began to whisper and move about
.
“Hurry!” I was terrified the tech crew would decide we must be ready and throw a spotlight on an empty stage.
On went the prison jumpsuit, and now Blake had to climb the ladder. In the dark. Up to the beam. He stood frozen at the bottom.
“Go on,” I whispered.
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can!”
“Help me, Pru.”
I could hear the audience murmuring and moving about as they waited through this interminable scene change. “We’ll go together. You first. I’ll be right behind.”
So in the blackness, hidden from sight by the divider, I followed Blake as he climbed the ladder. Step by step, rung by rung, we made our way up, while I questioned my sanity. At the top, Blake’s rope waited for him, clipped to a hook. We crawled up onto the beam. No sooner had we reached it when someone below took away the ladder and moved the divider back a few feet.
I clipped the hook onto Blake’s harness, running my fingers over it to make sure it was secure. “Go!”
Blake jumped. Below me, the spotlight came on at the precise instant that he hit the end of the rope. The audience gasped just at the same moment that I realized I was trapped on a narrow beam in the dark high above a stage in the middle of a live performance.
Fortunately, no one could see me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see anything. I clung to the beam, which suddenly felt about as wide as a popsicle stick.
What would I do now? Probably fall onto the stage mid-show and ruin everything Ellen had ever worked for. No wonder my parents thought I was hopeless. No wonder I’d never accomplished anything in my entire life.
This would never happen to Fredericka de la Neige. Or Pepper Hathaway either. My arms loosening, I started to slip to the left and off the top of the beam. Frantic, I grabbed on with both arms and legs, shimmying right and pulling myself back up. I lay there for a minute feeling my heart pound against the rough metal.
What were my options? I could wait until the show was over, then scream for help. That was so embarrassing, though.
Maybe I would just stay up here until someone found my bones clinging to the beam. Everyone would weep, and I would die a hero. She did it for the play, people would say. She gave everything so that Blake and Ellen might fulfill their dreams.
Below I heard Blake’s voice, then Becca’s. From the audience, an intense, focused silence. I listened for a moment. The audience hung on every word. You could tell by the tension in the theater, the stillness of the viewers. You could tell by the little gasps, the sniffles, and the sighs.
This night, this performance, was magic.
It could never have happened without me. I knew that. Blake had needed me. He had told me so. Help me, Pru. You’re my muse.
And Ellen had told me, I’m so grateful to you. You’re my savior.
I thought of Dr. Abbot, whose faith in me had never wavered.
As the audience below me burst into applause yet again, I clung to the beam, feeling something new and strange, something I’d never felt before.
It was pride. Pride in myself and in my work.
I was needed. I had helped people. I had brought something good to the world.
I thought of Adam, who was so handsome and fun and kind. He was strong, too. He didn’t need me.
But he wanted me.
Suddenly, I had to get off this beam. I had stuff to do, people to see.
How had DeAndre gone up and down? He’d used another ladder on the far side of the stage. Maybe I could crawl there, just as he had.
I began to scoot along the beam as silently as I could, feeling my way, my belly scraping along the rough metal. Talk about chafing.
Below me, the cadences of Blake’s voice rolled through the theater, while the audience sat motionless, transfixed. Again, I felt the satisfaction of a job well done.
The surface of the metal caught and pulled at Carrie’s shirt. I inched my way along, lying face down, grimacing but determined. This trip along the beam was like my progress in life—turtle-slow and tortured, but I would get there in the end.
Merciful heavens—I reached the ladder. I shakily made my way down.
“There you are!” Storm grabbed my arm as she whispered in my ear. “Hurry! It’s almost curtain call. Omigod, it was wonderful!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
From Pru’s Journal:
Here’s something I’ve realized about myself. I want a career, not a job. Something I believe in, like Ellen believes in her plays.
##
As Blake delivered his final triumphant lines, Storm and I tiptoed past the actors lined up in the wings for curtain call. We jostled each other in the small space, crossing our fingers and listening for sounds from the audience.
DeAndre pulled the curtains closed. The audience exploded into applause. We had done it! We’d survived opening night.
Blake staggered toward me, where I waited in the wings with another bottle of water. We had no time to talk. He downed the water as the curtain opened and the first actors went out onstage. Becca got a good round of applause, but when Blake strode out, people jumped from their seats, clapping and cheering. They yelled and stamped their feet.
I watched Blake bow deeply to the audience and hold his arms out to them in thanks. His face worked with emotion. Trent and Jamal ran down to the back of the theater and returned carrying Ellen between them. She wept openly as someone laid a bouquet of roses in her arms. The crowd pounded their feet on the floor and hollered.
Around me in the wings, the crew made silent screams of joy and jumped up and down. I tiptoed over to check out the audience, on its feet, cheering for Ellen’s work. For all of our work. I peeked through a space between the curtains and stared curiously at the first two rows, with its very important people. They looked pretty ordinary to me, just like anyone else. They clapped and yelled for our play, along with the others.
My eyes moved on until I found the person I was really looking for. Adam stood halfway back, clapping, grinning broadly, with a bouquet of flowers under his arm.
Were the flowers for me? He was so adorable. I wanted to lean out from between the curtains and wave to him, but I was a professional now.
And then I forgot about Adam because of a sight so chilling that even my teeth froze.
In a seat near the back was a patch of bright purple sweater topped by yellow curls. It was Phyllis, with a face like she’d just smelled something from the dumpster in our alley. She wasn’t clapping. Next to her sat my father, jaw clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
I dodged away from the curtain, trying to think what to do. They came to see this? Had they actually sat through the whole thing?
I could hear the rant going on in Lloyd’s mind right now…. perverted…indecent… the decline of morality… put a stop to this sort of thing….
Of all times, they had to arrive on opening night? Not only was my evening ruined, but I would have to spirit my parents away immediately, before they ruined everyone else’s.
What surprises did they have in store for me? The mere thought of it made me ill.
The applause had stopped, the audience milling around, ready to go. Along with others who had friends or family present, I raced from the wings to find them.
Adam intercepted me. “Slow down there!” He handed me the bouquet. I recognized roses. There were other flowers I didn’t know, but they were really pretty too.
“Oh, thank you!” I said, simultaneously thrilled and nauseated. “My parents are here!”
Just as I said it, Lloyd and Phyllis appeared beside me, and a pair of arms grabbed me from behind and lifted me in the air.
The arms, of course, were Blake’s. “Prudence, you’re a goddess!” He set me down and, before I could stop him, gave me a huge smooch on the cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Adam go red.
Ellen came up behind Blake on her crutches. “Storm told me everything you did,” she said. “I love you, Pru. You’ve been a life saver
from the beginning.” She leaned on the crutches and wiped her eyes.
How ironic to see Lloyd and Phyllis processing the knowledge that when, finally, for once in my life, I’d made myself useful, it was to a bunch of subversives. I glanced over at Adam. He gazed murderously at Blake, who was advancing upon my folks.
“Ah, the parents of the lovely Prudence!” Blake shook hands with my dad and bowed low over my mom’s, ignoring Adam. “It’s a pleasure to see you again!”
“You were in the starring role?” Phyllis asked, turning pink. I knew what she was thinking: I saw you naked.
“That I was.”
If he was expecting a flurry of compliments from the Andersons, he was sorely disappointed. A heavy silence fell.
“Pru, the Times critic gave us a standing ovation!” Ellen said. “He clapped for a long time.” Her voice was so full of hope that I took her hand.
“It was incredible, Ellen.” I meant it. Until I met Ellen, I hadn’t realized that a play with profanity and depressing subject matter could be worth seeing. But hers was. “And you were incredible,” I said to Blake.
I’d never seen him like this. He glowed with contentment, riding high of a wave of applause and bravos. “With you, milady, as my inspiration,” he said, lifting my hand up to kiss it.
“Hey!” Adam barged forward. “Pru, you about ready to go? I’ll drive you home.”
“My folks are here.” I tried to keep the gloom out of my voice.
A guy with a short ponytail and pierced ears materialized with Becca in tow. He looked about eighteen, but was probably more my age. Becca hung on his arm, her beauty pageant smile on display.
“Corey!” Ellen said.
“Ellen … shut up! I mean, that was sick!”
My mom and dad gave each other smug looks that said, That guy didn’t like it either.
“I’ve just met your leading lady here.” Corey nodded toward Becca, who laughed even though he hadn’t said anything funny.
