Stagestruck

by Shelley Peterson

“Mrs. Malone?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi! This is Hilary James. May I speak with Abby?”

  “Mousie James! Are you home?”

  “Yes, for the weekend. I got in last night.”

  “Your mother must be thrilled. How’s Montreal?”

  “Great, thanks. I’m working hard on my thesis, and exams are going well. How are things with you?”

  “Fine, but I’m a little concerned just at the moment. Abby’s out in the storm on Moonie, with Leggy on a lead.”

  “Wow.” Hilary knew from first-hand experience how frightened a young horse might be in this weather, but she didn’t want to add to Fiona’s worries. “I’m sure they’re fine, Mrs. Malone. Abby’s smart. She’s probably somewhere dry, waiting it out.”

  “I sure hope you’re right, Hilary.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Over two hours.”

  There was a short pause. “Would you like me to look for them?”

  “No! I don’t want you out in this storm, too. Abby’s father’ll be home soon, and he’ll go out if she’s not back. Thanks anyway, though.”

  “Is Cody with her?”

  “I assume so,” Fiona answered. “He always is.”

  “If there was any reason to worry, he’d come find you.”

  “You’re right. He would. Hilary, thank you. I feel better.”

  “Well, tell her I called. I want to talk something over with her. But I know my way through all the trails so please call me if you want help. I’m serious.”

  “I know you are. Thank you.”

  As Hilary returned the receiver to the kitchen wall Christine waited for an explanation.

  “What’s wrong, Mousie?” she asked.

  “Abby’s out in the storm.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Well, it’s wild out there, and she’s got the two-year-old with her.” Hilary walked to the window and peered outside. Pepper, a little brown and white Jack Russell terrier, stood beside her with her paws on the windowsill. The sky was dark and it was only three thirty in the afternoon. The rain poured down heavily and the wind sounded like a giant in pain.

  Hilary absently rubbed the small dog’s head. “She’s tough, Mom, but this is crazy weather.”

  “Don’t even think of going out there, Mousie. You wouldn’t know where to begin to look. You’ll just have to trust that she’s as smart as you were at her age.”

  As the storm raged outside, Abby slowly walked down the aisle of the little theatre toward the stage. The air was dusty and smelled moldy, but her nose picked up a hint of something else. She couldn’t quite define it, but it was exciting, tantalizing. Was it the smell of greasepaint, she wondered, like in the song? Was it adrenalin, left over from a thousand first night panic attacks? Or maybe it was a combination of hairspray and makeup and sweat and old costumes and fear and delight. Whatever it was, Abby liked it. Her back straightened and her legs moved with more grace as she approached the stage. Then, head high, she stepped up the four risers to the left of the stage.

  She strode to the centre and turned to face the seats. She imagined them full of people; smiling people, eagerly waiting for a performance that would touch them, move them, make them laugh. A performance that would allow them to forget about their troubles, their problems, their dreary jobs.

  “Hello, out there,” she said aloud. Her voice sounded feeble and thin to her ears. She took a deep breath. “Hello, out there!” That was better. The sound resonated from the back wall. “I welcome you all to a very special show. For the first time on any stage, anywhere in the entire world, A-a-bby Malone!” She stepped briskly to the right and grandly swept up her right arm, placing her left foot behind her in her own version of a regal curtsy. Holding out a splendid, imaginary gown with her left hand, Abby bowed deeply to her adoring fans.

  When Abby raised her head, the people were gone. The seats were dusty and drab, dirty cobwebs drooped from the lights, and the whole place was in bad repair. But the magic still hung in the air. Abby smiled, understanding that nothing, not even time, could remove it.

  A movement in the back seats caught her eye. A blur of bluish light spread up the right aisle and settled in a seat two rows from the back and two chairs in from the aisle. Abby stared, mesmerized.

  Cody howled softly, breaking Abby’s trance. She looked at him, sitting obediently in the front row, paw raised and head tilted. He howled again, but not fearfully or with any sense of urgency. Abby looked at the back of the theatre again, but the blur was gone. Hmm, she thought. Strange. Maybe she’d imagined it.

  Without warning, Cody dashed up onto the stage and stood protectively in front of Abby. He bared his teeth and growled fiercely.

  “Cody, what’s wrong?” Abby asked. Something was threatening them, and it was out there in the theatre. She backed up slowly until she could feel the thick curtains against her back, then quickly ducked under the heavy fabric. Cody scooted under, too, and Abby dropped the curtain to the floor.

  Heart pounding, Abby crouched motionless, straining her ears for any telltale noise. A minute went by. Cody stiffened and growled again.

  Attracted by a spot of light showing through the curtain, Abby crept over and found a small hole a few feet off the ground. Peering through, she saw nothing but empty seats and bare walls. She kept her eye to the hole, and arranged herself to settle in and watch.

  Abby had a troubling thought. Were her horses safe? Was she hiding here, afraid for herself, while the horses were in danger? She fidgeted, uncertain of what to do, when the latch on the door lifted with a sharp click.

  The door slowly opened. Holding her breath, Abby waited to see who or what would come in.

  It was the old farmer, Robert Wick. Relief spread through Abby’s body. She took a deep breath, realizing that she’d forgotten to breathe. Farmer Wick was a weathered man in his seventies, tall and lanky with a slightly spreading belly. His red and black checkered jacket was wet from the rain, and he wore green rubber boots and a soaked olive-green cap with ear flaps. He looked as frightened as Abby felt. Step by tentative step he sidled into the theatre, sliding his back along the wall, darting his eyes all over the large room. He carried a shotgun.

  “Mr. Wick?” Abby called.

  The old man jumped. “What?” he blurted. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Abby Malone. I’m behind the curtain, and I’m coming out. Cody is with me. Please don’t shoot. Can you hear me, Mr. Wick?” Abby was nervous. She knew that a person with a gun could make a mistake when frightened, even Mr. Wick.

  Robert Wick lowered the shotgun. “Abby Malone.” He took a deep breath. “The gun’s not loaded. Show yourself. Where are you?”

  “I’m here, behind the curtain,” she repeated. “Here.” To show Mr. Wick where she was, she poked the fabric with her hand and shook it.

  “Okay, Abby, I see you. Come on out.”

  Abby lifted the heavy velvet, then emerged cautiously with Cody, trusting that the gun was empty.

  “Now, what the blazes are you doing in my barn, on my property, without permission, in the middle of a whopping big storm?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wick. I can explain everything . . .” Abby began.

  “I can’t hear you. You’re mumbling. Speak up.”

  “I can explain everything,” Abby projected loudly. “We, that is my two horses and Cody and me, got caught in the storm and we needed to get out of the wind and rain but especially the lightning, so we found shelter in your shed, but I was cold and I thought there might be an old horse blanket in the barn, but when I got here I realized it wasn’t a barn but a theatre, so I couldn’t help but look around, and I hope it’s all right.” Abby took a breath. She’d been speaking very quickly, and when she stopped the theatre resonated with the echoes of her voice. Wick took his time.

  Finally he spoke. “I guess that’s fine.”

  Abby was relieved. “Thank you so much. Well, I’ll go now. I’m sor
ry. I really am. I’ll never do it again.”

  “I must say you scared the living daylights out of me,” Mr. Wick said, relaxing.

  “And me, too. You scared the living daylights out of me.” Abby and Cody had come down the stairs and were walking toward the door.

  “I come to check on the farm every few days,” said Mr. Wick, feeling more talkative. “It’s been empty for a long time, since my wife died and I moved into the bungalow, but until today nobody’s bothered with it, if you don’t count the ghost. That’s why, when I saw the lights on, I grabbed my shotgun. It’s not loaded, but it’s scary. I had no idea what I’d be facing. I apologize for that, Abby.”

  Abby stopped dead. “A ghost?”

  2

  THE RETURN OF SAMUEL OWENS

  HILARY JAMES CONTINUED TO STARE out the kitchen window at the rain. Her reflection stared back. Tall with shoulder-length, light brown hair streaked with blond, Mousie had grown into an attractive, intelligent woman of twenty-two. The show-jumping passion that had taken her and Dancer to the top of that world had been replaced by a love of ancient civilizations, a love that she shared with Sandy Casey, her fiancé. The two planned to join an archeological dig for a year in Belize, and they were practising their Spanish in anticipation.

  She was thinking about Abby Malone, the girl she’d first met two years earlier. Abby had been riding bareback, chasing hunting dogs away from her beloved Cody. Such spunk, Hilary thought. She remembered the day of the steeplechase, when Abby competed against some tough riders on her little quarter-horse mare. Mousie admired the younger girl’s uncanny ability with horses; but more than that, she liked her spirit.

  Now, Abby was somewhere out there with two horses and her coyote. Mousie thought over the options. The first, and most sensible, would be to wait and hope that they got back okay. And likely they would. Plus, as her mother said, where would she begin to look? They could be anywhere. Should she risk herself and Dancer getting struck by lightning, or mired in mud?

  The other option was to saddle up Dancer and go. Doing something, however rash, was easier than standing idle. At least if something awful happened, she could tell herself that she had tried.

  Hilary pulled on her rubber riding boots and zipped up her waxed canvas slicker. Pepper hopped around in excitement, thrilled at the prospect of an adventure. “No, Pepper. You stay.” Immediately, the little dog’s ears dropped and she slunk away to her tiny basket in the corner of the kitchen. Hilary threw on her hard hat and hollered, “I’m going to look for Abby, Mom. See you later.”

  “Mousie? Did you say something?” Christine’s voice floated up from the basement, where the laundry was in full gear.

  Hilary walked to the top of the basement stairs. “I’ll be back soon. I’m going to find Abby.”

  “You’re crazy!” The pounding of feet sounded on the stairs. “Where are you going to look? It’s dangerous to be out there on a horse with the lightning!” Christine anxiously wiped her soapy hands on her jeans.

  “I can’t just sit and wait. I’ll be careful.”

  “How can you be careful of where lightning strikes?”

  “Mom, what are the chances? Abby might have a broken leg or something.”

  Christine could see that her daughter would not be deterred. “Then don’t take Dancer, he hasn’t been ridden in ages. He’ll be too fresh. Take Henry, he’ll be much calmer in this storm.”

  “Mom, I’ve got the cell phone.” Hilary patted her pocket. “I’m taking Dancer. He’ll follow anyway if I take Henry, and then I’ll have two horses to worry about, like Abby.” She put on her riding gloves, turned to the door, and headed out to the barn.

  The wind was powerful, and the rain felt like needles prickling her face. If her mother hadn’t been standing at the window worrying, Hilary might have been tempted to turn back.

  Dancer stood in the barn out of the rain. His coat was totally dry. Dancer’s barnmate, Henry, was lying down in his stall. A solid bay gelding of Clydesdale and thoroughbred origins, Henry was dreaming happy horse dreams, ears twitching and lower lip flapping. He looked comical, like a talking horse.

  Hilary carried her newly cleaned saddle and bridle from the tack room and placed them on the rack in the aisle. “Dancer, don’t look at me like that. I know it’s bad out there, but we’re going to look for Abby and Moonie, your girlfriend, remember her? And your daughter, Moon Dancer.” She laughed at herself, talking to Dancer like he was a person. She’d always done that. Somehow, he’d always seemed more like a person to her than a horse.

  With Dancer tacked up and ready to go, Hilary walked into the pelting rain. Dancer tucked his tail between his legs and hunched his back when the strong wind surprised him, but he stood quietly at the mounting block as Hilary hopped on. She put her feet in the stirrups and tightened the girth.

  It was good to be up on his back again. It seemed like she’d been there all along, like she’d never gone off to university. She felt his power and his strong personality through the saddle, just like the old days.

  Lightning flashed diagonally across the sky and thunder boomed and crashed. Dancer spooked sideways and started to prance.

  “Let’s try the woods behind the Caseys’ and travel along the ridge above Saddle Creek. Come on, Dancer, don’t wimp out on me now.”

  Fiona Malone paced the kitchen, trying hard not to pour a drink. A small drink to calm her nerves, just a sip. Nobody would know. Couldn’t she be excused, with the worry of Abby out in the storm? The radio was playing “Rubber Ducky” in an effort to make a joke out of the severity of the weather. Fiona took a glass out of the cupboard and threw in some ice cubes. Her husband, Liam, thought he had gotten rid of all the liquor in the house, but Fiona always had something hidden away, just in case. When she’d bought the bottle of gin, she convinced herself that it was only to test her willpower.

  The song ended and the news came on. World news about suffering and war and hunger. Fiona knelt under the sink and felt for the bottle amid the cleaning supplies. Her fingers clutched it, and she pulled it out. Local news about the firemen’s strike and the fundraiser for the animal shelter. She cut open the seal around the mouth of the bottle. An interruption for a news bulletin about wealthy businessman Samuel Owens being released from the mental hospital after being judged sane.

  Fiona stared at the bottle. The glass was ready for the clear, numbing liquid. Samuel Owens? Released? The man who tried to kill Dancer? Fiona wondered if Hilary knew. She should be warned.

  Quickly, Fiona found the number and dialed. It was answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Christine? It’s Fiona Malone.”

  “Fiona, how are you? I’m already collecting things for the big garage sale at Someday Farm.”

  “I’m not calling to harass you about that, Christine,” said Fiona, smiling briefly. “Yet.”

  “Has Abby gotten home?”

  “No, not yet. I’m hoping to see her any minute. I’m calling because there’s something on the news. I don’t know if you’ve heard. Samuel Owens has been released from the mental hospital.”

  Christine took a deep breath. “When?”

  “I don’t know. It was on the radio a minute ago, and I wasn’t paying close attention until I heard his name.”

  “Thank you, Fiona. I’ll turn on my radio and listen for more details.”

  “I’m sorry to call with such bad news. It’ll be better next time. I promised Hilary that I’d let her know the minute Abby gets home.”

  “Well, she went out on Dancer, looking for her.”

  “She didn’t!”

  “Oh yes, she did. There wasn’t anything I could say to stop her.”

  “My God! It’s horrible out there.”

  “I know, Fiona, but she’s got the cell phone. If she reports back, I’ll let you know, and if she’s gone too long, we can always call her.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “Why don’t you come over and wait here w
ith me?”

  Fiona looked at the gin. “Thanks, but I want to be here when Abby gets home.”

  “Of course.”

  “If she gets home before Hilary calls on her cell, I’ll call you.”

  “Good plan.”

  Fiona hung up the phone and continued to stare at the gin. Finally she rose from her chair. She untwisted the cap and carried the bottle over to the counter, where the glass of ice stood ready. With a shaking hand she began to pour. As she lifted the glass to her lips, she was suddenly overpowered by self-loathing. What was she doing to herself? And to her family, who had been so supportive of her rehabilitation? Fiona threw the glass into the sink as if it was too hot to hold, smashing it into fragments. She dumped the entire bottle of gin after it, listening to the chugging sound with satisfaction as it emptied.

  “Fiona, girl.”

  Fiona swung around, startled.

  “Well done, my darling. I couldn’t be prouder.” Liam Malone stood at the kitchen door, dripping water onto the mat. His face was tender, and his eyes were moist with tears. Fiona flew across the room into his open arms, ignoring the soaking wet jacket as she clung tightly to him.

  Samuel Owens sat at his large mahogany desk and looked out of the big picture window over his hundred acres of rolling land. It was good to be home.

  Gazing through the rain-spattered glass, he admired the sweep of the land as it melted into the woods that abutted the Casey property, which gently rose to the horizon. Even in this ghastly weather, the view was majestic.

  It was so good to be home. Owens’ hands greedily rubbed the rich leather arms of his favourite chair. He tilted it back and stretched out his legs, resting his slipper-clad feet on the desk.

  Just this morning, upon his release, the director of Penetang had subtly inferred that he was one hundred percent sane. As if he had ever been insane. Owens’ large, handsome face creased into a foxy smile. The silly doctor had basically apologized for the inconvenience of his incarceration. He didn’t exactly say it, but Owens could read between the lines. His antennae were always up, and he knew that the doctor’s stern warning to take his pills faithfully was merely rote. He couldn’t really expect a sane man to take mood-altering drugs. The lithium dulled his senses. It reduced his pleasure. Even his taste buds didn’t function in the same way.