Stagestruck

by Shelley Peterson

  People could not believe their eyes. Hilary laughed so hard she was in danger of losing her balance. Dancer had created another story for people to recount for years to come.

  The playful stallion returned to the judges, and very carefully placed the trophy back in the male judge’s outstretched hands. He allowed one woman to clip on his red ribbon. The other judge draped the cooler over his rump. It was deep blue with gold letters reading, “The Grand Invitational.”

  Abby’s hands hurt from clapping so loudly and for so long. Her face ached from smiling. She was surprised when Hilary dismounted and took the microphone from the startled judge.

  “Thank you very much.” Hilary spoke clearly and slowly so that everyone could hear. Her voice echoed throughout the stands. “Dancer will keep the ribbon and the cooler, but I’m sure you’ll all agree that the trophy and the prize money belong to Abby Malone, the rider who had already won the Grand Invitational before the jump-off!”

  The crowd rose to their feet again, noisily approving of Hilary’s generous gesture. Beth, Mario, Lisa, Ainsley, and Kim dropped their reins and clapped until their horses needed controlling. The riders came into the ring, applauding, and forcefully escorted an embarrassed Abby Malone with them.

  Abby walked into the middle of the show ring in Hilary’s ill-fitting shoes. She felt proud.

  The male judge handed her the trophy, understanding that he had no choice but to go with the crowd. He shook her hand warmly.

  Abby carried the trophy to Dancer and Hilary. She put it on the ground and gave Hilary an enormous hug. The two girls hugged and jumped in a circle, to another great outburst of applause from the people in the stands.

  Not to be upstaged, Dancer picked up the trophy again with his nose and comically began to exit the ring at a trot. Abby and Hilary chased him out, followed by the other horses and their exuberant riders.

  This was a show to remember.

  Abby and Hilary were happily getting Dancer packed up and ready to leave, still laughing about his antics with the cup, when a grim-faced Pete arrived at the stall.

  “They let him go,” he said. “There’s no sign of a cane.”

  17

  STAGESTRUCK

  IT WAS WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON. Abby Malone sat on her porch rubbing Cody’s ears. The Invitational was over and she had nothing to do.

  All her friends were deeply involved with Pinocchio. Tomorrow was opening night. Rehearsals had intensified all week as the opening loomed. There was one rehearsal this afternoon, and another tonight. Tomorrow, they’d perform in front of a small, live audience in the afternoon, before the big event.

  Joy had moved in with Christine and Rory. Abby missed her. Hilary and Sandy were working in Toronto at the museum. Abby missed them, too.

  Moonie was unable to do much more than light work in her present condition. Leggy’s training took only an hour a day, which Abby did every morning, and Dancer was resting this week, tired but content. He grazed alongside Henry, making no move to leave his field.

  The chief of police had talked to Abby after the Invitational. Mack Jones assured her that he believed what she’d told him, but so far the police hadn’t been able to find the cane. Owens denied owning such a weapon, and complained that Abby had made it all up and that the security people had handled him roughly. He was calling his lawyers. The police had put surveillance on Dancer, however, on the strength of Abby’s statement. A bored young officer sat in a marked car at the end of the Hogscroft lane, reading and doing crossword puzzles.

  Abby sighed. Cody put his paw on her knee.

  “Thanks, Cody. You’re right, I need cheering up.” She looked out into the field and studied her mares. Moonie, sleek and healthy, grazed diligently, missing no blade of grass in her path. She had an elegant line and a lovely face. Her glossy, dark bay body and long black legs cut a fine silhouette.

  Beside her, the spunky Moon Dancer lifted her head and looked alertly around. Abby smiled. “You’re a troublemaker, Leggy,” she said aloud. The two-year-old was well built with a deep chest, short back, graceful neck, and long legs. Her chestnut coat glimmered in the afternoon sun. The star on her forehead was the only white she sported.

  Robert Wick’s truck drove up the lane. Abby waved hello, then realized the driver was Joy Featherstone.

  Joy caught sight of her and slammed on the brakes, spraying gravel.

  Abby rose from the steps. This was unusual behaviour. “Mrs. Featherstone!” she called, running to the driver’s side window. “Is anything wrong?”

  Joy smiled. “Nothing, now that I’ve found you. I really hope you can do us another favour.”

  Abby blinked. “A favour? Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Are you busy this afternoon?”

  “No. I’m bored to death.”

  “Wonderful! Hop in the truck. You’re the Blue-Winged Fairy!”

  After hurriedly leaving a note for her mom, Abby climbed into the truck beside Joy. On the way to the theatre, Joy explained the situation.

  “How did it happen, Mrs. Featherstone?”

  “Nobody was anywhere near, but Margaret Small insists that she was pushed.”

  “Pushed?”

  “Yes. And a firm push. Enough to send her over the lip and down the stairs next to the orchestra pit.”

  “She was lucky she didn’t fall down there,” said Abby.

  “You better believe it. She would’ve had more than a sprained ankle and a broken wrist.”

  “Poor woman.” Abby shook her head and grimaced. “When did it happen?”

  “This afternoon, just before she made her first entrance.”

  “And nobody saw?”

  “No. Everyone was either on stage, backstage, or in their place, waiting to go on. Robert and I were talking to the lighting man. That’s the odd thing, Abby. Nobody was there to push her, not that anybody would. No matter how much she riled people.”

  Abby tried to squelch the joyful feelings bubbling up inside her chest. It was a painful accident, and she should appear sympathetic. She didn’t want Mrs. Featherstone to think her callous.

  “Well, aren’t you happy to be back in the play?” Joy asked.

  Abby’s smile broke loose. “Yes!” she emphasized. “I’m absolutely, positively, one hundred percent happy!”

  “That’s good,” Joy said. “Because you have a lot to catch up on in a very short time.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  Opening night. It was Thursday evening at five minutes to seven. Abby nervously completed her makeup. Dusting the blue sprinkles over her face and arms, careful not to get them in her eyes, she wondered at her compulsion to be early. Nobody else had arrived.

  She had indeed worked night and day to get herself prepared. After the two rehearsals the day before, Abby had gone home and studied the play with fierce concentration. Analyzing characters and their relationships to other characters, making note of action and reaction, charting the story development, Abby worked late into the night. Finally at three o’clock in the morning, lines solid and entrances nailed, she’d fallen asleep in a heap on her bed. At four she’d awoken to get into her night gown and brush her teeth.

  That morning before the final dress rehearsal, after going over her lines for the umpteenth time, Abby had written opening night notes to every actor in the show. She’d found greeting cards with a picture of an open-mouthed shark on the front. It seemed as close as she’d get to a dogfish. Inside were the words, “Bite Me!”

  She’d added, “If you’re not a brilliant Geppetto,” to the one for Mr. Farrow, and “If you remember your lines,” on Lucy’s, who didn’t have any. Abby had come up with appropriate comments for all the actors, but her favourite was Sam’s. After the “Bite Me!”, she’d written, “But not too hard, you foxy thing.” She hoped to watch his face when he opened it.

  Abby had placed the cards on the actors’ dressing tables, and pinned them to the costumes of those who used the big dressing room.

&nb
sp; A rustle of air, then a sneeze, snapped her to attention. Ambrose Brown materialized behind her, dressed as a liveried footman with a powdered wig. He sneezed again. “I’ll never get used to the powder,” he snorted with a snobby-sounding English accent.

  “Can’t you just wear a white wig?” asked Abby.

  “It would never do. It wouldn’t be authentic. I couldn’t feel the part. An actor must walk the walk if he wants to talk the talk. Ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . choo!”

  “Or sneeze the sneeze,” Abby added.

  “Don’t be impertinent. There’s a lot you have to learn about the profession, and you’re lucky that I take the time to teach you.” He strutted like a peacock.

  “Where have you been, Ambrose? I’ve been back since yesterday, and I haven’t seen you ’til now.”

  “I’m not at your beck and call, I’ll have you know,” he said down his nose.

  “I’m not sure I like you very much in this role,” said Abby.

  “Quite as it should be! Pompous is good, as a footman for the King of England.” He took another haughty step, then relaxed. “But I’m tired of it myself.” He dropped the accent and slowly dissolved into an ordinary man, wearing a white shirt and pleated pants. “So I’ll step outside the character and into myself. At least for as long as I wish.”

  Abby smiled. “Much better. It’s nice to see you.”

  “And nice to have you back. That Margaret woman was driving us all bananas.”

  “What a nasty fall.”

  Ambrose lifted his eyebrows. “Yes, wasn’t it? Timely, too. Any later and you wouldn’t have had any rehearsal time. Hardly enough as it is.”

  “Ambrose, do I get the feeling you might have had something to do with her fall?”

  “How could you even suggest such a thing!” He paused dramatically. “I had everything to do with her fall!”

  “Ambrose!” exclaimed Abby.

  “Later, my dear, we’ve got company.”

  It was seven o’clock. The cast was arriving.

  Everyone was nervous. Laughter was high-pitched, chatter was constant. People fretted over last-minute costume alterations, hairpieces, masks. Makeup was borrowed and powder was spilled. Squeals went up as actors opened first-night gifts and cards, followed by hugs and kisses, and in rare cases, tears.

  No one dared mention any line from Macbeth, called “the Scottish play” in lieu of saying the title aloud. It was bad luck. But you couldn’t talk about good luck either. “Merde” or “break a leg” wouldn’t tempt the gods of the theatre the way “good luck” would. A person couldn’t whistle without having to leave the room, turn around three times, then knock on the door and beg forgiveness.

  Abby enjoyed every second.

  There were fifteen minutes left before the show would begin. Because she was dressed and ready, Abby went up to the stage. She wanted to be alone, to get away from all the frantic energy in the dressing room.

  It was dark behind the curtain. Little guide-lights lit the offstage steps, and the set was marked with glow-tape to avoid stumbles during scene changes. Abby breathed in the backstage air with all its tension and paint and wood and dust. Pure delight filled her body. It feels like home, Abby thought. I belong here.

  Abby stretched her arms over her head, then bent over and touched her fingers to the floor. She shook the tension out of her hands and rotated her shoulders. She shook out her legs and stretched her feet. She put her hands on her hips and twisted her body at her waist, back and forth. Then she stood, legs slightly apart, eyes closed, and felt the floor under her feet. She let the solidness of it steady her and give her the comfort of her own gravity. She took deep breaths from her diaphragm and felt the calmness seep throughout her body.

  Abby was ready. She smiled, all alone behind the curtain. There was one more thing she wanted to do, and that was to see the audience come in. She’d been told that a peephole existed somewhere in the heavy new purple curtain on stage right.

  Searching fruitlessly through yards of velvet fabric, Abby thought the peephole might be another actors’ tale. Then she found it.

  She peeked through. The theatre was filling up. The ushers read ticket stubs, pointed down aisles, and handed people programs. The orchestra was warming up, which gave a strange sort of musical background to the proceedings, almost like a pre–Act 1. Row after row became seated as she watched.

  Pete Pierson looked handsome in his suit and tie, and Laura was flushed with excitement. She loved the theatre, and she’d had her hair done for the occasion. She wore a delightful confection of yellow, and Abby thought she’d never looked so lovely.

  Many of Abby’s neighbours were there, as were friends and family of the other actors. It was a cheerful crowd. They looked ready to be entertained, which seemed like a good sign.

  Abby spotted her parents walking down the stage-right aisle. Liam and Fiona Malone’s seats were very close to the front. Abby vowed not to let their anxious faces distract her.

  She began to feel nervous again. She’d only been at four rehearsals. Five if you counted the one from which Margaret had banished her. That wasn’t nearly enough. And all these people would be watching.

  “Get a grip,” she murmured softly, scolding herself. “Don’t get all crazy and freeze like you did at the Invitational. Dancer’s not here to save your bacon.” She wondered if she was already crazy, talking to herself like she was another person.

  She knew her lines, which thankfully were few. She knew her cues.

  Abby closed her eyes, crossed her fingers and toes, and made a wish. “Please let the show be a howling success. For Mr. Wick, whose dream should come true, and for Mrs. Featherstone, who is among the great people on this earth. And for me, because it’s my wish.” Just in case, she knocked on wood, reaching down and rapping on the hardwood floor.

  The house lights began to dim.

  “Holy!” muttered Abby, hiking up her blue crinoline and overskirts. She hurried downstairs just as the stage manager began her speech.

  Cody found a good watching place behind the building, and waited. From here the small coyote could see every movement around the old barn. His instincts were sparking. Something was about to happen, and he would be prepared. His Abby was inside. Cody would keep her safe. That was his job.

  After the stage manager’s speech, Robert Wick spoke. “Just a word,” he said with dignity. “You are terrific, every one of you. You’ll make me very proud tonight. It’s just like the old days. Thank you, all.” Emotionally, Robert stepped aside and indicated with a nod that Joy Featherstone would speak next.

  “Go out there and have fun,” Joy said with a bright smile. “The work is done. It’s time to play.” Her eyes quickly scanned her notes. “Just give it lots of energy in the first scene. The rest will follow. Go! Now! Places please! This is for you!” Joy clapped her hands and laughed. All the actors clapped, too, eyes bright and faces eager. Joy’s words had hit them. They were going to go out on stage and have a good time.

  At the stroke of eight that evening, the massive purple curtain rose on the humble shop where Geppetto was carving a wooden puppet. Abby watched from the wing, stage right. Mr. Farrow’s hands were shaking as he carved the last details, but his voice was strong as he told his dog Trooper about his desire to have a little boy of his own. Trooper, played by Leslie, scratched her ear with her hind leg and cocked her head attentively.

  Abby covered her mouth with her hand and smiled. It was working. The play was coming alive. Geppetto, not Mr. Farrow, was speaking in a moderated Italian accent. Trooper, not Leslie, was loyally listening to her master. The sets were convincing, the lighting subtle.

  It was magic.

  Abby made her entrance as the Blue-Winged Fairy. She had no lines in this scene, but her appearance must convey kindness, goodwill, and authority. When she raised her wand to give life to the inanimate puppet, Abby felt the power, the goodness, the righteousness of the act. She was in the moment, in a way that felt so right she had no d
oubt that it had been perfect.

  Moment over, she wafted off the stage.

  “Lovely, lovely, lovely, Abby. Keep in the groove.” It was Ambrose, and Abby knew she wasn’t to reply. There were others around.

  Cody watched closely as Samuel Owens parked his car behind the theatre. He had backed into exactly the same position as before.

  Owens got out and lifted a heavy sack from the back seat. Cody’s nose quivered. Food! Fresh red meat! Owens crept around the theatre, silently placing chunks of irresistible raw flesh in a circle, about a hundred feet out.

  When he was back at his car, Cody crept closer to sniff one. He drooled with a great desire to gobble it up. He sniffed the hunk of meat again. There was something strange about the smell. He crept back to his hiding place without touching the meat.

  Cody waited. Something was going to happen. He knew it was only a matter of time.

  It was the nose-growing scene. Abby went over her lines quickly as the moment for her entrance approached. She followed the action closely. The Sly Fox exchanges a ticket to Runaway Island for Pinocchio’s school book; the book that Geppetto had bought in exchange for his only warm coat.

  The Fairy enters and asks Pinocchio, “Why are you not going to school like Geppetto thinks?”

  Pinocchio answers, “But I am, Blue-Winged Fairy! I’m helping my friend to find his way first, then I’m going straight to school!”

  Pinocchio’s nose begins to grow. It grows longer and longer until it’s a foot long.

  “What’s wrong with my nose?” Pinocchio cries in great distress.

  “Your nose will grow until you tell the truth.”

  “Help me! Help me, Blue-Winged Fairy!”

  “Only the truth can save you, Pinocchio.”

  “Okay, okay. I lied! I’ll go to school, I promise! I was going with the other boys to Runaway Island. The Fox said that’s where real boys go! But now I won’t. I’m going to go to school.”