"Don't you feel that way. Mommy," I charged. I
was a bit too adamant.
"Why not?"
"You're the one who's suffered! You had all the
pain and all the disappointment. Mommy."
"Okay, honey. Let's try not to talk about me
anymore. Let's concentrate on you for a while. I can't
wait to see you on that stage. Read some more," she
urged.
I softened my hard heart and did what she
asked. In fact, the play soon became my whole life. I
rushed through my homework at night and then went
upstairs to the magic attic room to read and recite
aloud. It just felt better to do it in that room, our room
for stories and dreams. I soon memorized the whole
play, everyone's part as well as my own. I could
deliver my lines and then Dell's, actually assuming
his position and lowering my voice to sound like him. It felt so good. I was safe, wrapped in the
cocoon of the imaginary world, the characters, the
time and the place. I was no longer here in a house
where sad tears streaked the walls, where dark
shadows brushed away our smiles, where old voices
full of disappointments and trouble echoed in the
silences that hung in every corner during the hours
when darkness draped over us and the moon fell
victim to night's long thick clouds.
The play was the thing, my everything, my new
world. It filled the void that had been dug and created
the day I spied on Daddy and saw him kiss that
strange woman on the lips. I had someplace to go to
avoid him, something else to think about and fill my
head, shoving out the anger and the disappointment
that followed the memory of that dreadful moment. It
helped me tolerate Grandmother Beverly, to flick off
her nasty comments and criticism or let it float on by,
unheard, unrecognized. When she began one of her
lectures. I stared at her and in my mind. I rolled off
lines from the play, listening to the voices in my head
instead of her. In a way I had become just like
Mammy, able to ignore her.
Perhaps most of all, the play loomed as the one
big thing that would restore Mommy, bring her
happiness and pleasure, help her to forget her tragedy
and depression and bring us together in our special
way once more.
And then, as if Grandmother Beverly
understood all this, she homed in on her opportunity
to ruin it, to shut another door and maybe drive
Mommy back into despair. This opportunity came
from the ugliest and nastiest of the rumors that girls
like Iris Ainsley kept swarming like angry bees around me. She was so beautiful and intelligent. She had more than most girls dreamed of having, but her jealousy was too strong. It replaced the soft blue in her eves with a putrid green and turned those perfect lips into writhing corkscrews, turning and twisting words and thoughts until they spilled out around me in the form of accusations about Miss Hamilton and
myself.
The clouds steamed in from the north, cold and
dark, eager to close off my sunshine.
I couldn't let it happen. I wouldn't let it happen. I drew strength from my spirits, my old pictures
in the attic and the voices in the walls.
And I went forth to do battle with all the
demons inside my home and out.
7 Bright Lights Can Burn
It really began when Miss Hamilton decided to hold small rehearsals at her house on weekends. Mammy had returned home from the clinic by then. The doctor had given her some medication to keep her calm. She was still weak, fragile, tired by early evening. When she came home and saw the changes Grandmother Beverly had made, she was very upset, but Daddy quickly reminded her that she had to remain tranquil and not get herself so worked up that she suffered a relapse. He promised to restore whatever she wished restored, but he took his time doing it, so I found her pictures in the basement myself and took down the ones Grandmother Beverly had put in their place. Mommy supervised the restoration while Grandmother Beverly fumed in the living room, staring at her television programs.
It was more difficult to restore the furniture in the living room and to reconstruct the kitchen. Mammy wasn't up to working yet, which meant Grandmother Beverly still prepared the meals. As long as she was doing that, she wanted the kitchen to be "sensible and organized." Mammy and I removed as many of the changes in her and Daddy's bedroom that we could. I found their previous window curtains and we rehung them. I had to go to the department store to buy bedding similar to what they had before Grandmother Beverly had replaced it. She had thrown Mommy's choices away.
Everything we did. Grandmother Beverly challenged and argued over, but we didn't pay any attention. As Mommy had decided, we nodded, said yes and then did what we wanted. It was beginning to be film again,
I took Mommy for walks. Color returned to her cheeks. Her appetite grew better and I was more hopeful and happier than I had been in weeks. I waited to tell her about Clarence and what
Grandmother Beverly had done. He phoned a few times, but each time, he sounded terrified of talking too long. We made value promises to see each other as soon as possible. but I sensed that we each knew our plans were fantasies. I could feel him letting go of my hand.
I felt heartsick, but helpless. My first disappointment in love. I thought, would certainly not be my last. By the time I decided Mommy was strong enough to hear about the whole incident. I decided there wasn't any point in upsetting her over something that no longer mattered. We were too involved in my play by now anyway. That absorbed most of our time together. Mommy enjoyed playing different roles and rehearsing with me. We would do it in the living room sometimes, which drove Grandmother Beverly away. Often, we would stop and throw lines back and forth, even at dinner. It was truly as if we had set up that fourth wall: impenetrable and protective.
Grandmother Beverly couldn't do anything but look in at us.
My first weekend rehearsal at Miss Hamilton's seemed innocent enough because Dell and two other members of the cast were there as well. We came in the morning and then she sent out for pizza and we had lunch before putting in another hour.
The weekend rehearsals were important and better because we were all fresh for them, not coming to a rehearsal after a full day of school. We had more time to analyze the lines, talk about our characters and think about our reactions.
Miss Hamilton had a small house. The living room wasn't much bigger than my parents' bedroom, but it was a comfortable two-story Queen Anne with a patch of lawn in front and a little backyard. The house itself was done in a Wedgwood blue cladding with black shutters. She had a patio at the rear of the house and a sunroom off the kitchen. We rehearsed in the living room, pushing aside some furniture to get a wide enough space for stage movements. I learned about blocking, moving upstage and downstage, projecting to the audience and reacting to characters. She at least knew all the basic things about theater, and she appreciated my interpretations and insights into my character. Most of that came from the sessions Mommy and I had spent together.
The third weekend Dell was unable to attend rehearsal because he was going on a trip with his family. I thought Miss Hamilton would just skip it, but she suggested I come over anyway. She said she would play his part and we would refine my performance. The play itself had been criticized as too adult, not something the student body would appreciate and support, but she stuck to her choice, defending it as a significant dramatic work.
"Besides," she reasoned. "our students get enough fluff on television and at the movies. They deserve somethi
ng different for a change."
There was already some resentment toward her because of that. However, she saw it all as a greater challenge. 'We have to win their respect, leave them in awe, show them what real talent can do," she told me. "You'll never forget this. Cinnamon. Everyone starts somewhere."
It both amused and intrigued me that she believed I could be a real actress and make a living at it, perhaps even become famous. Was I permitting her own frustrated dreams to move over into mine? I supposed there was only one way to find out for sure and that was to be on the stage when the curtain opened and when it finally closed.
The applause will tell. I told myself, as well as the afterward. Would people really remember my performance? Would they talk about it a day later? It was truly exciting. I couldn't help but do everything possible to make it work.
That third weekend. I was surprised when I arrived at Miss Hamilton's and discovered none of the other members of the cast would be there.
"We're just doing your big scenes," she explained. "I didn't see the point in bringing them all here this time,"
I suppose I was aiding and abetting the gossipmongers and hatemongers in my school. but I couldn't help being nervous alone in Miss Hamilton's house. Dell had successfully planted the seeds of suspicion in the darkest, deepest places of my imagination.
"She's nearly thirty." he told me, "and no one has ever seen her with a man. Why doesn't she have a boyfriend at least? She's not that bad looking, is she?"
"I don't care," I told him. Her personal life is her own, and besides, you and everyone else can't know what she does or who she sees out of school."
He shrugged. "I'm just telling you what people say," he replied.
I hated that, the pretended indifference and innocence people put on when underneath they are enjoying the spreading of rumors When I mentioned it to Mommy, she nodded and said. "Life for most people is so boring, they have to find ways to make it interesting, even if it means hurting someone. Watch out for that." she warned. "It's not only the jealous who do such things. Cinnamon. It's sometimes just people who literally have nothing better to do. Sometimes, I think they're the worst."
Miss Hamilton began our rehearsal the same way as before: reviewing where we were in the script and then starting a discussion of what we were about to rehearse.
"When you are alone with Death, you've got to keep the audience thinking you don't know who he really is. Think of him only as a charming, handsome man, so when you reveal the truth, that you've known all along, it will both shock and amaze the audience," she said.
I knew this, but I listened as if I didn't. Then we began our rehearsal with her reading Dell's lines,
"I know it's hard for you to look at me and think of me as a handsome young man," she said after a few minutes, "but that's what you have to do."
She paused when I looked skeptical. She thought a moment and said. "A friend of mine who is an actress told me she had to do a love scene with a man she not only didn't like, but whom she said had had breath, even body odor. She said just the thought of doing it turned her stomach. She was in tears about it. She thought she would do so badly she would hurt her career forever."
"What happened?" I asked.
"An older actor gave her some good advice. He told her to imagine the man was someone she liked, someone she actually loved, if possible and see only that person. If she concentrated hard enough, he told her, she wouldn't smell a thing. She said it worked and she got through the performance."
"Why didn't she just tell the man he stunk?" I asked.
Miss Hamilton smiled and tilted her head, the small dimple in her left cheek flashing in and out.
"Now, Cinnamon, how do you think that would have gone over? What sort of relationship would they have on the stage? He might pretend to appreciate her honesty, but don't you think his ego would have been bruised badly? Remember that essay we read about the messenger? He was despised more than the message."
"I guess when the truth is painful, it's better to turn to illusion," I said.
"Yes," She smiled. "But don't go telling people I advised you to tell lies." she warned and we both laughed.
We started rehearsing again. She wanted me to keep eye contact, to look mesmerized by Death. She brought herself so close to me, to my lips, I felt my heart flutter in a panic. I think she saw it in my eyes finally and stopped.
She looked embarrassed for both of us.
"Well, let's take a short break. Would you like something to drink... tea. perhaps? It's always a good idea to have some tea and honey when you're on the stage."
"Fine," I said.
While I waited I looked about her living room. She had some pretty vases, some crystals on a shelf, inexpensive paintings of Paris. French villages, a seacoast scene that was somewhere in Italy. Were these places she had been or places she dreamed of visiting? What I realized was there were no pictures of family.
"Have you been to any of these places?" I asked nodding at the pictures when she returned with our cups of tea and some biscuits.
"Oh. No, but I will get there someday," she said. "Maybe even this summer. I've been saving."
"Where are you from. Miss Hamilton?"
"Well." she began setting the tray down and offering me my cup, "I'm from lots of places unfortunately."
"Why unfortunately? Was your father in the army or something?"
"No." She sipped her tea, looking at me over the cup for a moment as if she were deciding whether she should fall back on illusion or deal with the truth. She chose the truth. "I never knew my father, nor my mother.'
"I don't understand." I said.
"I was an orphan. Cinnamon, then a foster child.'
"Oh." I felt terrible asking personal questions now. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ply."
"It's all right. I think my being an orphan had a great deal to do with why I wanted to get into the theater first and then into teaching. When you're in a play, the whole cast becomes an extended family, especially if it has a long run. You're sometimes closer to your fellow actors than you are with your real family. At least, that's what they all used to tell me. Now I enjoy teaching, being close to my students, being a real part of their lives. Sometimes. I think I'm more involved, more concerned because I don't have a real family."
"Were you ever married?" I asked, nearly biting my own lower lip after asking.
She smiled again, sipped some tea. put her cup down and looked at me.
"You would think that nowadays people would be a lot more tolerant of women who weren't married or in a relationship by my age, but some ideas are branded in Our social consciousness so deeply, we can't help being suspicious or critical of others who don't fit neatly in little boxes. Don't think I haven't been urged by older teachers and by administrators to settle down. As if it's my fault that Mr. Right hasn't come along," she added.
"I was almost married once, but in the end, we both decided it wouldn't have worked," she continued. "We were sensible and mature and lucky. Most people get involved too quickly these days and their relationships don't have the timber to last. Then, there's all that unfortunate business afterward... one or the other drifts away or things get unpleasant.
"You've got to really believe this is it for you, Maybe I'm more careful than most people because I never had a real parent-child relationship."
She paused and laughed.
"It's fun to be your own psychotherapist sometimes, but most of the time. I'd rather just let destiny unravel the spool called Ella Hamilton."
"Ella?"
"Yes," she said sipping her tea.
"Well if you had no mother or father, who named you?"
"Someone at the orphanage. I suppose. I never minded my name. It means a female possessing supernatural loveliness. How's that?"
"That's very nice."
"Actually, it's a name that fits you better than it does me. Cinnamon."
I didn't blush as much as feel a warmth travel up my neck, a warmth that made me
shift my eyes from her.
"You've got to get used to people
complimenting you, complimenting your unique look and your talents," she said seeing my discomfort. "I'm glad you're not like so many of your classmates. You're far more mature. You don't giggle after everything you say and you have self- confidence.
"I know you're frightened inside. Everyone is, but you cloak it well and you've already developed the ability to keep it under control. That's why I'm so convinced you're going to succeed on the stage," she continued.
I lifted my eyes and looked at her. Now that we had gotten to know each other better. I wanted to like her. I wanted to lower that wall between us. I wanted to trust her. by couldn't we be friends, honest friends, innocent friends? Damn the rumors. If I wanted to give her a friendly hug, I would.
"Should we get back to work?" she asked. "Yes," I said.
We began the scene again and I did what she advised. I didn't see her. I saw Dell's handsome face, heard his vibrant voice. We were inches apart and I was really getting into the role when suddenly, we were both surprised by a flash of light that bounced off the mirror above the mantel. We both turned toward the window facing the street.
"What was that?" I asked. She shook her head.
"I don't know." She went to the window and gazed out. "No one's there."
She shrugged.
"Maybe a passing vehicle reflected sunlight."
"It's cloudy. Miss Hamilton." I went to the window and looked out. too. The street just seemed too quiet to me. "It was someone," I muttered.
"Well, whoever it was is gone. It doesn't really matter now," she said. Little did she know.
She had more innocence and trust in her than I would have expected for someone with her
background.
I came from a family. I had parents.
And vet I knew in my heart something terrible loomed just on the other side of that fourth wail we so lovingly cherished. Hard lessons would teach me that it was far from enough protection.
Like a second shoe, it dropped two days later at school. I had just arrived and was walking toward homeroom when I noticed a crowd around the general bulletin board placed at the center of the main corridor. Most of the students were laughing. The crowd began to grow larger. I approached slowly with a thudding heart, and when those on the perimeter of the clump saw me, they stepped aside, clearing an aisle for me to walk down as I approached the bulletin board,
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