LITMIR.BIZ

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table.

      “Everything ready for tonight?” I asked.

      “Walter wants to do a run-through of the wedding square dance and Vernon says he needs to run his monologue for the second act opening. But other than that, we’re all set,” Lola said.

      “I’ll bring over the punch bowl and cups later tonight.” We got the hot plate in place, the table ready for the desserts that only needed to be thawed.

      “And I’ll remind Chrystal about the costume pieces for the concession crew,” I said.

      Lola returned to the office, and I was envisioning myself in a colonial skirt, apron, and mob cap when the lobby door opened and Sally bustled in, arms full of paper plates and napkins.

      “Hi, Dodie. I offered to pick these up for Lola.” She deposited her stash on the concession table.

      “Nice of you.” I smiled. “I saw you during the warm-up last night. I think you’re all good sports.”

      “Walter’s right. We need the warm-up to get our articulators working,” she said seriously.

      Defending Walter. Not something many ELT folks were doing these days. Hmmm.

      I thrust my arms into my jacket sleeves and we walked out the door, pushing the hand truck. “Sally, you seemed awfully upset the other night. About that man on the street,” I said carefully.

      “Not really. I mean, I thought it was someone I knew. But I guess I was mistaken.” She waved and moved off.

      * * *

      Sally slipped my mind during the hours that followed. The Windjammer was packed with Etonville’s citizens who preferred Henry’s recent experiments to eating in. Tonight we featured his grilled pork tenderloin with an avocado and sour cream side sauce. He’d added a pineapple-and-onion topping for good measure. Henry was taking a few more chances with his entrées, obviously still feeling the competition with La Famiglia.

      When the dining room was this full, I liked to meander from table to table and check in with patrons.

      “Dodie, tell Henry that we love the pork,” said Mildred. She and Vernon had popped in for an early dinner before their ELT call.

      “Will do,” I said. “You need to fortify yourselves for the big night ahead.” I refilled their coffee cups.

      “Hunh,” Vernon grunted. “Long night you mean. I still don’t understand why Walter didn’t cut something. Like that silly dance. Who does a square dance at a wedding?”

      Mildred poked her husband. “Vernon, it was the 1700s. They did a lot of things differently then.”

      “Yeah? Well, I’ll bet they knew enough to cut a play when it topped three hours.”

      I’ll bet they did too. I moved on to the Banger sisters. They’d had their hair permed for the show; their ringlets were identical to the men’s powdered wigs.

      “Dodie, we’re so excited. It’s our first time treading the boards, don’t you know,” said one sister.

      “We’re eating light,” said the other.

      I looked down at their half-empty plates, at the remnants of the tomato, corn, and lentil salad.

      “Good idea. Acting on a full stomach might not be the best idea. The salad’s pretty filling.”

      “We’re also trying to keep our weight down,” said the first sister.

      “Really? You two look fine to me,” I said.

      “We’re going to try out for the musical,” said the second sister. “We want to compete with some of the younger actors.”

      “Do you sing? I mean like musical-theater sing?” I asked, lightly skeptical.

      “We’re going to take lessons.” They smiled in unison.

      I guessed hope—as well as delusion—did spring eternal.

      The pork tenderloin was a big hit and soothed Henry’s always fragile culinary ego. The last of the stragglers were finishing their dinners; the rest of the evening would be primarily bar service. For certain the ELT crowd, who often stopped in for a late drink after a show or rehearsal, would be abstaining. By the time the turntable made its last rotation, the Windjammer would be near to closing. Not that some of them couldn’t use a drink to drown their theatrical troubles.

      My cell beeped. Lola wanted to know what time I was coming by. I slid into my back booth with a cup of vegetable soup left over from lunch and a plate of the tomato-and-lentil salad. Benny brought me a seltzer.

      “Okay by you if I visit next door about ten? I want to drop off the punch bowl for the concession stand,” I said.

      He nodded. “I have a babysitter ‘til eleven. Peggy’s doing inventory tonight at the toy store.”

      “I’ll close up.” I dipped a spoon in the soup.

      At ten I dressed in my winter gear, loaded the punch bowl and cups on my hand truck, and stepped outside the restaurant. The sky was cloudy, the moon covered in a foggy layer—more snow was expected tomorrow. I exhaled and a thread of cold air streamed away from my mouth as I hurried next door. In the dimly lit lobby, I deposited my boxes in a corner near the concession stand. All was quiet.

      I checked my watch and decided to sneak a peek at the end of Act Two; since the dress rehearsal started at seven, Eton Town should be gasping its last: the funeral over, the choir having sung, the turntable about to take its final bow.

      I opened the door softly and slipped into a seat in the back row of the theater. Onstage the graveyard was filled with Etonville dead sitting in folding chairs, hands crossed, humming a hymn. The little blond who had played Juliet last spring—now the young wife of Thomas Eton, the Revolutionary War hero—threw herself on the ground and wailed about life passing in a flash, as she called “good-bye” to everyone and everything: her husband, her children, her house, her garden, her dishes, her wedding dress…etc. etc. We got the picture. Edna, as her deceased mother, waxed philosophical proclaiming that the living don’t appreciate life. It takes death to give one perspective. Which was fine as long as you weren’t the one who’d died.

      The turntable started to chug to life, then it stopped and it appeared as if all onstage held their breaths. With a mighty heave by the stage crew, the platform creaked and moved again, the Banger sisters hanging on for dear life. Vernon walked into a spotlight and reminded the audience that tomorrow was another day in the life of Eton Town. He wished us all a good night. The stage went dark.

      After a second of silence, the costume crew, the light board operator, Lola, and myself applauded enthusiastically as the lights came up on a swarm of actors buzzing about the performance, their costumes, and the turntable. Vernon and Romeo fist-bumped. I gave Lola a thumbs-up as she sped down the aisle to arrange actors onstage for the curtain call.

      “Am I glad this night is over,” whispered Chrystal before she plunked down in a seat next to me.

      “Lots of costumes,” I said.

      “If I never see another tricorn hat, it will be too soon for me. And Walter’s talking about continuing the theme next fall with 1776. I told him I’d quit.”

      I stifled a laugh.

      Chrystal dashed to the stage to save her wardrobe as the actors ran to the dressing rooms to change.

      * * *

      “Only a few more minutes,” Lola said to the antsy assembly.

      She flicked a page to check notes. “Chrystal? Costumes?”

      Chrystal hauled herself to her feet and took notes on everything from boots that were the wrong size to wigs that popped off when the men removed their hats. The cast gathered their things while Lola encouraged them to get some sleep, the irony not lost on the exhausted actors.

      “Sally?”

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