She stopped the car at the kitchen door and leaned
across the front seat for her groceries. The waist band
of her jeans cut into her stomach. Older, and fatter,
she thought. I shouldn’t have had that pizza for lunch.
She pulled the bags out of the car and headed toward the
kitchen.
As she stuck her key in the lock, balancing a grocery
bag on each hip, the telephone rang. Bruno began to bark
at the same time. The blue, New York Times bag lay on
the flagstone stoop. She opened the door and kicked the
paper across the threshold in one smooth movement. With
the grocery bags sliding down her thighs, she hurried
across the mud room and into the kitchen. Sixty pounds
of Irish Setter leapt forward.
“Down, Bruno.” Both bags fell to the floor. A head of
lettuce rolled out of a bag and under the table. Bruno
buried his head in the bag, and Lindy lunged for the
phone.
The message machine had clicked on. She stopped for a
second, hand resting on the receiver. Telemarketing? She
picked up anyway.
“Lindy? Lindy, is that you?”
“Yes?” The voice sounded familiar. She sat down at
the table, unbuttoned her jeans and reached for the
Times.
“It’s Biddy.” Lindy paused as she opened the paper.
“Arabida McFee.”
“Good Lord, Biddy. It’s really you? I haven’t talked
to you in . . .”
“In ten years.” Had it been that long? They had been
best friends.
“That long? Well, you know when you take the Holland
Tunnel to New Jersey you end up in Outer Mongolia. Where
are you?”
“In New Jersey.”
“You retired?” She couldn’t believe it.
Biddy laughed. “Of course not. I’ll still be on my
feet when I’m eighty-five. I’m at the Endicott Theater.
I’m rehearsal director for the Jeremy Ash Dance
Company.”
“Jeremy Ash? Didn’t he retire?”
“Yes, but he’s back. He’s got a terrific group of
dancers. We’re on a Northeast tour and open in New York
next month.”
“That’s great.” Lindy was hit by a momentary pang of
envy. Where had that come from? She hadn’t thought about
dancing in years. As good as it had been, she certainly
wouldn’t want that kind of stress back in her life.
“Anyway, I was really hoping that you’d come to the
theater tonight. It’s our opening night here, and it
would be great to see you.”
“Tonight?” She felt a flutter of panic. “Let me check
my calendar.” She scrolled her finger across the wall
calendar above the phone. April 14. Biddy had an opening
night at the Endicott, and she had . . . an emergency
meeting of the Jaycee family talent show committee.
“I’d like to, but . . .”
“Please.” The word shot out of the phone,
obliterating the last ten years and propelling Lindy
into the past. She recognized the urgency in Biddy’s
voice, and in her mind, Lindy could see Biddy scrubbing
her hair as she waited for her answer. She always did
that when she was upset. The wildness of Biddy’s hair
was the weathervane of her feelings.
“Biddy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Biddy,” she prompted.
“It’s just—I’d just really, really like to see you.”
Biddy’s voice unleashed a tidal wave of reminiscence.
The applause, the fame, the good times they had together
hit her with an intoxicating rush. Even the bad times
seemed not so bad when you had a friend to support you.
Curiosity and loyalty tugged at her. It was obvious that
something was wrong, and Biddy needed her, but did she
really want to go back? Even for a minute, even as a
visitor, even for a friend?
She glanced back at the calendar. Oh, what the hell,
it was only one evening, for old times sake. There’d
always be another committee meeting. “Okay, I’ll see you
tonight.”
“Thanks.”
She pushed the off button and phoned the Jaycee’s.
A frump. When had she turned into a frump? Lindy
looked down at her jeans and oversize fisherman’s
sweater. The jeans were designer, the sweater, imported.
Casual chic on the outside, but the inside was strictly
suburban frump.
“Frump, frump, frump,” she yelled into the walk-in
closet in her bedroom. She hadn’t seen Biddy in years,
and she didn’t have a thing to wear. A pile of rejects
lay jumbled on the bed next to Bruno. He was whining in
his sleep, a paw lying territorially over a navy-blue
sequined jacket.
She pulled a teal blue sheath from a hanger. She wore
a lot of blue. It brought out the blue in her eyes.
Well, a girl had to work with what she had, or in my
case, thought Lindy, what I have left.
Rows of other clothes hung patiently waiting. Lindy
pointed an accusing finger at them. “I know what you’re
thinking. I’m fat. The only thing that hasn’t gotten fat
is my hair. And it’s too short to be fat.”
She struggled into the dress, turned to the mirror
and gave her reflection an appraising look. Was this the
figure of a once, thin and lithesome dancer?
In her image of herself, she was still the eighteen
year old who astounded the New York critics in her first
professional season; as alluring as she had been on
stage or at the after-theater parties; just as vital,
attractive, and in demand as ever. Sure, that had been
before marriage, children, and a decade in the suburbs,
but still . . . .
She frowned at the image in the mirror.
“Your gut is sticking out. Pull it in,” she ordered.
Bruno slinked off the bed and padded down the hall, his
tail drooping.
“You’re not in trouble, Bruno,” she yelled after him.
“I am.”
She added the sheath to the pile and went back into
the closet. She passed the size tens, then the size
eights, caressing them distractedly with the tips of her
fingers. In the remotest, darkest corner of the closet,
shoved together like shimmering sardines, she found the
sixes. Expensive, bought years ago on a dancer’s salary
off the clearance racks of exclusive boutiques. It had
been a few years since she had been able to wear them.
At the rate she was going, she would never see the
inside of a six again. Well, someday she would go on a
diet, tomorrow maybe.
She touched a full skirt of peach organza bought in
Cannes, a white leather mini-skirt from Milan, a gold
knit sweater dress, so petite, from...where? She
couldn’t remember. Even her brain had the frumps.
She pulled the mini-skirt over her head. It wouldn’t
button. It wouldn’t zip. It wouldn’t even slip down her
thighs to the floor. She pulled it back over her head,
returned it to the hanger, and reached for her latest
and largest old standby—the black silk pants suit. At
least it fit, but why shouldn’t it? It was a size ten
and had elastic around the waist. She tossed it on the
bed.
Six hours, a new dress, and twenty-five sit-ups
later, she was speeding down the Garden State Parkway
toward Endicott Playhouse.
“You were meant for me-e-e . . .” she sang along with
the radio. She felt good, if a little nervous. So she
had retired. She had a successful life in the suburbs.
So, maybe, she had gotten a little older, a little
fatter. So had everyone else. Right? Biddy would still
be glad to see her.
She could still remember the first day Biddy showed
up at rehearsal, having aced an open audition over a
hundred and fifty other girls. Open auditions, known in
the business as cattle calls, were notorious for never
landing anyone a job. But Biddy with a formidable
technique and an unparalleled joie de vivre had been the
exception that proved the rule. The artistic director
adored her; he would greet her each morning with “Ca va?
poulet?”, and soon the rest of the company began calling
the angel-faced Arabida, ‘Biddy’.
They hadn’t stayed in touch. When she and Glen had
left the City in search of the perfect house, the
perfect neighborhood, the perfect school system, Lindy
had left her career and her friends behind.
And in the new adventure of life in the suburbs, she
had forgotten them: the friends who celebrated when you
got a good review, and commiserated with you when you
didn’t, the flowers backstage, the international tours,
the applause as the final curtain lowered on a stellar
performance. Hell, she had even forgotten the corner
deli and how admiring construction workers whistled at
her lean, dancer’s body as she raced to the subway.
Instead, she had transferred her professional zeal to
amateur fund-raisers, tackled car pools like they were
international tours, and gladly traded the flowers
backstage for Rice Krispie treats at the neighborhood
coffee klatches. While Glen rose to heights in the
telecommunications industry, commuting daily to the
city, and traveling to conferences across the country,
she schlepped kids to school with all the enthusiasm of
an opening night.
She had approached suburban life just like an
extended run on Broadway and it hadn’t disappointed her.
There was no lack of angst on the playground, and plenty
of drama in the PTA meetings. She had even witnessed a
few diva attacks outside the principal’s office and felt
right at home, at first.
Okay, so there wasn’t much applause, and the pay
wasn’t great, but her current audience could be just as
fickle as any paying ticket holder. Maybe, the scenery
had gotten a little dull over the years. Well, to be
honest, so had the characters.
It was only seven o’clock when she pulled into the
parking lot. Even though Biddy would be too busy to talk
before the performance, Lindy had subconsciously arrived
in time for hour call.
She hadn’t been to the Endicott Playhouse since she
had retired from dancing. Now that she was here, she had
butterflies. She got out of the car and smoothed the
skirt of her new outfit, a flamboyantly royal blue dress
with matching jacket, and picked her way across the
graveled parking lot, wobbling dangerously on four inch
heels. They hurt like hell, but one had to make some
concessions to art.
She climbed the stairs to the stage door holding
tightly to the rusty hand rail. Fighting off a serious
attack of deja vu, she stopped at the security booth.
The guard buzzed her in. Biddy, as efficient as she was
effervescent, had remembered to leave her name at the
door.
Inside the theater was dark, like the inside of all
theaters. Instinctively, she closed her eyes. It was an
old theater trick to adjust the eyes quickly to the
absence of light. She breathed in the musty air, years
of accumulated dust and sweat assaulting her senses, and
opened her eyes. Bright lights illuminated the stage,
but the contrast only added to the darkness of the
backstage area, reducing the figures there to amorphous
shadows. She was jostled by someone carrying a pile of
spandex and chiffon draped over one shoulder and holding
an overflowing laundry basket with both hands.
She took a tentative step forward. She could see
parts of the stage through the wings, the entrance areas
to the stage separated by black curtains called legs.
Metal pipes holding side lights were positioned at the
back of each wing. Dancers, wearing layers of oversize
practice clothes were on stage, warming up to individual
music that played from headsets.
A couple practiced a lift that was giving them
trouble. The girl took a few preparatory steps toward
her partner. He lowered in a deep plié, hands forward to
catch her hip bones. He lifted her a few feet off the
floor and gave up. The girl backed up, rolled her sweat
pants down below her hip bones to give him a better
grip, and tried again. She got a little higher on the
second try.
He’s holding her too high, Lindy thought
automatically.
“Watch ya’ back.” She jumped aside as a ladder
carried by two stage hands careered around the corner.
They maneuvered it through the second wing and onto the
stage. Lindy followed them, stopping at the edge of the
black curtain.
“Heads up!” All motion stopped, frozen mid-movement.
Every head turned upward as a long metal pipe, a batten,
was lowered from the flies above them. It was burdened
with lighting instruments. It stopped about six feet
from the floor. Abruptly, everyone returned to what they
had been doing, avoiding the lowered batten and ladder.
One of the stage hands climbed up and began adjusting
the lights. He was extremely thin; his sinewy arms
stretched taut out of his sleeveless tee-shirt as he
handled the heavy equipment. He looked vaguely familiar,
but Lindy couldn’t place him. That wasn’t unusual for
her. She rarely forgot a face; she just couldn’t always
attach it to a name. All that visual training, she
supposed. And anyway, she hadn’t seen these people in
years. Of course, they had changed.
Biddy was standing at the front of the stage. She was
easily recognizable; she hadn’t changed at all. But I
have, thought Lindy with a surge of panic. The stage
lights silhouetted the cinnamon curls that wisped around
Biddy’s head like finely spun cotton candy. A sweater
was tied around her still thin waist and fell straight
past her narrow hips. She was leaning on a pair of
crutches, surgery maybe? She was in her late thirties.
It was probably time to start having everything
replaced.
She caught sight of Lindy, waved energetically, and
began hauling herself toward the wings. The toe of a
plaster cast stuck out from beneath the left leg of her
voluminous, black stretch pants. She progressed in a
syncopated rhythm, first crutches then cast, crutches,
cast, lub dub, lub dub, until she was standing next to
Lindy at the side of the stage.
“Wow! I can’t believe you’re here.” Biddy wrapped her
crutches around Lindy and hugged. “You look great! It’s
just like you never left.” She pulled back and looked at
Lindy affectionately. “You’re taller.”
“Thanks, it’s just the shoes. I’m still 5’5” and
holding. But still taller than you.”
“Heck, everybody’s taller than me.”
“But remember,” Lindy started.
“Height is just a state of mind,” Biddy finished.
“But a cast is not a state of mind. Biddy, what
happened?”
“You know, graceful old me.” She shrugged, lifting
both crutches off the floor and bringing them down with
a thud.
It was a standard joke: the most graceful dancer on
stage could trip over a piece of paper anywhere else.
But here, too, Biddy was the exception that proved the
rule.
“An accident,” she said. “Broken in two places.”
“Ouch.” Lindy moved aside as the ladder was taken off
stage. She watched it pass. “Who is that? The skinny one
with the black hair? He looks familiar.”
“Lindy, that’s Peter Dowd. You know him.”
“That’s Peter? God, I didn’t even recognize him.”
Peter Dowd was a much sought after production stage
manager in the dance world, organized, intelligent, and
patient. A PSM on the dance circuit was responsible for
setting up and striking a show, dealing with the stage
hands, laying the Marley floor, hanging lights, moving
scenery, keeping everyone on schedule as well as calling
lighting and music cues during the performance. But this
was not the Peter Dowd she remembered. Always svelte, he
was now painfully thin. He was prevented from being
truly handsome by acne scars that canyoned his cheeks.
Those cheeks had become almost cavernous, and his face
seemed etched in a permanent scowl.
“He’s, uh . . .” Biddy’s green eyes searched the air
above her for the right word. “Changed a bit, I guess.”
She looked sympathetically into the darkness where Peter
had disappeared. “But it’s so-o-o good to see you.”
While Biddy hauled herself from dressing room to
dressing room, giving last minute corrections and words
of encouragement, Lindy stood out of the way, letting
the ambiance take hold of her. It felt good to be back,
even as an observer. The mania of pre-performance was
soothing.
She was drifting somewhere between the past and the
present when Biddy shook her. “I’m done. Let’s get out
front.”
She led Lindy to their seats at the back of the
orchestra and sat on the aisle so that she could stick
her cast past the row in front of them. Lindy reached
across her to grab a program from a passing usherette.
Biddy opened her spiral notebook and turned to a
fresh page. “Remember these?” She pulled a ball point
pen from her pocket and pressed a button on the side. A
small beam of light illuminated the writing tip.
“Do I. Though I always preferred taking performance
notes in the dark. It wasn’t too bad as long as you
didn’t keep writing over the same line.”
“And remember, you used to always keep a mystery to
read during the intermission.”
“I’ve got one in my purse.”
Biddy laughed. “Just like old times.”
Not exactly, thought Lindy. “So . . . what’s on
tonight?”
“A new commission. Carmina Burana.”
Lindy groaned. “Not another new Carmina.” Carmina
Burana was composed by Carl Orff in 1937. For orchestra
and voices, it was based on the secular texts of 13th
Century Benedictine monks. Its combination of folk
simplicity, ritual and infectious rhythm as it portrayed
the joys of eating, drinking and love-making was
captivating, and it had been used or misused by scores
of professional and student choreographers ever since.
“Aren’t there enough, already?”
“More than enough. But this was choreographed by
David Matthews.”
“No kidding. He’s the hottest choreographer in town.
It must have cost a fortune.”
Biddy shrugged. “He wanted to do a Carmina, so we got
him cheap. Anyway, he’s a friend of Jeremy’s.”
“Lucky you.”
“Yeah, you should see the audience perk up when they
recognize the music from the car commercial. They feel
really cultured. Anyway, it’s pretty clever. A story
line, which is more than I can say for most of the ‘new’
ones. It’s a long first act, but we end the evening with
a lighter piece. If the Orff music doesn’t drive you
crazy before it’s over, I think you’ll be impressed. The
only thing is . . .”
The house lights began to dim. Before Lindy could
open her program, they were sitting in total darkness,
and the tape had begun to play.
“Still working with canned music, I see,” she
whispered to Biddy.
“For the tour and for the New York season. There’s no
room at the Joyce for an orchestra, much less a full
chorus.”
“I remember.”
“But after that? Keep your fingers crossed.”
The front curtain opened revealing a smoky stage.
Whiffs of fog rolled out into the first few rows.
Several people coughed. Lindy grimaced and slid down in
her seat. A painted backdrop of black and gold slashes
gradually came into view as the stage lit up with a soft
amber wash. Stage right held a metal frame about fifteen
feet high that looked like a jungle gym squeezed and
twisted by a giant hand.
“I bet I can guess who the set designer is,”
whispered Lindy.
“None other. David always uses him. He has perfected
mixing business with pleasure. If he ever gets a new boy
friend, maybe his work will get lighter, both
figuratively and literally. Wait till you see the
props.”
A woman in the row in front of them turned in her
seat and scowled. At least, Lindy guessed she was
scowling. It was still too dark to see much more than
the stage, itself, and the outline of the woman’s
perfect hair do. Lindy pulled a face and settled into
her seat, hoping she could sit through another Carmina.
Two male dancers, costumed in beige pants and tunics,
entered from upstage left carrying a girl curled into a
contraction above their heads. They laid her so that she
draped over the lower bars of the tower. With long, open
strides they circled the metal frame, climbed half way
up the back and hung there.
Lindy slid further down in her seat.
As the music crescendoed, another dancer appeared.
She walked slowly across the stage, draped in a smoky
gray cloak that trailed several feet behind her. Her
face was covered by a voluminous hood. Abruptly, she
turned to the audience, the cape swirling around her
feet, and threw her arms open, revealing a sparkling
gold lamé lining. At the same time, the hood fell back,
and she was bathed in a blinding light.
Lindy jolted upright. “My, God.”
Several faces turned with disapproving looks.
“Biddy, it can’t be. Tell me that is not Carlotta.”
Biddy gave her a rueful smile. It was easy to see her
expression reflected from the light that now radiated
from the stage. “I’m afraid so.”
“She’s older than I am. What the hell is she doing
out there?”
The sprayed-in-place perm turned around. “Sh-h-h.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Biddy whispered.
Lindy opened her program and turned the pages until
she got to the cast list. She held it up until she
caught enough light to read. It was true. Carlotta
Devine, ancient and ugly, not to mention mean. Carlotta
had never been pretty even as a young woman, but she had
always been mean. No, that wasn’t fair. Life had made
her mean.
With a knotting stomach, Lindy peered at the figure
on stage. Dark eyes, set too close together, eyebrows
plucked to a thin, miserly arch that looked painted on,
long face and chin that had to be expertly shaded with
makeup to keep it from looking sinister even in her
prime. Carlotta was no longer in her prime and hadn’t
been for a decade. And though makeup might do wonders
for a less than perfect face, they hadn’t invented a
cover up that could conceal Carlotta’s vicious
personality. She would wreak havoc in this company of
young dancers. What had Jeremy Ash been thinking?
Carlotta flung herself about the stage. Lindy gripped
the arms of her seat. Seeing the body draped over the
railing, Carlotta ran to it and pulled the girl into her
arms. The figure poised momentarily in Carlotta’s grasp,
then slowly moved her hands from her face. She stepped
forward onto half point, arms falling gracefully to her
sides. The light caught her features and held them for a
breathless second. Then she crumpled to the ground,
long, blonde hair cascading around her, blending with
the gold of her costume.
Beauty and the Beast, thought Lindy with a shudder.
Carlotta walked forward and into a large circle. When
she reached upstage center, two other dancers in robes
removed her cloak and carried it off stage.
From downstage right, a male dancer stepped into a
pool of amber light and reached longingly toward
Carlotta. He was slender and sandy-haired and looked
more like a school boy than the woman’s enamored lover.
Carlotta ran toward him, and he pressed her into an
overhead lift that should have been beautiful. Carlotta
though thin, was not easy to lift. Her arms stretched
out above her like unruly vines. Lindy could see the
tendons in her neck straining with the effort of staying
aloft. Her young cavalier seemed about to perish beneath
his load, and Lindy’s whole body tensed as she
subconsciously tried to help him.
She could feel Biddy watching her and wondered what
on earth could have made Biddy want her to see this. As
if reading her thoughts, Biddy shifted her eyes back to
the stage.
The pas de deux ended with one final lift which
carried Carlotta offstage. The boy barely got her to the
edge of the stage, then dumped her unceremoniously into
the wings. They were replaced by a quartet of male
dancers. Lindy straightened up and breathed deeply as
they bound over the floor in athletic jumps, falls and
turns.
By the end of the piece, she had begun to squirm in
her seat and wondered what she would say to Biddy.
Actually, the choreography wasn’t bad, and the music
didn’t drive her crazy. But it would take a few changes
to make this a success. First of all, recasting. Put the
pretty girl, what was her name? Lindy looked in her
program. Andrea. Put Andrea into Carlotta’s part. Get
rid of Carlotta completely. Paul (the school boy) would
be a perfect lover for Andrea. Then . . . .
Her attention was brought back to the stage by a
sudden dimming of the lights. Two rows of robe clad
figures walked straight across the stage, each holding a
three-pronged candelabra of flickering candles. The
lights continued to dim until the stage was virtually
black except for the twinkling of the artificial flames.
Well really, thought Lindy. David Matthews had turned a
celebration of secular life into a morality play. But it
was pretty effective.
Gradually, light suffused the surface of the metal
tower, now a funeral bower? The bodies of Carlotta and
Paul lay draped over each other at the apex. At least,
he’s on top, thought Lindy irreverently. Blackout.
After a suspended interval, the audience began to
applaud loudly. Biddy let out a long breath, snapped her
notebook closed, and turned to Lindy.
“Thank heavens, they seem to like it. Now,
intermission, an upbeat dance to end the evening, and
they’ll go home happy.”
The curtain opened for the bows. The corps came
forward, still in their robes, bowed in perfect unison,
then backed away. Paul led Carlotta and Andrea forward
and then backed them into line. Andrea stepped forward
by herself. The applause swelled. A few whistles and
cheers. Before she rose from her curtsy, Carlotta
stepped forward, regarding the audience with a regal
hauteur, and cutting Andrea’s applause short. Andrea
began to back into line.
The applause rose once again, then stopped suddenly
as a gasp rolled through the house. Lindy jerked
forward. From above Andrea’s head, a batten from the
flies plummeted toward the stage, slicing the air
between the two women as they exchanged positions.
Carlotta froze; arms held slightly outward from her body
as the batten bounced on the floor at her feet then
rebounded into Andrea.
It hit her on the calves, and she pitched forward.
Her hands shot out before her as she stumbled a few
steps, then fell to her knees. The audience watched in
suspended horror. Her hands grabbed the edge of the
stage as she fought to keep herself from plunging into
the seats below. Steel cables snapped in the air behind
her.
The corps stood frozen, smiles hardened into a rote
expression. The front curtain began lurching closed.
Andrea pushed herself backwards, struggled to her feet,
and managed to limp upstage out of the way of the
curtain. She tripped over the batten and fell headlong
into Carlotta as the curtain closed, billowed out and
settled in cloud of dust.
Biddy reached for her crutches. Lindy bolted out of
her seat and started to climb over her. She stopped,
surprised. What was she thinking? This was not her
company; she was just a visitor.
“Come on,” said Biddy. She swung her crutches into
the aisle. Lindy followed her for a few frustrating
steps, then ran ahead clearing the way.
The audience was vibrating with worried exclamations;
a voice rose over the loudspeaker announcing the
intermission. Lindy closed the stage door behind them.
The dancers stood in a nervous cluster around the
prostrate body of the young ingenue. They talked in
agitated whispers. Biddy and Lindy pushed through the
crowd. Peter Dowd bent over the girl, smoothing her hair
out of her face and talking quietly. Jeremy Ash stood
just beyond them, staring at the scene. Biddy bent down
next to Peter, her cast thrust awkwardly out to the
side.
“Is she hurt?”
Peter glanced at her, eyes panicky. “I don’t know, I
don’t think so.”
Andrea lifted herself to her elbow. “I’m okay,
really.” Her stage makeup stood out starkly against her
pale skin.
Peter turned back to her and began to lift her
carefully to her feet. The company took a step
backwards. Supporting her with both arms, he led her
toward the dressing rooms. Biddy followed.
“Clear the stage, now,” ordered Peter over his
shoulder. Everyone moved slowly away from the batten and
wandered into the wings. Carlotta took one step toward
Jeremy, hesitated, then followed the others off stage.
Lindy and Jeremy were alone on the stage. It must be
him, thought Lindy. His back was to her but she
recognized his silhouette. He just stood there looking
into the wings where Peter had taken Andrea. Then
slowly, he walked toward the dressing rooms.
Lindy waited until he was gone, then looked up,
careful not to stand under any of the battens or
electrics. The one that lay on the floor was empty; no
lighting instruments or scenery were attached to it. It
wasn’t in use for the performance. Why would it suddenly
plummet downward?
The Endicott theater was on a counter weight system.
She remembered that from years before. The lock must
have been triggered by mistake. She had seen that happen
once before, years ago on Broadway. A dancer had been
knocked out by a piece of flying scenery. She shivered;
one batten could have taken out the entire line of
dancers. It was too horrible to contemplate.
Peter walked back onto the stage and motioned to a
stage hand that was standing by the rail on stage right.
Lindy took the opportunity to disappear. This wasn’t
exactly a good time to renew old acquaintances. She
watched from the wings as Peter reached down toward the
batten and held it steady as the stage hand raised it
into the flies and wenched it off at the rail. He
watched it stop above his head, then wiped his forehead
with the palm of his hand; the stage lights tinged his
skin with a yellow pallor. He would never have
overlooked an unsecured pipe in the old days. What had
happened to him?
He stood staring up into the flies, then smashed his
fist into his other hand and walked toward the rail.
Lindy’s stomach lurched in sympathy for the stage hand
who waited for him.
“What a nightmare,” said Biddy clunking up behind
her. “She’s not hurt, just a few bruises. She’s scared
out of her wits, but she going on with the next piece.
Jeremy’s with her.”
They watched Peter stride toward them. Biddy looked
at him expectantly. “What happened?”
Peter stopped momentarily in front of them, then
looked down at Biddy’s cast. His eyebrows furrowed.
Without speaking, he walked past them to the door to the
dressing rooms. “Five minutes, everybody.”
Lindy and Biddy exchanged looks.
They returned to their seats. Biddy sat down and
dropped her crutches to the floor.
“The audience is jumpy as all get out,” she said as
she scanned the seats around them. “Let’s just hope
Jeremy’s piece takes their mind off of falling debris.”
She opened her notebook. “It’s a real gem. Edvard
Grieg’s Holberg Suite.” She sighed heavily. “God, what a
night.”
The audience didn’t quiet down until the house was
completely dark. The Holberg Suite music began abruptly;
violins startled the audience into silence. The curtain
opened. The stage erupted with a burst of nervous
energy.
“Settle down,” whispered Biddy.
“Settle down,” echoed Lindy.
As the piece progressed, the dancers began to relax.
The music seem to carry them along as it embraced the
audience and lulled it into tranquillity. Andrea
entered, composed and in full command of the stage.
Lindy could feel the audience respond to her as six men
lifted her gently, then passed her from one to another
like an elegant present. The movement at first
enchanted, then wove a seductive web over the theater.
The energy diminshed so imperceptibly that Lindy jumped
when the notes of the last movement began. The stage
filled with the entire cast, moving expertly through
intricate patterns.
When the curtain closed on the final pose, the
audience burst into applause. They jumped to their feet
with a roar when Andrea took her bow. They loved her,
and the accident had given them a vested interest in her
success. Lindy stood and joined in the applause.
