Back at the Cottage, I found a few groggy actors up, brewing coffee, nursing hangovers with cold cereal and orange juice. We’d been introduced at some point, but I could not remember their names. “You open tomorrow?” I asked, just to be polite.
“Final dress this evening. Hopefully Bristol will fix those lighting cues that were still a mess yesterday. You’ll watch the run?” they asked hopefully.
I nodded. What else was I going to do? Actually write something? That seemed unlikely.
Ginny was still a rock, so I fumbled around for some more clothes, and snuck off to the shower — made it quick, in case others were waiting. I too helped myself to coffee, cereal — though I couldn’t wait to crawl into my own bed. My body had quickly staked claim to the blue room, and I felt displaced without it.
Hair wrapped up in a towel, wearing torn jeans and a T-shirt, I plopped myself back onto the couch. The afghan was still there, and for some reason I felt cold. Coffee, an old New Yorker. I lost myself in the pages until Jaime pulled me out.
“Sheila?”
“Don’t look so shocked. Writers can get up early too.”
“I’m just a bit of a mess, with Hamlet so close to opening. There’s some sort of problem with the programs, and they’re predicting rain for tomorrow night.” I thought it odd she didn’t mention Dara.
She’d always seemed so calm before the shows in my day — let others do the stressing for her. “I’m sure it will all work itself out,” I said. And then Bristol came bursting into the Cottage.
“Ginny promised to meet me down at the theater at eight-thirty.”
“She was pretty smashed last night.” I shook my head. “I’ll get her.”
“And tell her that Alice in costumes needs to see her, too,” he called after me as I made my way up the stairs. Something about wigs and humidity floated up as I stepped back into the blue room.
“Ginny, you up?” I whispered, seeing full well that she was where I’d left her. “Ginny... oh director dearest...”
I placed my hand on a lump that was too stiff to feel human. I pulled back the covers. A pearl-handled pistol clunked to the floor. Bristol would have to wait indefinitely. Ginny’s hangover was worse than predicted.
Another suicide — unlikely. Ginny had been shot in the back. As for the gun that was found at the scene: “Just a prop, like the last one,” I heard a young officer remark. It seemed that no one in the Cottage had heard the shot, all the way up on the top floor. And it would have been easy enough to muffle the sound with a pillow. I found myself back on the couch being questioned by a detective.
“But what was she doing in your bed?” she asked for the third time.
“We weren’t lovers, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I finally answered, hoping this would satisfy her, and told her again about Ginny’s lost keys, which someone had found on the kitchen floor, and returned to Jaime.
Yes, I was the only one who knew she was there. No, I did not know why anyone would want to harm Ginny.
“And you?”
“Me?”
“It was your room, your bed. Any reason why someone would want you dead?”
The thought should have occurred to me. There were reasons, none that I cared to share.
But the show must go on, as the old saying goes, rain or shine or death. Bristol would be left to his own devices to tweak those final lighting cues, and the question of wigs would never fully be resolved. The apprentices were atwitter with speculation and self-importance, as they too were being questioned. An actress, a director — who was next? Why on earth leave prop guns at the scene? And who would want to kill them? These were the questions I’d hear them whispering. Me — after having my belongings fully searched, I was allowed to relocate to the Inn. My room was sealed until further notice.
I slept for hours, and tried to write, but my words kept transforming into morbid rhymes, in iambic pentameter, of course. I hadn’t even glanced at my novel yet. I decided to waste more time by strolling back down to the pasture early for the dress rehearsal — buying a Diet Coke and a Snickers bar for dinner along the way. That had been a staple meal of mine that summer. There was something comforting in its unhealthy simplicity.
I stretched out straight on the grass — I hadn’t thought to bring a blanket — and stared up at the sky, eyes wide open, watching the clouds as the sky dimmed slightly. A small crowd began to gather: a few townies who, for whatever reason, preferred to watch a dress rehearsal. Most would come back during the next few nights for the real deal.
The play grew out of the pasture organically. No dimming of the houselights, just the setting sun. Cars still drove by on the main road — “backstage” — some bored tweens wandered away from Grandma, giggling, toward the porta-potties, which had already been set up along the side of the pasture. There were problems with the microphones, a missed exit, a dropped goblet. I kept my eyes open for the one prop that interested me, the one I had spent hours creating. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him.” Yes, it was the same skull, locked away in the prop cabinet all those years.
I stayed away from the pasture for the next few nights, but I heard the crowds, felt the swell of people wandering about town at night, eating dinner at the Inn. Not that the crowds for the other shows hadn’t made an impact, but the theater only seated 250 people. More than twice that flocked to the pasture each night.
From what I could gather, Hamlet was a success. Plump little Gertrude had stepped up to the plate, and Ginny’s job had, in truth, been done by that point. “Really, after opening, the director just gets in the way,” Gavin almost chuckled, and then stopped himself.
With the bustle of the show, it was easy to ignore the police presence. The questions — daily. I had been interviewed two more times. They had the sense that I was holding something back, but it wasn’t what they thought.
And then closing night rolled around. I decided I should see the show at least once. “You’ve been avoiding us,” Jaime had joked.
“No, just busy writing,” I lied.
The show was exquisite. It had truly come together since the dress rehearsal. Little Gertrude dazzled. Ophelia stunned. Gavin was quite convincing as Polonius. Hamlet’s need to avenge the death of his father crept over me. I glanced back at Jed, milling by the tech tent, which was set back toward the middle of the pasture. I’d heard from Gavin that the police were quite interested in him. He had access to the prop closet. He’d found Dara’s body. He’d had the key to the blue room. Had he been visited by Harrison’s ghost?
Before the final crowds had left the pasture, the apprentices pounced on the stage with their power drills. A dumpster was hauled up in back of the trailer. Within hours, the last trace of the stage would be gone, the props and costumes would all be safely stored away in the theater, and the apprentices would be tapping a keg and celebrating the end of their summer. The younger actors would join them. The older ones would have already phoned their agents and be looking ahead to their next gig: regional theater if they were lucky, word processing in a law firm if they were not.
I decided to wait at the theater. Eventually some apprentices would come carrying a trunk full of props. I would offer to help them with it, then slip Yorick’s skull into my canvas bag, and leave Vermont forever. I’d cover it with plaster, toss it into the East River. Out damn spot — my hands would finally be clean.
So I did just that. I waited. But as usual, strike took longer than expected. The trips back to the theater were fewer because the path was off limits. I retired to my room at the Inn and dozed off.
I woke just as the first hint of sunshine peeked through my window. I hopped out of bed, tossed on my clothes from the night before, and was at the theater before my mind was awake. The back door was locked, but someone had left the side door ajar; they usually did during the summer, since it was rare that the theater was empty. It was a place for lovers to sneak away in the middle of the night. That’s what Harrison and I had done. Rather, we didn’t sneak, we just stayed. Had he seduced me, or I him? His hands brushing against mine ever so slightly as we glued fake jewels onto a sword, or painted used books to look leather-bound. I was old enough to know better. So was he.