“We are troupers.”
“Let us recall our grisly beginnings, when we trod the boards by the seat of our patchwork bloomers, when we ran and jumped and sang for small denomination coins pitched through the air and which did at times bounce off our faces, because that was where the audiences wished for their pennies to connect, Mr. More, pennies which we did then chase after, midsong, lest they roll off the stage and back into the hands of the animals, the imbecile men in the pit before us, braying at us, their mouths foul holes funneling rot-scent into the air which we were made to breathe, these same men offering up abusive encouragements at our persons. Am I inventing, June?”
“Not a word of it.”
“Do I invent?”
“You speak only truths.”
“We were young girls, Mr. More. We were not yet women, even, and this debasement was our way into the world of the arts, and it was years of it, years before we demanded the opportunity for betterment, demanded it of the world and of our audiences and of ourselves, and we broke off and settled into our true work, our lasting work, the self-authored work that has brought us our modest but deserved renown and that continues on in spite of man’s war and man’s anguish and man’s societal and cultural coarsening, the cinematic influence, dear God I beg you not to get me started. And here, now, we have done our work and we arrive after a long journey with a new show, cut from new cloth, with new costumes and sets designed and fabricated by ourselves, and I speak for all four of us and with the muses in choral agreement when I say that this is a worthy work. And now what, Mr. More? What do you offer us for our labors? Do you offer us soup? Is that what I’m hearing?”
Throughout Ida’s soliloquy, Mr. More had stood in a wincing half-crouch; but now, and with Ida silent, he elongated and breathed, attractive in his way, with his empty sleeve folded crisply, pegged in place with a gleaming silver bib pin. “Hello, Ida,” he said. “I do offer you soup, yes, and the offer for soup stands. I made the soup myself in anticipation of your arrival, thinking it might hearten you. It goes without saying, though I am saying it, that making soup with one arm is not easy. I tell you this not to complain but to unveil the full picture. Beyond the soup, about which I agree too much has been said, I can also offer you room and board for the duration of your stay. If you wish not to perform, you may consider it a complimentary seaside vacation. If you do wish to perform, and my sincere hope is that you do wish it, and that you will, you can have any and all monies the performances generate, and I myself shall not take one solitary penny. I can’t guarantee these monies will be robust, and in truth there may be none. This town has been dying for some years now, and recently succumbed to death. Yes, the town is dead. As I say these words I believe I see a question forming in your eyes, and it is: If the town has died, then why has he invited us to come here at all?” The women both were nodding, and Ida was nodding emphatically. “I will explain,” Mr. More continued. “My invitation to you came on the heels of a town council meeting wherein it was announced the timber companies were returning. The companies themselves were in attendance and made a good showing; they had maps which they pointed to with retracting pointer-outers and they were passing out embossed business cards and pencils with little tassels sprouting off the ends, so that I believed their fictions. Here is an error of judgment I admit to; I was told a whopper which I took for truth. Well, I wanted it to be true; there’s a powerful pull in that. I still think it was true at the time, actually — I believe the companies themselves believed they were coming back to us. But something has happened, or has not happened, and while the timber companies continue to ply their trade both upcoast and down, Mansfield is missed and missed again. Their secretaries have ceased engaging with me telephonically and through the mails, and I don’t understand the why of it and I likely never shall.”
A girl of sixteen exited the hotel pushing a rusted old hand truck. Her face was pale, her hair greasy, and she looked unhappy, perhaps angry, as she awkwardly navigated the hand truck down the blue-painted stairs. There was much clattering and crashing and wheel screeching, which alerted Mr. More of her approach; he brightened when he saw her, pointed as she wheeled past him. “My grand-niece, Alice. She was not with us when last we met. Alice also is excited about the show. Alice, aren’t you excited about the show?”
“Oh, I’m excited,” said Alice, in a bland tone that embodied the opposite of excitement. She arrived at the edge of the hill of baggage and began loading up the cart. Soon she would discover Bob’s obscured person, and the waiting for this created an agony in him. Electing to hurry the discovery along, he stood, and Alice shrieked, and the rest all turned to see him. Mr. More said, “Would you look at that, a hidden-away boy, whatever in the world.”
“It’s Bob!” said June.
“You know him?”
“Yes, he’s Bob. Hello, Bob. I was thinking of you during Ida’s — rant.”
Bob waved hello to June.
“I was thinking,” said June to Mr. More, “‘Oh no, where’s Bob?’”
“And now you’ve found him, and isn’t that nice?” Mr. More replied. “But, what is he doing all bent down like that?”
“He’s a desperate figure on the run, Mr. More, and so we can only guess at his motives.”
“He looks like a normal boy to me,” said Mr. More. “Hello, hello.”
“Hello,” Bob said.
“Do you like soup, Bob?”
“What kind of soup?” Bob asked, and Mr. More and June and even Ida, though not Alice, all laughed at his innocent query, and Bob didn’t understand why but was happy to have connected them with a pleasing amusement.
MR. MORE WANTED TO SHOW EVERYONE THE FRESHLY LAID, SPECIALLY ordered white pea gravel surrounding the hotel, and so the group moved in a lazy cloud formation to circle the property. Mr. More spoke as they walked. “I had the perimeter graveled around the time I sent you my optimistic missive encouraging your return. Now I lament the cost, but I do like the crunching sound it makes underfoot. Does it not create the impression of approaching drama? Is it not somewhat like a moat?” Picking up his thread from before, he turned to June and said, “Regarding the playbills. Let me get it over with and say it: yes, there are none. But I was the passive victim in that caper, and here is what happened: the printer hanged himself the day after I put in my order. What do you think of that? Thomas Conroy was his name; and I’d known him since 1905. We were in the one-room grade school together, in Astoria. Once we were caned for making cow sounds in Mass, and here he goes and does something like this. He tacked a note to the front door of his shop, which I read with my own eyes. It was a very sober and, I felt, fair summation of the why of it all.”
“He named his reasons for hanging himself?” said Ida.
“He did.”
“And what were they?”
“Tiredness.”
“Just that?”
“Pronounced tiredness, let’s say.”
“He should have taken a little vacation,” June said.
“Yes, and I do wish he would have, if only that he’d have completed my order. He was a talented printer, and there are none in the area to replace him.” Mr. More paused. “Do you know, now that I think of it, he was not a joyful child, either.”