“For what it’s worth, I agree.” Yolanda Fisher was wrapping a magenta-colored scarf around her short-cropped curls. Yolanda, a lithe Afro-American woman, gave dance lessons in the theater on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and sold insurance during the day. Tonight, she’d volunteered to help with the blocking. “It was worse than bad.” She swathed the ends of her scarf around her neck. “Pathetic’ would best describe it. Not that I’m criticizing.”
“Humph!” Blanche pursed lips tinged a washed-out red, as her lipstick had faded sometime during the first act. “What do you think, Jenna?”
“That we need divine intervention?”
Rinda and Yolanda laughed, and even Wes, hidden somewhere in the rafters as he worked on the lights, chuckled, but Lynnetta frowned as she broke the thread she’d been using with her teeth, and Scott, Rinda’s son, if he was still helping with the sound system, remained silent. Jenna felt her skin crawl a little, which was ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking toward the high ceiling with its darkened beams and hidden niches. Once there had been a choir balcony, crying room for young mothers with babies, and a couple of small closets in the converted attic space. Above the balcony, accessed by stairs, rose the belltower, a tall spire that, in Jenna’s estimation, should have been condemned twenty years earlier.
Blanche let out a puff of disgust. “I would think you all know this kind of thing just takes time and practice, practice, practice.” She pulled on her beret and a pair of leather gloves.
“You’re right,” Jenna agreed. “Practice will help.” Inwardly she thought they also needed a little more talent and a lot more dedication. However, this was a local production, the actors were unpaid, and the proceeds of the ticket sales were to be added to the fund to improve the theater and pay some of the staff, so no one could really complain.
Yolanda said, “I’m outta here. See y’all later,” as she made a quick exit out a side door to the parking lot.
Lynnetta jabbed her needle into a pincushion and folded the dress over her arm. “I think we should give the actors a break and chill out. Blanche is right. We all get nervous around this time.”
“Too true,” Rinda admitted as the furnace kicked into overdrive, rumbling loudly as it forced hot air through the ancient pipes. “Okay, let’s put this behind us. One step at a time. We rehearse again in two days. Let’s hope all the actors show up.”
“Oh, I’m sure they will.” Blanche took off her pink Keds and stepped into fur-lined suede boots that just covered her ankles. “Have faith!” She smiled then at her own little joke, though her lips didn’t seem to have any mirth as they stretched across her teeth. “Oh, I guess that line’s been said a time or two in here.” She slid her briefcase from the piano bench. “I’ll see you all in a couple of days. Seven o’clock, right?”
Rinda nodded. “Weather permitting.”
“Oh, honey, I don’t think the weather is going to permit anything this winter.” Blanche offered another flat smile and, heels of her boots clicking on the hardwood floor, left the theater.
“What’s her problem?” Wes called from overhead before he clomped down the stairs at the base of the belltower and appeared at a rear exit of the stage.
“She always tries to be upbeat,” Rinda said.
Jenna wasn’t sure. There was more to the piano teacher than met the eye. Blanche lived alone with five cats, three pianos, a house full of Depression glass, and stacks of paperback books. She’d been married, but no one knew if she was divorced, widowed, or just separated. Or if there ever really had been a husband or the son she’d alluded to occasionally. A talented musician, she was a little on the eccentric side. And, in Jenna’s estimation, not necessarily “upbeat.”
“I think we should all try to be more positive.” Lynnetta smoothed the dress she’d folded and placed it into a small athletic bag.
“Okay, okay.” Nodding, Rinda shoved her hair from her eyes. “You’re right. This is just the first real rehearsal—everyone will improve.” She glanced at her watch and her eyes widened. “Damn. It’s late. The dog’s been shut in the house all day. I’ve got to run.” Her gaze swept the theater. “Scott!” she yelled toward the rafters. “Let’s go.” There was no immediate response, and Rinda turned to her brother. “Wasn’t he with you?”
Wes nodded. “Earlier. But I haven’t seen him since the second act.”
“Scott!” Rinda yelled.
Jenna looked upward to all the darkened areas. “Hey, bud. Get a move on!”
Still no response.
“He didn’t leave, did he?” Rinda pushed herself off the stage and walked to one of the tall, arched windows. She found a clear spot in the stained glass and peered out to the darkened parking lot. “My car’s still outside.”
“He wouldn’t have left,” Lynnetta said, but she didn’t seem certain.
“Scott?” A note of worry sounded in Rinda’s voice. “Scott!”
“He was in the audio booth half an hour ago. I’ll go check.” Wes was already flying up the stairs and Jenna told herself there was no reason to get worked up. Scott was always out of step, just a little out of sync with the rest of the world. But Rinda was working her way up to an emotional point somewhere between irritation and panic.
“
Not up here!” Wes called down over the speaker system, his voice reverberating through the vast room. “Scott…you’re M.I.A. and your mom wants to leave!”
“He’s got to be here,” Rinda said, heading for the stairs leading behind the stage to the basement dressing area when he appeared in the doorway. “Oh! God, you scared me,” Rinda cried, a hand flying up to cover her heart.
“I thought you were looking for me.” Scott’s pimply face was the picture of innocence. Around his neck dangled a set of headphones from which rap music was audible several feet away.
“I was, but…where the devil were you?”