Hi, guys! I’m so sorry for falling behind on comments! It was a tough week! Before I get to them, here is Chapter 3 – for those of you interested and following along! – of my novel, “EVERCREEK FALLS.” Where life at a little dinner theater by the sea is not all it seems to be! Chapters 1 & 2 are available on my website, and in posts here dated January 4th! The full novel will be released around July 17th! Please excuse any web formatting mistakes! They won’t appear in the finished edition. You’re wonderful! Thank you for all your kindness and love! …

EVERCREEK FALLS. A Novel by Todd De Martinis

Chapter Three

It came to my understanding early on that the first play performed at Crocetti’s – which was also known as the Evercreek Falls Players by the actors who would not dare type “Eat and Play” on their resumes (and they were the majority) – was a vaudevillian piece that Victor Crocetti himself had transcribed by hand from an NBC radio broadcast, stolen if you will, and staged in 1932 with himself serving as emcee. An old photograph hangs just outside the kitchen, far away from the others, where a dashing young man’s flash-bleached face is frozen in a black and white moment of exaggerated showmanship; arms extended, strangled by the tight collar of an undersized tweed suit, and with at least one eye aware of the camera’s lens. I had a suspicion that mine were the only eyes to have given any attention to it in perhaps many years.  

“He’s a looker, isn’t he?” In the midst of the harsh noise of the restaurant a weathered man whom I immediately guessed to be Mr. Crocetti smiled up at me broadly with a kind of anticipation that seemed to suggest he believed he was still the same man in the picture.

“This is you, isn’t it?” I asked, motioning to the photograph.

“I think that kid’s gonna make it.” The old man gave me a knowing wink from behind his thick eyeglasses; a wink that suggested warmth and even a little bit of magic.

“I’d say he’s got presence,” I said.

Crocetti laughed, which was more an exhalation of quiet sultry air. “You’re an actor, aren’t you?” he asked, leaning in to look into my eyes.

“I think so.”

“The answer is ‘yes’ or ‘no’, wouldn’t you say?”

I grinned self-consciously and after looking downward for a moment, I found his eyes and replied, “Yes, I’m an actor.”

“That’s better.  What’s your name?”

“Joe Celladoro.”

“Ah, a name befitting an actor. Are you going to be in one of my shows?”

“I’m in ‘Cinderella.’ I’m playing role of the prince.” 

I was oddly proud to share the news with him.

“That’s wonderful, isn’t it?” he asked in such a way that it was not a rhetorical question.

“Well, we’ll see,” I laughed.

“It’s magical, don’t you think?” he asked like a ninety-year-old child speaking in awe over a shared secret.  “The life of an actor?  Why it’s the most noble life of all, I’d say.”

“It’s a starving life, anyway,” I said.

“What?” he asked in a way that did not suggest he misheard, but rather I had said something he didn’t want to hear. I repeated my poor joke nevertheless.

“I think it’s the richest life of all,” he said. “So, why are you looking at old pictures up here, and not cutting your chops on the stage?”

I explained I had arrived an hour early for the first rehearsal, which was typical of me when I was feeling anxious.

“Do you have a girl?” he asked.

“No one special,” I said.

He looked me over, tipping his head back and viewing me through the bottom of his thick bifocal lenses. “A good-looking young man like you. You won’t be alone for long. I can promise you that.” He looked at me a moment longer, a look which made me uncomfortable as though he were seeing right through me, before turning away and leaving me to stare at the ragged back of his tweed suit coat. One that was strikingly similar to the coat in the old photo.

“Come with me,” he said, motioning with his finger. 

I would notice later that most everything he said seemed to be accompanied with a subtle yet masterful piece of choreography, as if he were simultaneously speaking in two languages. I followed at a politely slow pace behind him out the pine door and down the ramp into the lot. The rubber ball at the bottom of his cane – which seemed even older than he – bounced lightly, touching different spots in the sand in minute movements as if electrically charged. A long moment passed as he looked over the entire building, taking inventory of every old shingle and each fractured piece of the aluminum water gully.

 “So, what do you think?” he asked me earnestly and with a hint of vulnerability.

“I like it,” I answered. And it was the truth. “There seems to be a great atmosphere about this place.”

“Yes, there seems to be,” he said. “She could use some work,” then turning his head to me, “But, couldn’t we all?”

Why did this man have any interest in taking me aside and showing me his perceived treasure? A long row of fresh daisies ran in parallel with the ramp, and Mr. Crocetti delicately inspected a few with trembling, spotted hands.        

“I built this for Catherine.  She was my girl.” He turned to look out at the shimmering blue water. His thin lips closed to form a slight smile, and his eyes intimated he was somewhere years away.     

“She loved the theatre, Joe. And she was marvelous. She could have made it her living. But, she wouldn’t go to New York. Even I had begged her a few times to give it a try.”

“Why didn’t she?”

Crocetti fumbled for a moment. Maybe he was not used to being asked questions that prodded him to revise a story he had already committed to memory in a certain way.  

“Things were different then. Catherine was a very modern girl. She loved all the new writers and actors and musicians. It was an exciting time, Joe. I guess you could say she was epitomized the Jazz Age, at least as far as this town was concerned. But even Catherine held to some of the old mores that were firmly implanted. She insisted it was unseemly for a young woman to live alone in the big city.”

“Even if she were an actress?” I asked.

“Especially if she were an actress,” he said. “Honestly, I’m pretty sure she was just afraid. Back then, New York was a lot farther away.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?” 

Crocetti looked off to the horizon before continuing to speak. “Joe, I was a green kid,” he said. “I had the weight of family responsibilities. My family had a lumber business that prospered even during the Depression, and it was expected I stay and do my share to run it. But I was able to finagle a thousand dollar loan from my father to build this place. I told Catherine, ‘If you won’t go to New York, then I’ll bring New York to you.’”

A warm breeze touched us both, and a few white wisps of Crocetti’s hair moved like delicate feathers that struggled to retain their tenuous hold on his scalp. He inhaled the air, and I almost believed if I had looked into his eyes in the hot light I would have seen the flowing cotton dress of a beautiful girl amidst a backdrop of Model T’s and young American ambition.

“It was as simple as that,” he said. “We were married in the summer of `32. And, that’s where I proposed, Joe.” Crocetti lifted his cane to point out a soft bed of yellow sand where boulders that looked like petrified humpback whales lay half sunken around it.

“You miss her,” I found myself saying without thought.

“I’m an old man,” he said, suspecting I didn’t know. “At my age a person doesn’t have too much future to think about, but he has a lot of past. I’ve come to realize that memories are just as real what we call the present. What purpose has the present but to create more past? When I miss Catherine, I have a well of memories from which to borrow. That’s quite a gift, don’t you think?”

I wanted to ask him why he was baring so much of himself to me, this stranger. But in my politeness I was silent and could only assume I represented to him someone who would listen with interest and without judgment. My hands found my jean pockets beneath my untucked shirt and I took a few small steps toward the sacrosanct place where two young lovers had made a promise kept.  

“I watched your audition, Joe,” he said with a heightened rush of emotion. I turned back. “You’re good. I’ve seen a lot of people come through here, and you’ve got the ability. But, are you serious about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I’m more serious about,” I said.

“Do you live in Evercreek Falls?” he asked.

“No. I live in Lowell. But, I’ve been thinking about New York.”

“Thinking about going to New York? Or, just thinking about New York?” His cataract-clouded eyes still had a brightness and now took on the shape of a mischievous smile.

“It’s a big step to take,” I said. “And, I wouldn’t want to go until I felt I had enough money saved.”

“Money’s a funny thing,” he said as he walked back across the sand lot, expecting me to follow, which I of course did. “I was borne into it, but I’ve had friends who were dealt a different hand; mostly actor friends. The ones who pursued the money, found it. They got the shiny cars, but the shine in their eyes was gone. The ones who held to their dreams, well, they struggled. But one way or another, they got by. They always got by.” His cane poked rhythmically along against the melody of his words, and almost seemed like a separate entity in itself, like a dog enjoying a walk with her master.

We again passed the ramp, where Crocetti stopped to reverently touch his passionflowers, and we ended by an unassuming walkway beneath the turret that faced the highway. The rush of the speeding cars was only a yard or so away, but Crocetti was either oblivious or unfazed.  

“Do you like it in Lowell?” he asked as he pulled on the ripped screen door, which screeched like a terrified rat. He then revealed a gold key from the inside pocket of his tweed coat which he gently placed into the keyhole of the sturdier storm door.

“Lowell isn’t bad. The city has a lot of history. And, an Equity theatre.  Although I do like it out here in Evercreek Falls,” I answered.

“Funny you should say that.” He entered and began moving up a set of wooden stairs, holding tight to a metal rail, and poking his cane on each advancing step, looking for soft spots. “Well, are you coming up?” he asked.

I remained conscious of the placement of my arms while taking the stairs, as I feared he might trip and fall backward into them. Once we were at last atop, a peaceful glow from the lofty elegant windows danced through the dust above the hardwood floor, and I could see this turret wasn’t an office space, but an apartment, and a barren one at that.

He smiled in reaction to my confusion and theatrically extended his arms, exclaiming “Chateau Catherine!” in a thunderous whisper being careful not to wake any ghosts, then moved to the kitchen, parting the dust as Moses did the Red Sea. He twisted the antique faucets and banged the oversized pipes with his cane until water, first brown, then relatively clear, rushed through the infrastructure, awakening all types of strange sounds from behind the walls and under the floor. In the golden haze from the outside light, I had stepped back almost a century in time, and only the peeling psychedelic-daisy decals on the green refrigerator brought me back to the realization that the Jazz Age was still indeed quite dead.

Crocetti gasped his dry laugh and moved through the bedroom, living space, and dining room until we had come full circle to the kitchen; the design being a square with a smaller ‘plus sign’ structure placed in the middle to create four rooms, each one adjoined to the previous and to the next. I wandered through on my own in a counterclockwise motion, taking in the view from the windows, and careful not to disturb the cross-stitching of cobwebs on each, and feeling fairly sure these were the only windows in all of Crocetti’s.

“What do you think?” he asked me.

“I like it,” I began to say, but he continued in rushed tones.

“I built it for Catherine when we were married. We stayed for two years until we built a home. It’s small, but it’s functional, hm?” I traced my fingers over the dining room window that faced the late summer sun and sand lot below. Cars were now entering the lot and a silver Ford station wagon pulled in front of the ramp and there was Randall, standing with scripts in his arms. From the passenger’s side a young man was exiting.

And out of the back seat arrived Kate. In a floral dress, hopping out as if gravity were merely an inconvenience, and immediately spinning around twice. Her lilting voice was giddily engaged in some story I couldn’t hear, but I was left with the instrumental melody of it. One I hopelessly tried to memorize, until she ran to the water’s edge, where I watched her dance from above the theater before blinding white sparkles of water.

“So?”  

Crocetti was leaning over his cane, calmly waiting for something from me.

“Yeah, I like it. And, I’ve been looking to make a move, which is really funny. My dumb luck, I guess.” I hesitated. “What would you be thinking for rent?”

He waved his hand through the air, knocking airborne dust to the floor. “I asked you if you liked it. If you want it, it’s yours. We can talk about mundane issues later.”

He abruptly made his way for the stairs and I followed. When we exited, Kate was nowhere to be seen in the lot, and Crocetti locked the flat door in deliberate fashion and headed for the ramp.

“Mr. Crocetti? Why me?” I asked.

He looked at me for a moment, and walked toward the restaurant doors.  Again, I followed – like a student, or perhaps a puppy. Once inside, I fumbled to regain my sight in the darkness and acclimate to the noise, and when I did he was staring into my eyes.

“You have the shine,” he said, placing the small gold key in my hand. “And I’m afraid you’re going to lose it.”

And with that, he walked off in a pocket of serenity amidst the controlled chaos of everything that was Crocetti’s Dinner Theatre. 

*****

I splashed cold water against my face in the bathroom, grooming some through my hair, and checking every crevice for anything unsightly before making my way down the stairs. I exited, breathed in deeply, and exhaled part of a melody from a love song that was playing on the jukebox when a fist torpedoed into my arm so swiftly I was jolted.  

“You made it, buddy!”  

It was Beethoven. His youthful, spectacled face nodded in satisfaction, and long clumps of wild hair explored the atmosphere like kites catching on a breeze. I liked Beethoven. Even if only for the sole reason that he so genuinely seemed to like me. He carried a messy stack of librettos beneath one arm.  

“So, you can make a singer out of me?” I asked.
“You’re a prince,” he said excitedly. “Princes can do anything, right?”  

“I thought princes were just supposed to stand there and look good.”

He mussed my hair as if I were his kid brother, and defeating all my attempts at grooming I had made in the bathroom. “We’ll make a singing prince out of you,” he said, and we took the staircase down to the theater.

The house was dimly lit in contrast to the audition, and the once fully occupied tables, about thirty of them in rows of five, were empty. The aroma of coffee hovered in the air and generated from a bulky metallic machine just past the hanging production pictures, and before a black curtain that masked the dressing rooms. Gray folding chairs were arranged in a semicircle on the stage where most of the cast had already found a place to sit.

“I think the last of the stragglers have arrived,” the assistant said, her eyes locked on Beethoven and myself.

“Are we late?” he asked innocently.

“It’s 2:05,” Randall answered without looking up from the materials on his lap. The rest of the cast seemed somewhat oblivious, carrying on introductory conversations with each other in the excited atmosphere newness and promise creates. Beethoven scurried to the black upright piano at the opposite side of the house, thumped his stack of books on top of it, and blasted off a boisterous and abbreviated rendition of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” His eyeglass frames were sliding down his nose as he lowered his glance to be sure his racing fingers didn’t fly off one end of the keyboard. It was followed by some applause and he responded with a quick reprise.

“We’d like everyone on the stage, please,” the assistant said.

I stepped to the proscenium and a card that misspelled my name marked my seat – facing Kate, who was a few yards away on the opposite side of the semicircle.  Our eyes met and I managed a small weak wave, which she answered with a smile – she smiled at me!! – and I then proceeded to sit on my name card.

I had never seen anyone so beautiful in my life as Kate. She was the thermostat of the room. She exuded warmth in a sweater that makes you think of pumpkins and lattes and gentle encouragement. A warm energy. It could be a hotter energy on some other day, like the day before. It could be a cooler one. But, she decides. Her hand is on the thermostat. Of everything. Shivering or sweating, you’re just happy to be in the room. And I’m doing plenty of both! The power in her eyes. I swear I can see vibrantly lit gossamer dancing from them, moving around her the things that don’t serve, magically affecting outcomes where others believe it’s all just a sucker’s game of chance. Pulling divine little strings. Those invisible strings that move and create, and only when looking back at all the life behind you do you say, “You know, every seeming random event had some purpose! It got me to *here!*” This feeling of being carried. She carries. Like that grand creature in the jungle where others ride along on her back for a free ride! She barely feels them. And, she doesn’t mind, anyway. Just when you’re at the abyss in your life, she lifts you up with her tail. She gives you a leg up. It could be something that doesn’t even burn a calorie, but it’s more filling than anything you ever could consume! It *literally* lifts you! You jump up and down like a child! There she is!!! When have you last done that? Giddy just from the sight of her! From gray to May, and it all goes away! I’m dancing in new sights and smells in my mind. No, it’s too big for my mind, because I feel and see it all around me! It’s unmistakable! Memories of standing outside on a crisp autumn night, waiting to see a play, and taking in the magic of the stars – how crisply they are outlined against the majestic black night, and of apple orchards, carnivals, cotton candy, lilacs, the smell of sea air mixing with upholstery as I fly along with the top down. Any sense memory that has some magic, with just a silent word and that look of hers, she brings them all to life! At the same time! Competing magic jostling for position! But she is at the center of each. The genesis of it all. She’s the magic. It doesn’t really even require effort on her part because she’s dancing with the Source. But, when I feel something was special for me … she smiled at me!! You soar, boy!!! You soar so far so fast and you’re not afraid of anything! You jump off cliffs with glee. Because there’s nothing to fear. I’m free! This place of perfect inner assuredness. Something I had never felt before! I came out of this divine daze to register the confusion of multiple dialogues as they gradually ceased and, one by one, people noticed the assistant’s feigned patience, her crossed arms, and her artificial smile. After a silence, she responded as an elementary school teacher would, where the underlying threat of punishment abounds beneath the elocutionary ‘yes, pleases’ and ‘thank you’s.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Linda Crocetti, and I’d like to welcome all of you to Crocetti’s Eat and Play, and the Evercreek Falls Players.”  

I was stunned to realize this woman I had so derided in my mind was obviously related in some way to the magical man who offered me both mystery and an apartment, and I suddenly realized I had been tracing the outline of the key through my jeans.  

“I’d like to introduce you to our wonderful director whom many of you have had the pleasure of working with before: Randall Richards,” she said.  

A spattering of applause was initiated by a girl who was heaving both her affections and breasts in his direction whenever he so as much as adjusted his shirt collar.

  “I see some new faces,” Randall said. “And I see some familiar faces,” he continued, looking at this girl, who giggled.   

“Some of you are my students.” Henrietta raised her hand to identify herself as such. “Some of you I’ve directed before, and others I’ve acted with on occasion.”

“What *haven’t* you done, Randall?” one of the older actors asked.

“’Cats!’” he exclaimed.

Overbearing laughter and even applause followed, like that for an fledgling comic performing before an audience of his family and close friends. I was beginning to wonder if I’d mistakenly ended up in some sort of worship meeting. Randall cast his eyes downward, absorbing what appeared to be undiluted adulation with what I expected was an attempt at modesty.

He then asked us to introduce ourselves and share some non-intimate history in the space of an anecdote or two. At times some of the cast communicated to Randall – and he to them – in nods and asides as if they were constituents of some clandestine society that wasn’t looking for new members. And from what I could tell early on, Beethoven and I represented what was a minority of new faces.

“I’m Lenny,” a heavy-set actor said, as we worked our way through the semi-circle.  “I’ll be playing the part of the stepfather. And,” he paused. “ … I’m just happy to be here.”  He was a cheery fellow, and possessing a shyness that was endearing.

“What number show is this for you, Lenny?” Randall asked in such a way that suggested he knew the answer.

“’Cinderella’ will be my seventy-fifth show at Crocetti’s,” he answered.

Some of us gasped, and I wasn’t sure what was more staggering: the idea that he had done seventy-five shows at Crocetti’s, or that he had probably done none in any other venue. I had worked in a lot of different theaters, but the concept of lifers and the impenetrable circle seemed to be taken to new levels here.

One by one we introduced ourselves. There was a middle-aged actress named Marjorie, and a handsome young guy, Brett. The fawning girl was Helen, and playing the other stepsister was another named Melanie. My own introduction was weak by my own opinion, but I managed to improvise a joke or two while mentioning a couple of the more impressive shows in which I had performed.

On the opposite side of the circle, Kate was the last to introduce herself to the group.  She was digging her fingernails into a pencil and her cheeks became increasingly flushed as the moment to speak approached. Beneath all her radiant beauty, she was actually shy!

“I’m Kate. I’m not sure what number show this is for me, but I’ve done a lot. I’m playing the role of Cinderella.” I hung on her every word as if each one was manna from the gods. And yet that’s all she had to say. And her mystery hovered in the air.

As is typical with first rehearsals, the afternoon’s agenda consisted only of performing a read-through of the script once the introductions were complete. It was a very cold reading, as everyone’s roles were now secured and the pressure was off to put up a great performance, although nerves still persisted.

“I want you to know that you were chosen because you were the best who auditioned, and you’re each right for your role,” Randall said after the final words of the play were read.  “I’m looking forward to a fun rehearsal process and getting to know all of you.”

“Getting to know us?” Lenny howled, and a few more in-jokes were shared among the lifers. Randall brushed his dark receding hair from his face and closed his black binder shut.

“I mean, those of us who are new to the Evercreek Players. I already know you more than I want to,” he mused.

Lenny exhaled a hyperactive scream of “No respect!” exactly as Rodney Dangerfield would have delivered, if possessed by the great Paul Lynde. Laughter capped the rehearsal, but as the cast stood and gathered their belongings, Randall spoke once more.

“I know this is going to be a difficult process because of recent events.” Melanie whispered Beth’s name in reverence, and it was followed by a hush on the stage. “But, let’s just keep hoping that she’s safe. I am sure she knows that she’s in the heart of Crocetti’s, and all of us here.”  

Lenny was suddenly overcome with tears, and abandoned the stage to run up the stairs to the restaurant.

“Oh my God,” Helen said so softly that I couldn’t be sure if it was in a sympathetic or mocking tone.

I approached Randall as we stepped off the short stairs leading from the proscenium to the house, and I thanked him for his faith in casting me – and that I would work hard to do a good job. When I did, I could see that which might appear to be pomposity from a distance morphed into shyness up close. With a nod, he seemed to accept my words and he wandered to the back of the house with Linda at his side, already discussing blocking and lighting cues with her.

The young man, Brett, approached me at one of the first-row tables, extending the courtesy of telling me he’d enjoyed my interpretation of the prince character, and immediately began asking me questions regarding technique.

“How do you know when you’ve found the character?  Is there a moment where you just know?”  There was an earnestness in his voice that was somewhat unfamiliar to me, and I was flattered that he must have looked upon me as someone from whom he could learn. But I didn’t have any ready-made gems of advice to hand off to him. I don’t know that anything of worth could be quite that simple, anyhow. I tried nevertheless.

“Well, I think the first trick is to have fun and explore the possibilities, and to not be too self-conscious.  But, I know that one’s easier said than done.”

“Right,” he said, and proceeded to just look at me for a moment. “I guess what I mean is, are you a method actor? Or, do you completely invent your own reality on the stage? I’m reading a book now that is completely anti-method.”

“Oh,” I said. I searched for something that would sum up my own philosophy on acting, and one that also would not make me sound stupid in the process. “Well, there are a lot of respected people out there who’ll tell you that all those books are a waste of time.” I usually substituted “I” with “respected people” when I was trying to sell something I wasn’t sure of myself.

“For me,” I continued, “it’s more about listening to the other person on stage and just reacting to it. There’s a great phrase: acting is re-acting. I think it’s true. Have you heard of that?”

“Yes,” he said, looking at me with a kind of wide-eyed, confused stare. It wasn’t too dissimilar from the look I once got from my dog when she caught me masturbating.

  “And, again, yeah, I think it’s most important to just get out there and do it, and not listen to those little insecure voices that are telling you you’re making an ass out of yourself,” I added. “You know?”

Nope. Nothing.   

“Yeah,” he said.

Kate was suddenly in the air, and I inhaled the scent of lavender about her, now mixing with the tobacco smoke and popcorn machine by the upstairs bar. I must have changed the way I was folding my arms and how I was leaning about three times over the course of a moment to end up in a pose that was completely unnatural. Brett wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and kissed her delicately on the cheek. I hadn’t known just how elevated I had been until that moment when my insides seemed to crash in a nosedive to where my abdomen used to be.

Brett continued to speak.  “ … the use of ‘emotion memory’ that Stanislavski wrote about. Randall says that any good actor knows how important a technique it is.” It seemed Brett was wrestling, too trapped by complicated terms to break through to the simple meanings. But by then his voice was three elevator shafts away.

I don’t know how I appeared in that moment, as I was left completely unguarded by the blow. I looked to Kate, and she was looking at me. She had *been* looking at me. Her blue eyes were so wide they could have swallowed me, and they were absolutely penetrating back into my own. She hadn’t heard him, either! I was sure of it.

“Well, I can’t say Stanislavski was a bum. I guess actors just gotta figure out what works for themselves,”  I blurted, allowing him to drown at sea alone. Yet I was the one drowing. So utterly entranced by Kate, while my mouth played wingman for my eyes. Dispensing drivel to keep him preoccupied. “And, you’re quite the actor yourself,” I added, perhaps disingenuously, as I really didn’t know, and I gave a friendly pat on the shoulder that wasn’t brushing against Kate’s softest red hair.

“No, not really,” he said diminutively. “But, I want to be.”

“You’re good,” Kate corrected. “Don’t listen to everything Randall says.  He’s not the beginning and end of everything.”

“She’s right,” I said. And I sounded like the dumbest person on earth with those two words inserted awkwardly into the conversation. Those two words might as well have been, “Marry me!” I felt exposed and naked, and I realized I hadn’t even been breathing until a breeze wafted in from an open door.  

“Yeah,” he said unconvinced.       

Beethoven approached and was looking for an opportunity to join the combustible little circle we had formed. “Pardon me,” he said in a proper and affected tone. “May I have permission to join company with royalty?” he asked as he wrapped his arms around the two without so much as a thought, and resulting in Brett releasing his grip on Kate. I restrained an impulse to replace his hold as if she might float away like a balloon made of helium and all subtle and glorious things lighter than air. 

“Oh, sure,” Brett said good-naturedly. He came across as so genuinely nice it was hard to dislike him, although it felt natural for me to do just that. He searched for Beethoven’s name.

“Arnie,” Beethoven said in answer to the slight pause. “Don’t worry. We’ll all know too much about each other before this is over. You know how shows go.  You start one not knowing anybody, then it’s a teary farewell eight weeks later!”

“Well, *we* know each other pretty well,” Brett smiled, looking at Kate.

I realized only then just how much more younger and handsomer Brett was than myself, and I began looking for avenues of escape.

“You do, do you?” Beethoven asked with a wink. “Well, don’t let this one go,” he said to Brett. “She’s a true princess, on and off the stage.”

Kate began to say something! But Lenny and Helen invaded the sphere with shrieks and hugs, appearing to be about the same age as each other despite the thirty-odd-year age difference. “We want to play, too!” Lenny squealed like a child, having apparently recovered from his emotional incident moments prior. Lenny and Helen turned the spotlight on themselves, and I laughed politely at their horseplay like an audience member in the dark. 

“Hey, we’re going up to get a drink,” Brett said. “Do you want to join us?”

As a little kid, when I was discouraged, my revenge was to ostracize myself from the displeasure. “I’ll show them,” I’d think, and I’d lock myself up in my room as a masochist would, missing God-knows-how-many moments life had to offer. The sad part was I wanted to belong

“No, I should probably get going home,” I said. “But I appreciate it. Maybe next time.”

“Lowell, right?” Kate asked.

“Yeah.” She had remembered where I lived! “But, actually, there’s a chance home might be Evercreek Falls!” I blurted without thought. “Mr. Crocetti asked me if I wanted to take the apartment upstairs. Isn’t that crazy?” 

There arrived a pause of the kind where everything in life goes to die.

“He offered you the place?” Kate asked me. “Randall expected it. Why did he offer it to you?”

“I’m really not sure,” I replied, and I felt ridiculously foolish that I blurted information simply out of feelings of my own inadequacy.

“That’s interesting,” she said, as if sharing in the weight of the insult the old man’s gesture had created toward Randall.     

“Well, I didn’t officially say ‘yes’.  I’m still thinking about it,” I reassured her.  “The last thing I want to do is cause any trouble!”

“No, it’s not your fault,” she said.

Lenny had stopped his prancing. In fact, everyone was now focused on me as though I had the caption, ”Breaking News,” scrolling across my forehead.

“Why are you looking for an apartment?” Lenny asked. “Do you not like Lowell?”

“It’s okay.” The questions didn’t feel friendly anymore. “I just thought I might be looking for a change.”

“Well, if it’s a place you’re looking for, I live right up the road in Amesbury, and I could always use a roommate to split up the rent,” he offered.

“Oh, well that’s an idea,” I said, never considering it. 

The key was burning in my pocket and the friendly camaraderie had given way to awkwardness all over. I excused myself from the group, making sure to tell everyone – Kate – what a pleasure it was to see them, and of how I looked forward to the next rehearsal, which wouldn’t be until after the Labor Day weekend.  

Kate sent me a deeper look at this point, with her eyes that inspire sonnets in an expectant way, as if we were onstage and she were prodding and cueing me to say some line I had simply forgotten. And yet the moment slipped away from me! She exited my gaze, and went off with Brett, carrying her script against her chest. As they neared the exit he placed his arm around her shoulder once again, and the two of them shared some joke I would never hear as they disappeared up the stairwell.

“So, what do you think of my offer?” Lenny asked me, smiling.

“Well, it sounds good,” I said, barely registering his question. “I guess I need to do some thinking on the whole thing.”

“Suit yourself. You’d better act fast, though. There are quite a few other candidates in the running,” he warned me, and I couldn’t help but wonder just how many of these candidates were cats. He headed to the back of the house with Helen who gave me a fast head-to-toe look, culminating in a sneer that suggested her disapproval.

“Nice seeing you again,” I said, but I don’t think Lenny heard me over his brassy rendition of “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” he had begun to belt, and I’m pretty sure Helen simply ignored me.

“Someone has a little crush,” Beethoven whispered as the two of us headed off like visiting ball players on somebody else’s field. His comment only half-startled me. I felt he was a strong observer and despite my arguable acting ability, I didn’t possess much of a poker face.

“Nah, Lenny doesn’t do a thing for me.”

“Besides Lenny,” he laughed. “That Kate has got a crush on you, buddy.”

“She’s got a crush on me?” I immediately wanted to press him for details. “Oh, c’mon,” I continued in an innocent, no, coy way. “What makes you think so?”

“Didn’t you see the way she was looking at you?”

As we were about to take the stairs, I saw Lenny at the back of the house. He was whispering to Randall and gesturing with his hands until the sign language culminated in one finger pointing at me, and they both focused their stare in my direction.  I diverted my eyes and made my way up to the lobby with Beethoven.

“The Princess wants some royal humping from the Prince, I’d say,” Beethoven laughed.

“I don’t think Brett would appreciate that idea very much,” I said, not giving a damn about Brett.

“Are they married?  Did you see a ring?” he asked.

“No, no ring.” I was at the age where it was important to check the fourth finger of a left hand before making a romantic move. “My boy, if she’s not married, you’re in the game. You should have learned that years ago.”

“You think so?” I asked at the top of the stairs. I looked at him with what was a longing expression I’m sure, like a born sucker would a charlatan fortuneteller who’ll tell you all you’ve ever ached to hear for a buck.

“Haven’t you ever had a showmance?”  

I looked at him blankly.  

“A showmance,” he continued. “They happen all the time in this business.  And you two have already started out on yours, I’m betting. I’m not saying it’s true love, or that she’ll even remember you once this show is over, but right now she’s fresh fruit to pick from the tree.”

“Well, whatever happens happens, I guess.” It was a rather lame response from me, considering this was the topic that interested me more than all others. 

We stepped out to the ramp and I took one final look behind me, but saw no trace of Kate or Brett in the bar. It had been a humid summer, but on that late August day in 1999, it had become almost unbearably so. It appeared steam was escaping the river and rising into the gloaming.  

I was taken by the shoulder in the way a friend would take it.  

“Don’t be so down on yourself,” he said. “That’s your thing, isn’t it? Everybody’s got a thing. Yours is being down on yourself, isn’t it?”

How does someone respond when his greatest flaw is identified with a handful of succinct words? I responded with silence.  

“Don’t do that,” he continued. “You’re great, man!” And I believed him, at least in that moment. “I’ll see you in a few days. Happy Labor Day,” he said as he piled his stack of music on top of an old Nissan, unlocking the car door. “And, don’t forget,” he added. “At the very least, the Prince gets to kiss the Princess on stage.”

I hadn’t a clue how it was possible, but here was an obvious and simply wonderful fact that had escaped me! A gigantic flag I hadn’t seen waving right before my eyes! 

I *would* kiss Kate! The euphoria of a dozen Christmases rushed about me!  It was *in the script!* Of course! And, it wouldn’t be just any kiss. For Cinderella and the Prince, it would be a kiss that represented the realization of two lifetimes worth of dreams! It would be a good kiss.  

The words ‘I’m going to kiss Kate!!!’ played over and over in my mind, becoming a favorite song to which I hummed along. And I looked in wonder at this unassuming little dinner theater that had offered me both keys to a home and a dream. Dumb luck.

After parting with Beethoven, I decided to inspect the apartment that was mine for the taking! Mine without so much as a contract or even a handshake. I had no idea what kind of compensation Crocetti had in mind for my part, if any at all.  But I felt sure it would be favorable for me.  

All I could figure was that he was an old man who had taken a liking to me, who saw something in me that made us kindred spirits, meeting across the expanse of the age spectrum. Whatever the case, it was far too good a deal to pass up.  

I took the gold key from my pocket and it shone in the twilight with a kind of newness that seemed to echo the promise of things to come. Remembering the shriek it had made earlier, I gently opened the torn screen door, which now made a low extended groan instead, and I took the stairs to the turret.  

The senses that are dulled in the stark light of day awaken in the night, and in the darkness I experienced the apartment in a new way. The smell of old paint and a gentle, almost regal, stillness had eluded me before. I stood in appreciation for this wonderful and overlooked masterpiece Crocetti had dreamed up and made real on the bay of the river.  

In the night the shadows of blowing maple leaves danced sensually across the walls in a silent picture show for no one. And I imagined Kate’s exquisitely smooth figure, her alabaster skin. Her spectacular face! Dancing with the fugues, glimpses of her pale naked body revealed at the will of the branches before the moon – from whose partial light I would feel my way.

I thought of a young Victor and Catherine, whose love had filled the place all those years before. The would-be starlet and her dashing dreamer in the tweed coat, toasting the limitlessness the twenties had to offer, dancing on shining new floors in that older time when nothing was old.

And yet it is the events that followed that are etched in my memory, although I’m not sure of the exact series in which they occurred. I remember them as a scattering of photographs dropped to the floor and hastily rearranged, losing the order in which they occurred, but the pictures themselves losing nothing of their vividness.  

I remember the feeling of not being alone in the dark. I remember the chill that rushed through one side of my body and out the other like a cold locomotive.  And I remember a man’s whisper originating from inside my skull where I felt his icy breath pleading, 

“Finish the scene … Finish the scene.”

In my terror I skipped the steps, forgetting they were there at all, and piled down like a box filled with loose gadgets making all sorts of noises along the way, my head torpedoing into the storm door.

“Help me finish the scene. …”  

There were other supplicated chants, but the volume was so amplified it distorted in my ears, rendering them incoherent. I whipped my head back in an attempt to shake the sounds, and I felt a resulting jab of pain in my neck, which I had rattled pretty well in the fall. I opened the door and freed myself into the night air, dropping on my bruised knees in the sand. I’m not sure how long I remained there in that sad state, but I eventually limped to my car in a fog. When I began pulling my old beast out of the lot, another unfortunate event took place. Lenny and Randall appeared on the ramp, followed by Brett – and Kate.  

If bad things happened in threes, I imagined there was a grand piano sliding out of an airplane just overhead. Maybe it would be a blessing – taking out me, my embarrassment, and my shitbox of a car in a single shot. 

“Hark!  It’s the Prince!” Lenny shrieked so loudly, it even overrode the squeal of my engine, and I had to stop for fear of looking like a heel.

“Hi there,” I said with a discernible tremble in my voice. I threw the gearshift into park and played with the gas pedal to bring the volume of my rude idle down.

“Lookie, it’s an antique! I love it,” he said, and spread his arms over the hood in some sort of loving gesture as I hated him for insulting me under the guise of playfulness. Then he danced around the car inspecting, as far as I could tell, the tires and undercarriage.

“Is this yours?” Kate asked, who had stepped forward and her eyes were focused on my passenger’s side mirror, which was held on by three elastic bands.  Randall had a grim smile on his face, and Brett just seemed, well, simply happy and simple.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to think fast. “I know it’s not much to look at, but I just figured it gets me around cheaply for a little while before I buy a new one, you know, … soon.”  My voice was losing confidence as it wore on, but I made an effort to put an emphasis on “soon.”

“You’re bleeding,” Kate said, and she reached across the window and caressed a finger across my temple, drawing it back to reveal a dab of red. She touched me! I was still trembling from the event upstairs, but felt an otherworldly rush of tender reassurance from her hand.

“Why are you bleeding?” Randall asked.

“Your rear left tire is worn! We’re going to have to replace it or the Prince’s carriage will blow a flat on his way to get the Princess!” Lenny hollered. He was absolutely giddy and animated, like a walking f**king Christmas tree.

I didn’t know who to respond to first, but looking to Kate had become my default move in all things. “Oh, that,” I started. “I just wanted to check out that place upstairs again.  But, I couldn’t find a light switch and I slipped down the stairs.”

“You have a key?” Randall inquired, displeased with what this might insinuate.

“Just to take a look at the place.”

“Randall, would you stop being so paranoid? You can’t afford it right now. He thinks the place is his, but it was never offered to him.” Kate was coming to my defense! “Are you okay, Joe?”

“Oh, yes I can too afford it,” Randall interrupted. “You don’t think I’m going to support you two my whole life, do you?” He stared at both Kate and Brett, and I could only wonder what situation they all had going, but I wasn’t the one asking the questions now.

“You’re not supporting anybody,” she corrected him, but there was still an element of playfulness between the two of them.  

“Oh my God! Blood!” Lenny said, and he threw his hands over his mouth at the sight of my forehead and ran to the flowerbed where he made short, staccato heaving noises like a guinea pig choking on a pellet.

“He can’t stand the sight of blood,” Brett said, seemingly getting a pretty good kick out of the whole thing, and I was starting to, as well.

“I’ll be fine!” Lenny’s muffled voice cried. He removed his head from the daisies and returned to the scene, taking exaggeratedly deep breaths with his hand over his heart in a Pledge of Allegiance pose. But then he disappeared into his van and spun out of the lot, dispensing no goodbyes.

“That goes for me, too,” I said after a belated pause, and reiterating Lenny’s comment, I looked to both Kate and Brett. “I’ll be fine.”  

Her hand was resting on my car door and I wanted so much to place my own over it, but instead I fiddled thoughtlessly with the buttons on the radio and cleared my throat once or twice.

“You know, if you want it, you should just take it,” Randall demanded in what seemed to be his best attempt at a conciliatory tone, and I thought he was reading my mind until realizing he was speaking of the room above, not the hand below. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I said.

“No, really, you should just take it.”  

He spoke in short gruff breaths that told you he had little patience for a challenge.

“Well, I guess it’ll all get figured out,” I said.

He also didn’t like not having the final word.  

“Take it,” he said. “It’s a dump, anyway.”  

He walked off to the station wagon and seemed surprised and displeased when he wasn’t immediately followed.

“It’s not a dump,” Kate said, removing her hand from my door and running it through her softest hair as a breeze swiftly arrived to assist her, like an animated songbird would Snow White.

“C’mon,” Randall said, barely turning his back as he got in the car.

“Well, I’ll see you guys soon,” I said, attempting to both quell the tension and end the conversation. My resources for feigned calmness were exhausted. 

“See you next week, buddy,” Brett said, patting me on the arm.

“Don’t worry about Randall,” Kate said. “It’s that ‘artistic temperament’ thing. He just needs to get to know you.”  

And, with that, she smiled at me.

“Okay. Thanks,” I said.

I watched her dance back to the car in the same way she had danced out of it, supplying graceful bookends to a wonderful performance.

On the drive home, I had to pull over to the side of the road at least three times, as I my heart continued to beat hard. I had to make a conscious effort to breathe correctly. There had been episodes in my life where I had suffered from panic attacks and this sensation was quite similar. There were also times when I questioned my own sanity, if only due to the fact I *had* panic attacks. But I had never experienced anything in my life that came even close to what happened in that empty apartment, and it was affecting me deeply.  

I could be rightfully accused of having a nervous personality. I had often been told I think too much about everything, and under normal circumstances my physiological system seemed to run like that of my old car –  with an idle that had been sadistically toggled up a few notches. That was just who I was at that time, and after years of trying to change it, I was at last resigned to it. My then-drinking provided brief oases of peace, shutting off all that damned noise, but always with a price to be paid, of course. But I had never heard voices, or felt the unwanted, panicked and cold embrace of someone or something that had no right to be there in the first place.

When I arrived home, I barely shared a word with Potsie or Ralph, and I didn’t broach the subject of moving out. Instead, I went directly into my ritual of drinking in the dark, popping open five Bass Ale bottle caps in a row so as to have no interruptions in getting to my initial buzz.

 And yet my mind returned to Kate, replaying and rearranging like a composer the better parts of my moments with her, and searching for promise in the words Beethoven had so vigorously spoken. And, I eventually dismissed my fears that I might be completely falling off my nut with regard to the apartment incident. Any creative type is a little off and I was certainly under more stress than someone who was not trying to make a life for himself in a business that never really wants you in the first place. Besides, anyone who is *really* crazy doesn’t know it in the first place, never mind stew and worry about it, I consoled myself. It was at least a soothing enough rationale to help me dismiss that terrifying experience when alone in the apartment Mr. Crocetti offered to me. And by the time Labor Day Weekend rolled around, I was too busy learning lines and packing bags. And tracing the outline of a golden key in my jeans pocket.  

 

*From “Evercreek Falls,” a novel by Todd De Martinis. Copyright ©2020. All Rights Reserved.