Viola in the Spotlight

TWELVE

  I FILM THE ENTRANCE OF 116 PROSPECT STREET, then the sign over the door: THE METROPOLITAN INSURANCE AGENCY. I flip on the sound. “Video diary, take note. I am outside Mrs. Pullapilly’s office. When I turn the camera off, I will go inside. And I will hopefully see Mrs. P and explain my side of the story regarding Caitlin. How will it turn out?”

  I flip off the camera. Whenever I have a challenge, a test, or a tense situation, I often record myself before I have to do the very thing that scares me. This certainly qualifies as one of those moments.

  I slip the camera back into the case. I sign in at the front desk and head for the elevator to the seventh floor. I have an instinct with each step to just turn and run. After all, I know what awaits me—and it isn’t pretty.

  When I get to the seventh floor, the receptionist is gone. I check the sign for the names of the employees. I find Mrs. P in suite 701. I push through the glass doors and look for 701.

  I knock softly on Mrs. Pullapilly’s office door.

  “Come in,” she says from inside.

  I push the walnut door open. Mrs. Pullapilly’s office overlooks the East River. Her decor is homey, yet professional. “Hi, Mrs. Pullapilly.”

  She looks up at me, and her stern expression softens a little. People who can be scary sometimes know it, and she knows she scares me. “How are you, Viola?”

  “I’m okay.” I force a smile. Then I remember my manners. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” she says.

  “Well, I guess you know why I’m here.”

  “Do I?” she says softly.

  “I came to talk to you about Maurice and Caitlin.”

  “It’s not really any of your business.” She smiles tensely.

  “But it is. We’re all friends. And now that’s been ruined.”

  “Caitlin lied to me, and we do not stand for that in our home.”

  “Nobody does, Mrs. Pullapilly.”

  “You were part of the lie, Viola.”

  “And I’m very sorry,” I tell her.

  “I accept your apology,” Mrs. Pullapilly says.

  We sit in silence for a moment. Mrs. Pullapilly taps her pen on her desk and looks down.

  “I was just being loyal. Mrs. P, they are not criminals. They just like to be together. They had a spark from the first moment.”

  “It’s not possible for Caitlin.”

  “They really care for each other.”

  “I don’t question that, Viola.”

  “I think I might understand some things about liking a boy. I can see liking a boy, and wanting to spend time with him, if he was good and kind and smart. You must have liked Mr. P when you met him.”

  Mrs. P actually smiles for the first time since the restaurant. “It’s different.”

  “Maurice isn’t from India, but he’s a good guy.”

  “I’m sure he’s very nice. But the circumstances are not. Caitlin has great potential. My mother warned me when we moved here that the United States is permissive, and that would eventually cause me problems. And it has. She was right. Listen to your mother.”

  “But this isn’t about permissiveness, or American culture—it’s about Caitlin. She’s a very good person. She is a loving friend. You wouldn’t want her to give up the violin because somebody banned the instrument. It’s the same with someone’s heart. If a girl has a passion for music, it’s possible she might also love field hockey, or chemistry or…sometimes…even a boy.”

  Mrs. Pullapilly looks out the window. I think she took in what I said, but with parents, it’s often hard to tell.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway, Viola. Maurice is going back to England, and Caitlin will go back to school.”

  I take a deep breath. At least the Pullapillys aren’t going to send Caitlin to India for school. “So…love can’t find her if they are continents apart.”

  “Exactly correct.” Mrs. P finally agrees with me.

  “I’m sorry I was part of the deception.”

  “I was very surprised that you were. I trusted you, Viola.”

  I get up and go to the door. Then I turn and face Mrs. Pullapilly.

  “He’s just a boy, Mrs. Pullapilly.” I take a breath. “Will you reconsider allowing Caitlin to come to the play tonight? My grandmother has tickets for you and Mr. Pullapilly, too.”

  “We were very happy to be included. But circumstances have changed, and we won’t be able to make it.”

  Once I’m out on the street, I flip on the camera and turn the lens back toward the building. “I have the answer to how the meeting with Mrs. Pullapilly went. Not well. Not well at all.”

  My bedroom on opening night reminds me of our quad at Prefect when all four of us were getting ready to go out. Blow-dryers whirl, music blares, and there is a lot of shouting and peals of the kind of laughter that begets more laughter. Trying to put on makeup when you’re laughing is impossible. Also, trying to put on makeup only to look like we’re not wearing any (or too much) is, frankly, absurd.

  We have our quirks when it comes to dressing up.

  Marisol always tries on twelve variations of one outfit. (Leggings? No. Skirt and leggings? Maybe. Blouse tucked in? No. Out? Yes? Belted?) For every outfit Marisol tries on, Romy does the same with her hairdo. (Up, down, braid, loose, side part, center part, no part. Curlers? No. Flatiron? Yes.)

  I agonize about shoes: yellow flats or blue patent platforms, espadrilles or closed shoes? It isn’t just a fashion choice to me, but an actual statement of where I’m going. I have a lot of shoes because I like to cover a lot of ground.

  Suzanne, unlike Marisol, Romy, or me, puts out minimal effort when it comes to wardrobe, hair, makeup, and accessories. She has the same approach whenever we glam up for a special night. Suzanne disappears to go for a run, or grabs a snack, or takes her laptop to read the news online or answer emails. Then, in the final moments, just before it’s time to go, she breezes in, throws on a dress and flats, anchors a hair band to her head, checks the look in the mirror, and is done. The results are exactly right. Without any stress at all, Suzanne looks like she lives in a Ralph Lauren bubble blown by Kate Spade.

  Mom pokes her head in the door. “Looking good, girls.”

  Marisol whistles at Mom.

  “Mom, you look amazing,” I tell her.

  Mom is wearing a white sleeveless dress with silver spangles along the hem. She wears silver strappy sandals on her feet. Her hair has highlights (from the salon, not the box), and she wears pink lipstick. “Thank you,” she says. “Everybody’s ready downstairs.”

  The girls grab their purses, and we file out of my room and follow Mom down the stairs. I grab my camera and quickly flip it on. I get a nice shot of the girls and Mom going down the front stairs.

  Mom wears a perfume called Coco, and the scent of jasmine and lilies trails behind her like a summer bouquet.

  Andrew is in the foyer, wearing a suit (he had a lot of weddings in his family this year, so his dad took him to Syms and bought him one). He looks handsome. If he wasn’t my BFFAA, I would think he was a catch.

  “Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, when he spots me staring at him.

  “Your tie is crooked,” I tell him.

  “Well, fix it.”

  I fix Andrew’s tie, and for a moment, we’re back on the roof when he kissed me. I step back and remember how that kiss practically shipwrecked our entire friendship.

  “Thanks,” Andrew says, checking his tie in the hallway mirror.

  Mr. Santry is in his wheelchair. He and Dad are wearing tuxedos. Mrs. Santry looks beautiful in a long dress the color of eggplant. She wears turquoise shoes and carries a matching purse. Mom holds her purse while she fixes Mr. Santry’s bow tie.

  I go in for a close-up and catch Mrs. Santry making Mr. Santry laugh as she adjusts the bow tie and then smooths his lapels.

  I widen out and include my roomies in the shot.

  “Well, look at the lovely ladies,” Dad says. “Andrew, you are a lucky fellow.”


  All five of us turn shades of red from pale pink (Suzanne) to fuchsia (Romy). Nothing worse than my dad sounding like a Vegas opening act when referring to my friends and me.

  Dad arranged for a minibus to take us into the city. We follow Mom and Mrs. Santry down the front steps. Dad and Andrew help Mr. Santry down the ramp in his wheelchair. My parents and I were worried about getting Mr. Santry around the city, but we haven’t had a problem. Everyone pitches in and helps. Sometimes Mr. Santry seems concerned that he is a bother because he needs help, but we joke him out of it.

  I film our group as they load into the minibus. Once we’re inside, I take a slow pan of the street through the window.

  “Bridge or tunnel?” the driver says.

  “Bridge!” we holler.

  As we sail across the Brooklyn Bridge, the sun begins to set, far in the west, behind Manhattan, and beyond New Jersey. In the foreground, the sky over the city turns lavender with streaks of orange. The skyscrapers turn a dull silver in the setting sun.

  The cables suspended over the Brooklyn Bridge look like the threads of a spiderweb in the light. Twilight sets the perfect mood for opening night. There is a feeling of promise, and the hope of magic to come.

  “What happened to Maurice?” Romy asks as she adjusts the spaghetti straps of her dress with her thumbs.

  “He ended up going into the city with his dad earlier.”

  “So he’s coming to the show after all?” Suzanne asks.

  “His dad made him.”

  “He should go. After all, he interned for his dad,” Marisol says practically.

  “I don’t think Maurice is in the mood to do anything but mope.”

  “Viola, did Caitlin ever call you?”

  “No. I think I made it worse going to see her mother.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Suzanne says. “You needed to explain what really happened.”

  “Well, I did do that. But I don’t think she liked what I had to say.”

  “There are times when no explanation will do.” Andrew checks the light gauge on my camera. “You tried, Vi. You reached out to her, and it didn’t get you the result you wanted. But you know—you were always friends with Caitlin, and you always will be. Once schools starts, maybe things will get back to normal.”

  I don’t know why I do this, but when I feel bad, I think about things that actually make me feel worse. I want to have a wonderful time tonight, but somehow, it won’t be as good without Caitlin. And even though I found Maurice and her a bit much this summer, with the hand holding and the whispering, I never wanted to see either of them unhappy. And somehow, I blame myself for all of this. I knew what would happen if Mrs. P found out about Maurice, and I just didn’t do enough to stop the inevitable.

  One of the things I learned at boarding school was that sometimes you just have to let things play out. Jared Spencer showed signs of being a dork, but I didn’t break it off right away, because, let’s face it, anybody can be a dork depending on the situation, including me. So, instead of ending my relationship with Jared when I saw signs that it might not work, I let it play out. I did the same thing with my idea for my first film. I didn’t know where it was going, but I wrote the script, and once I got it on its feet, the actors (Grand and George) helped me find the spine of the thing. And when I’m editing footage, I often think to cut away from something because it seems repetitive or not very interesting, but if I leave it there for a while, the answer comes, and I figure out how to make it work, or in the end, I cut it. But I never go in there like Edward Scissorhands and hack the piece into a shape that appears pleasing just to finish. I wait it out.

  Caitlin’s mom couldn’t see that she needed to let things play out. Mrs. P is not that type of mother or person. She has a plan in place. Any deviation from that plan is interpreted as defiance, and that does not fly in any fashion in the Pullapilly home. I almost wish Caitlin had a year at Prefect, to get her sea legs and make some decisions on her own. Maybe then, Mrs. Pullapilly would see that Caitlin is intelligent and has good sense.

  The minibus pulls up to the front of the theater. First, the driver helps Mr. Santry out, with a small ramp attached to the running board. Then we pile out. Andrew waits for the girls to exit. He’s the last one out. I flip on the camera and begin to film the Opening Crowd.

  A strong beam of sunset light pours from the west onto 44th Street. There is a lot of upbeat chatter, and the audience is dressed for opening night. A lot of dazzling sequins, end-of-summer dresses, ruffles, and tuxedos. I take a deep breath. Of all the things I have loved about Grand’s opening nights through the years, it’s the scents of ladies’ perfumes, all mingled together, like the whoosh you get in the rare flower room at the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx. It’s heady, it’s clean, and it’s completely exotic. It’s almost as if the theater becomes an enchanted island, complete with the breeze of the scent of rare flowers.

  Mom hands us our tickets.

  “You guys can hang out here. We’re early,” she says, smiling at us. She turns to follow the Santrys and my dad into the theater. Then she turns back to me. She leans in, puts her hand on my face, and whispers in my ear, “I know you miss Caitlin. But let’s have fun.”

  I nod that I will try. Mom follows the crowd into the ticket line, which is moving quickly to let people into their seats.

  “Let’s get a shot from across the street,” Andrew says.

  Andrew and I wait for some traffic to pass. We run across the street. From the uptown side, we film the facade of the Helen Hayes Theatre. I think about Grand inside, who has been ready for a few hours. She has walked through her cues onstage, put on her wig, stepped into her dress and shoes, and now is moments away from being an old, funny, dotty lady, Aunt Martha.

  “Here,” Andrew says, taking the camera. He lifts it and gets a nice shot of the marquee. “Viola?”

  “Yeah?” I look up at Andrew.

  Andrew says, “You look pretty.”

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  Andrew looks as if he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” I tell him.

  “It was a long year without you,” he says.

  “It may be a long year with me, Andrew. You’re about to find out.”

  We laugh and cross the street, joining Romy and Suzanne and Marisol. “Is it time?” Romy says, excited.

  “This is it.” I place my camera in the leather tote Grand gave me, burying it under a sleeve of chamois cloth. I pull out my ticket. “Ready, guys?”

  We line up to go into the theater. Once inside, I realize Marisol is not with us. I look out the door and see her on the sidewalk, taking it all in. She stands in the last beams of the setting August sun, and I swear, for a moment, if she could fly, she would. She’d sail over the city and between the tips of the skyscrapers with only the light from the windows and streetlamps to guide her. Marisol has fallen in love with New York City, and she’s got it bad.

  “Marisol!” I shout.

  She turns and looks at me.

  “Let’s go.”

  She smiles and gets on the line with us. I love that we get to sit in the first row. Mom, Dad, Mrs. Santry, and Mr. Santry (whose chair tucks in nicely into a gap on the aisle) sit in the center of the orchestra, in the second row.

  We take our seats and programs and look up at the grand curtain, which is covered with images of berries made by gobos over the lighting instruments. The berries are inspired by the ingredients used to make poisonous elderberry wine. Julius Ross designed his own patterns and cut them into the metal squares so the audience would be greeted by the exact right image. Julius may be a temperamental artist, and a man who ran me all over the city on crazy errands, but he’s also a brilliant lighting designer, which makes up for his impatience and trying personality.

  Maurice slips into the empty aisle seat next to me.

  “You okay?” I whisper.

  “Horrid.”

 
“I’m sorry, Maurice.”

  “I miss her,” he says.

  “So do I.”

  “I tried to talk to her parents.”

  “So did I.”

  “They told me it wasn’t possible for me to see her.”

  “It’s awful.”

  “You know what is the worst thing of all?” Maurice turns to me.

  “What?”

  “I really adore her. Really and truly. I would never hurt her. And somehow, her parents believe that I will.”

  “It’s not you, Maurice. It would be any boy that she liked.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier. Every person wants to be seen for who they truly are. Not some silly idea of what they think you are.”

  The curtain rises to the wah-wah music of the 1930s that Mr. Longfellow played until we all wanted to scream. But somehow, in the dark theater, the old-fashioned music hits exactly the right notes and strikes exactly the right mood.

  I turn and look up at the follow-spot operators who stand at the ready like fighter pilots. The curtain lifts, and the Brewster living room in Brooklyn comes to life. Afternoon shadows grace the vintage wallpaper. All the levels of the set, the stairs, the upstage windows, the downstage floor, the alcove where the bodies are kept inside an antique bench, are illuminated with exacting pools of light to portend the antics of the black comedy to come.

  The opening-night audience bursts into applause when Grand and Mary Pat Gleason mix their brew downstage as the play begins.

  George Dvorsky enters, and the women in the audience take in a breath. I memorize every detail so I can tell Caitlin about it later. She will be so sad to have missed it.

  I look across the aisle at Mom and Dad and the Santrys. Mr. Santry has propped his elbows on the handles of his wheelchair and leans in, to catch every word. He is in the moment.

  I realize that I’ve been holding my breath from nerves for Grand. By the time the third scene of the first act comes around, I’m able to relax. Andrew places his hand on mine, and that makes me feel better. I look up at him, but Andrew keeps his eyes on the play.

  I thread my fingers through his and hold his hand tightly. He smiles and gives my hand a squeeze. I feel a pang of the excitement I felt when Jared Spencer held my hand for the first time.