Viola in the Spotlight

  Grand lives in a white-brick high-rise on the East Side of Manhattan at 80th and York, overlooking the East River. I take the subway to her apartment, and take Cleo out while she and George are at rehearsal. Grand wants her mind free to work on the play, and hiring me means she can relax about Cleo. It also means I can hang around and wait for her and George to come home. I like to be with them; they have such interesting jobs and meet fascinating people.

  Rehearsals for Arsenic and Old Lace are held in a studio on 45th Street and Ninth Avenue. Play rehearsals don’t take place in the theater where the play will run. During rehearsals, there is no set, no lights, no costumes, just tape on the floor to show where the scenery will go. Rehearsals are all about blocking and finding the meaning of the play. When they’re not in rehearsal, the actors are kept busy with costume fittings and publicity.

  Grand and George love to walk home together after rehearsal, because it gives them a chance to hash through everything the director told them. “I do my best thinking on my feet,” Grand says. It is a requirement of all New Yorkers to love walking. Even when you take a train or a bus, you have to get to the station or stop, and then walk to your destination.

  Grand swears she is trim and in good health because she walks everywhere. “Never set foot in a gym in my life, and only married one once.” (She refers to my former step-granddad Jim.) So Grand didn’t need a dog to walk as an excuse to get off the couch, as she was already a confirmed city walker. When she has the time, she has even “pep stepped” down the East Side of Manhattan and over the Brooklyn Bridge to visit us. She considers the Brooklyn Bridge a work of art, and feels part of its majesty when she hikes across it. Usually, we pick her up on the Brooklyn side of the bridge, because we live pretty far from it. Grand is a die-hard New Yorker, through and through. I inherited my love of the city from her.

  Grand’s apartment is cheery and warm. There are large modern paintings on the walls, including a newly framed poster from the regional theater production of Arsenic and Old Lace. She and George are listed in the credits.

  Her furniture is comfortable, and some pieces are antiques. She collects odds and ends on her travels, so nothing really matches, but it still looks good altogether. Her terrace is like an extra room. French doors lead to a suite of garden furniture and a small gurgling fountain with a Buddha statue overlooking the East River.

  The key turns in the lock. Cleo commences barking.

  “Cleo baby!” Grand says. Cleo makes a beeline for Grand and George. George picks her up and nuzzles her as Grand peels off her sunhat and throws her keys into an African basket by the door.

  “How’d she do?” George wants to know. I can’t help but notice that adults are most concerned about the smallest, whether it is a dog or a child.

  “I took her to the dog run on Eighty-sixth. She ruled the park.”

  “Of course she did. This dog has self-esteem. She put those weeks in the shelter behind her and found her voice.”

  “She should run for mayor,” I tell Grand.

  “Cocktail time,” George says. “What’ll it be?”

  “Iced green tea for me,” I say.

  “I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Grand says.

  I follow Grand into the kitchen while George fixes our cocktails on the drink cart in the living room. Grand takes several packages of fancy cheeses marked with foil medallions from the fridge and unwraps them.

  “What’s happening in Brooklyn?” Grand slices the cheese.

  “Mom and Dad are cutting their doc.”

  “How’s it going?” Grand places the cheese on a platter and fans the crackers around the edge.

  “It’s going to be excellent.”

  “How about your friends?”

  “Andrew is getting ready for camp. And Caitlin has fallen for Maurice.”

  “Can you blame her? He is a handsome young man.”

  “If her parents find out, they will kill her.”

  “She hasn’t told her parents?”

  “Are you kidding? They have Caitlin’s entire life planned out. And there is no mention of boys anywhere in the conversation, ever.”

  “Too bad. Relationships are a lovely respite from work. And by fifteen, a young lady should begin navigating those waters.”

  “I guess.” I suppose in my own small way, I have a canoe on those waters already.

  “It’s appropriate for young ladies to be courted. If a parent forbids that, the young lady will eventually place too much emphasis on boys, and that leads to sneaking, and lying, and all those things we don’t want you to do.”

  “Age-appropriate behavior. That’s what Mom calls it.”

  “Well, she is one hundred percent correct. Take it from me, I learned this the hard way. My parents forbade me to date until I was eighteen, and that was a mistake. I didn’t become friends with boys. Friendship is where you learn about someone and what makes them tick. I looked at men like a mystery, and therefore remained in the dark. Until now, that is.” She smiles. “The whole trick to boys, or men, as the case may be, is to be a friend first.” Grand takes a sip of her drink. “Now tell me, what’s troubling you?”

  “Caitlin’s fallen hard for Maurice. He’s totally into her, too. Caitlin uses me as an excuse to see him, because if she told her mom that she liked a boy, she’d never let her come over. I’m afraid it’s gonna be Romeo and Juliet all over again.”

  “And you’re Friar Laurence.” Grand puts the pieces together the best way she knows how—by visualizing my friends and me in the cast of a Shakespearean tragedy in which she has performed a featured role sometime in her long career.

  “Yeah, the guy who delivers the poison.”

  “Well, he did pray over them in the final scene, but he was supportive of their love. The friar knew it was real. So you’re rooting for Caitlin and Maurice?”

  “Why not? She’s happy.”

  “I don’t understand why parents forbid these friendships. It’s an exercise in futility. Nothing stands in the way of young love, nothing, and especially not hovering parents. Look at Caitlin—she’s forced to rebel to follow her heart’s desire.”

  “And she’s not even that type.”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s a dutiful daughter.” Grand picks up the cheese tray. “A pleaser.”

  I follow Grand out to the terrace. Cleo nips at her heels on the way.

  “What a day. What a day.” Grand stretches out on the chaise. George serves us our drinks and sits. He extends his long legs on a wicker chair with an ottoman. I perch on a bar stool near the French doors.

  “How was rehearsal?” I sip my tea sweetened with wild honey.

  “Ask George.”

  “Well, we’ve got the play blocked, and now we’re off book.” George smiles.

  “But you already know your lines from the regional production, right?”

  “Yes, we do. But in the hands of a new director, we have to listen to his view of the play, and what he envisions. We almost have to let go of the other production entirely.”

  “Gone. Gone.” Grand makes a flourish with her hand.

  George laughs. “Les Longfellow is a real thinker. He put the play in a social context of our times.”

  “Black comedy is big when the stock market is down,” Grand says.

  “Anyhow, it’s like working on an entirely different play,” George says.

  “Let’s talk about you,” Grand says. “You should be shadowing someone. After all, what good are connections if we don’t use them?”

  “Who would walk Cleo?”

  “There are hours in between your dog-walking duties. What are you doing in the downtime?”

  “Hanging out. Texting.”

  “A colossal waste of time. Thumb gymnastics. Communication for communication’s sake. No, you need a purpose now more than ever, or all you will end up with is nimble fingers on that blueberry.”

  “BlackBerry,” I correct her.

  “Whatever. The point is: You need a summer proj
ect.”

  “Do you like the theater, Viola?” George asks.

  “Yes, I do. I mean, I’m a filmmaker really. But I know that storytelling began onstage, in front of a live audience. And I know I need to master it, in order to direct movies someday.”

  “If you had to pick an area of expertise in the theater, any of the skills, which would you choose to master?” George asks.

  “You know, when I picked up a camera, my dad taught me that the most important element is the lighting. It makes film art.”

  “Then you must work with Julius! He’s our lighting designer. And an old and dear friend of mine. I’ll ask him if you can intern on his crew.”

  “You would be learning from the best,” George says.

  Grand’s idea fills me with excitement and dread. I’d have to meet a lot of new people, old Broadway hands at that. What will they think of me, a girl who basically knows nothing about what they do? But it’s not a bad idea, as I would become a better filmmaker if I learned the technique and use of lighting. It’s one thing to shoot on video with ambient light, but it’s another entirely to know how to create a mood with instruments. It’s eye music really.

  Grand grabs her phone and scrolls through until she finds the number she is looking for.

  “Julius darling? Yes, it’s Coral.” She laughs. “I’ve got a lovely teenage granddaughter who needs grunt work this summer.”

  She listens.

  “She’ll do anything,” Grand adds. “Excellent.” She pauses. “Shall I send her to the brownstone tomorrow?” She listens. “Thank you, Julius. You won’t be sorry.” Grand hangs up the phone.

  “That’s done! Your summer project. Now I can rest,” Grand says, and she literally, like the great actress she is, indicates the actual behavior of resting and closes her eyes dramatically. Her gin and tonic sweats clear beads in her perfectly manicured, artful long fingers.

  George winks at me. “Rest? That’ll be the day.”

  Cleo jumps onto my lap, resting her paws on my thigh. She looks up at me. “Well, Cousin Cleo,” I say. “It looks like I have a second job.”

  Someday I hope to live in Greenwich Village. Nothing wrong with Brooklyn, but my parents lived in the Village when they were students, long before they were married and before I was born. When the landlord jacked up their rent on 8th Street, and Mom became pregnant with me, they couldn’t afford Manhattan anymore, so they moved to Bay Ridge.

  Mom and Dad do a lot of maintenance on our building; though the Martinellis took good care of it, there have been many repairs. Mom calls our building an old lady—and she refers to any paint jobs as cosmetic, and any major fix-ups as face-lifts. Our building is like an aging movie star, good bones in need of the occasional fix.

  My dream of all dreams is to someday live on Charles Street or West 10th or Bank Street—anywhere in the West Village in Manhattan, below 14th Street. There are lots of cabaret clubs in the Village, and theaters, too—like the Cherry Lane on Commerce Street. NYU and the New School are there too. The streets are shady and wind through the neighborhood like ribbons. I like to film them because the light plays off the bricks, creating a beautiful patina.

  I look down at the paper instructing me where to go. Julius Ross lives at 56 Charles Street. The stoop is staggered with terra-cotta pots filled with red geraniums. I ring the bell.

  “Who is it?” The voice crackles through the speaker.

  “Viola Chesterton. Your intern.”

  The door buzzes loudly. I push it open and enter the long, dark entryway, brightened up by floor-to-ceiling paintings. A handsome guy in his twenties skips down the stairs toward me. I thought Julius Ross would be ancient. Boy, was I wrong.

  “Hello, Mr. Ross,” I say politely.

  The young man throws his head back and laughs. “I’m Barry. I’m Julius’s assistant.”

  “Oh, sorry. You know, I Googled, but couldn’t find a single picture of Mr. Ross.”

  “That’s on purpose. He hates publicity.”

  “Then why is he in show business?”

  Barry laughs louder and longer this time. “Great, Violet.”

  “Viola.”

  “Right, right. Like Viola Spolin, the acting teacher.”

  “Don’t know who that is.”

  “You gonna be a theater major someday?”

  “Film.”

  “Smart girl. No money in the theater.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I’m in grad school at NYU. This is my penance I’m working off. Come on in. I’ll show you the office.”

  I follow Barry into a living room that is decorated like the stage set of an Agatha Christie mystery. The walls are painted dark blue, the furniture is covered in all shades of blue and mostly in velvet, the draperies have big gold tassels, and the walls are filled with more weird art. A pair of sconces, one in the comedy mask and the other tragedy, are centered over the fireplace. I follow Barry into the back of the brownstone.

  “Wow. He has a lot of paintings.”

  “They’re all from sets of plays that he designed the lights for.” Barry moves a rolling chair out of his path. “It’s kind of a theme with him.”

  The back room, filled with light, has floor-to-ceiling French doors that open onto a green garden, a mass of tangled vines and shrubs. Buried in the green mess is a statue of Aphrodite, who, weirdly enough, wears a red ski cap. I can’t take my eyes off it.

  “Harold Prince, the director, put that knit cap on Aphrodite at one of Julius’s New Year’s parties. Julius swears he’ll never take it off.” Barry takes a seat behind a desk. A drawing table with a light plot taped to it is angled to get the most light from the doors and windows. The office is cluttered with lots of files, rolls of paper, and squares of gels—cellophane squares placed over lighting instruments to throw different colors. “Okay, your mission, should you choose to take it—”

  “I’m here to serve,” I remind him.

  “—is to run your buns all over New York City. When Julius is in production, he needs stuff from here all the time. So you’re gonna spend a lot of time on the subway bringing him stuff.”

  “No problem.”

  “He’s kind of cranky.”

  “I can handle it,” I promise.

  “Okay. Then take this envelope up to Julius. He’s at the theater now. They’re doing a walk-through. Here’s your MetroCard. Let me know when you need another. When you’re done, just come back here.” Barry sits down at his desk and types on his laptop.

  “I have to walk my grandmother’s dog at noon.”

  “Fine. Then after that,” he says without looking up. “But get him this envelope now.”

  “Absolutely.” I take the envelope and turn to go. “Uh, Barry?”

  “Are you wondering if you get paid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll get a letter of recommendation at the end of the summer. And if you do a good job, Julius will throw some cash at you.”

  “Great.”

  “But don’t count on it.” Barry grins.

  “I won’t.”

  I hop on the A train at West 4th and head to midtown to the theater. I don’t know if it’s the envelope, or the mission, or the fact that I really am a summer intern for a Broadway lighting designer, but I can’t help but smile. Somehow, I feel I’m on my way. Where? Can’t say. But somewhere.

  The stage door to the Helen Hayes Theatre is propped open with an old can of black deck paint. As I enter the theater, I hear a lot of shouting. I squint in the dark from the side aisle. A man with a gold hoop earring and a bald head is yelling at two other men, who are neither bald nor wearing earrings. They dress more like my dad, in jeans and button-down shirts.

  “Julius, we can’t spare the first row of the mezz. It’s already a small theater. The producers don’t want us to remove a single seat.”

  “They never do! But they don’t have to light the thing. I’m supposed to create mood here—instead, it’s going to look like the inside o
f a CVS drugstore. Bright, blue, and blinding…tell them they can go and—”

  The man with the earring feels my eyes on him. He squints and looks out at me. “Who are you?” he thunders.

  “I’ve got an envelope for Mr. Ross.”

  “Move it, kid. I haven’t got all day.”

  I practically run to the lip of the stage. Mr. Ross holds out his hand for the envelope as he continues to argue with the men in the oxford shirts. He rips into the envelope as he continues his tirade. When he pulls out the content of the envelope, he gets even angrier. I start to back out of the theater.

  “Come here,” he growls at me. He fishes in his pocket. “We need coffee.” He hands me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Get three black with cream on the side,” Mr. Ross growls.

  They don’t call artists temperamental for nothing.

  I find a deli on the corner of 48th and Ninth. I place the coffee order and gather up the little drum creamers and load my pockets with them. I grab napkins and stirrers. I load the black coffee cups into the cardboard carrier, then, juggling them very carefully, head back to the Helen Hayes.

  I enter the dark theater, making my way down the aisle to the stage. I place the coffee on the stage and look around. Mr. Ross and the men are no longer onstage. I take a seat and wait for them. I scroll through my messages. Marisol sent a photo of herself in the garden department of Target, sitting under a giant umbrella holding a decorative frog; Mom sent a reminder of when I have to be home; and Maurice texted for me to cover for Caitlin, as they are taking the Staten Island Ferry to and from lower Manhattan. I text him back to make it a snappy trip. Is it me or are they getting awfully bold, knowing the situation with Caitlin’s parents?

  I look down at my watch. I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes by now. I touch the paper coffee cups, which are still warm but beginning to cool. “Mr. Ross?” I call out.

  No answer. I call Barry at the office; it goes to voice mail. I leave a message for him to call me back. I put my phone on vibrate and place it on the seat next to me. God forbid it goes off and Mr. Ross hears it.

  I settle down into the cool seat in the dark theater and wait.