Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (17 page)

He pauses and everyone claps. I note that the tenor of these remarks is vastly different from what Oliver said Thursday night after Lisette died, when her father was not within earshot. Then he tossed out phrases like:
This production is the toughest I’ve ever worked on and that’s because of Lisette Longley. She was hardly a friend of mine. I’m not going to start pretending now that she was.

Oliver goes on. “I’ve tried to think of ways in which we, her theater colleagues, can honor Lisette. To that end, I have the pleasure of unveiling the new poster for
Dream Angel
. So without further ado—”

He unrolls the poster and holds it up for all to see. For the most part it’s identical to the original, which features an illustration of a beautiful woman grabbing at a flying tiara as if it were the bridal bouquet at a wedding reception. This version is different in one big way. In the upper left corner, occupying a lot of prime real estate, is a photo of Lisette along with the phrase:
In loving and grateful memory of Lisette Longley, librettist extraordinaire
.

I bet Oliver worked closely with Warren Longley on this. I meet the gaze of Tonya Shepherds, who’s standing across the room. She was sure right when she told us that Lisette’s photo would land on
Dream Angel
’s promo materials.

Oliver is about to say more when a commotion erupts in the foyer. There’s lots of gabbing, laughing, even clapping. Seconds later I hear the rumble of a male voice, then more giddy conversation and applause. Finally, the crowd parts and a new arrival is revealed.

It’s none other than Broadway icon Oliver Tripp Sr.

He’s recognizable to those Americans who don’t live under rocks. I can spot a father/son resemblance, but in most ways Oliver Sr. and Oliver Jr. cut very different figures. Where Junior is skinny, Senior is portly. Where Junior is unkempt, Senior is impeccably groomed, today wearing a gorgeously tailored white suit with a pink and white striped bowtie and matching pocket square. And while Junior often assumes a meek demeanor, Senior always seems bold as can be. He was a ragingly successful Broadway director and in his seventies still oversees the occasional production in theater-loving cities like Chicago, Minneapolis, and Charleston.

Bradley Cooper hustles over to shake hands and so does Warren Longley. But Oliver Jr. makes no move to greet his father. He simply observes the hullabaloo, mute and forgotten, his audience as lost as if they’d dematerialized. I get the idea this isn’t the first time his father has stolen his thunder.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Oliver Sr. says, though it’s too late for that. “I’ll just sneak over there by the back,” and he heads in my direction, shaking hands all the way, winking or waving at acquaintances, holding the floor even as he pretends to cede it. I expect him to veer off, but no, he keeps coming right at me. In the excitement I’ve been separated from Trixie and Shanelle and find myself in the rear by the windows. The hole-in-one golf ball is to my right and Senior claims a spot to my left. But not before he gives me a wink.

People settle down again. Oliver Jr., pipes up. “Well, safe to say my father is a man who needs no introduction.”

That sets off a fresh smattering of applause. Since I’m standing next to the new man of the hour, I feel compelled to participate, though for the first time ever I feel sorry for his son.

Why did Senior show up here? Clearly no one expected him, including our host. I’m pretty sure Senior has nothing to do with
Dream Angel
. I’ve never seen him around the theater and only once did I hear his son speak his name.

“Let’s remember what we’re here for today,” Junior says. “We’re here to celebrate the life of Lisette Longley.”

I doubt I’m the only one who hears what he doesn’t say:
We’re not here to celebrate my father.
Senior must have the same reaction because I sense him stiffen.

“Warren Longley and I are of the same mind in many respects,” Junior goes on. “We both love musical theater. Sure, we admire the symphony, the opera, the ballet, but nothing else fuels our passion quite the same way. And that is why Warren has been so generous to Broadway and Off-Broadway productions alike. He puts his money where his heart is.”

That sets off a new round of applause, particularly among us theater folk. Perhaps because the adulation is not directed at Senior this time, he manages only a cursory clap or two.

Junior sort of puffs up before he delivers his next line. “I am delighted to announce that Warren is showing even deeper faith in
Dream Angel
. He’s investing another half-million dollars in the musical.”

Before the word
musical
has even left Oliver Jr.’s lips, people are whooping and cheering. All the noise is a mercy because to my left I hear a surprising remark pop out of Oliver Sr. “Not sure that’s such great news. I told my son he shouldn’t be so dependent on one single investor, but do you think he listened?”

I don’t know who Senior is talking to. He’s not looking at me; in fact, he’s not looking at anybody. He’s staring straight ahead. But I heard that comment clearly and I’m pretty sure everybody else in our vicinity did, too.

“There’s another piece of exciting news I’d like to share,” Junior continues. “For those of you who don’t already know, we’re resuming previews for
Dream Angel
tomorrow night.”

A frisson courses through the crowd. That is precisely the rapid-fire timing Tonya predicted yesterday.

“Not only that,” Junior says. He takes a deep breath. “Warren and I have decided opening night will be this Wednesday.”

Wow! Less than one week after Lisette’s death. Tonya was right about this, too. As people murmur in surprise, I watch Tonya hug Oliver Jr. She’s doing a great job of looking thrilled, but boy, is she under pressure now, what with all the changes being made to the production. The entire cast and crew are, for that matter.

Before I came to Broadway, I would’ve thought most shows opened on Friday, like most movies. But unlike movies, whose reviews come out beforehand, a show’s all-important
Times
review traditionally comes out the morning
after
opening night. That’s why shows that expect a good review almost never open on Friday. They don’t want the review buried in the week’s least-read newspaper.

I’m making eye contact with Shanelle and Trixie, who look as amazed as I am at the opening-night news, when Senior pipes up again. “If I thought my son would listen,” he says, making zero effort to be quiet, “I’d tell him to slow down. Don’t restart the previews so fast! And for God’s sake, don’t move up opening night! But hell would have to freeze over before he’d take
my
advice.”

This time I’m positive everyone around us heard that remark. Several people throw shocked looks at Senior, myself included.

He keeps right on going. “Maybe my son could keep me away from the previews, but he sure won’t keep me away from opening night.” Then he turns and looks at me. “I’ll give you three guesses why he’s so hell-bent on keeping me away.”

I’m rarely at a loss for words, but I am now. What in the world is Senior doing? It sure seems like he’s deliberately trying to undermine his son. For it’s pretty darn clear that not only is everybody around us hearing these derogatory remarks, people further afield are, too. Including none other than Junior and Warren Longley, both of whom are frowning in our direction.

I hear myself speak. “How about you and I go get ourselves some wine?” I take Senior’s arm and try to pull him away from the throng. “Then we can chat.”

He doesn’t budge. “We can chat right here. Come on, guess why my son is keeping me away from those previews of his.”

“I am truly parched.” I tug harder. I don’t know what Senior will say next, but I do know I don’t want Junior—or Warren Longley—to hear it. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty, too. Plus, I’d love to chat just the two of us.”

No go. Senior just scowls at me. “Fine. If you won’t guess, I’ll tell you.” He raises his voice. “My son is embarrassed by
Dream Angel
!
That’s
why he doesn’t want me to see the previews!”

Senior’s insult reverberates around the room. I’m so stunned that I think my heart skips a beat. And even though now it’s too late to shut up the old meanie, I yank on his arm. Unfortunately, the man is as unyielding as a buffalo. And try though I might to keep my balance, my right arm flails into the small table atop which perches the hole-in-one golf ball.

I look to my right to see both the table and the crystal stand rocking. Aghast, I let go of Senior and grab at the stand, trying to make it stabilize.

That turns out to be exactly the wrong thing to do. Yes, I manage to seize the stand. But to my horrified disbelief, my quick grab launches the golf ball skyward.

I am riveted by the ball’s flight. And preoccupied though I may be, I perceive that I am not alone. A fraught silence descends upon the multitude as our eyes track the golf ball, now tracing an exquisite arc toward the chocolate fountain. I daresay the ball looked no more majestic as it sliced across Georgia’s beautiful blue sky on its momentous hole-in-one journey six months ago than it does right now.

Just as I’m wondering why in the world the Longley staff didn’t attach that darn golf ball to the stand after what by all rights should have been its final flight, it goes
plop
!—and lands smack dab on top of the chocolate fountain, yes, into the very hole from which the chocolate flows.

“Wow!” Trixie cries, “that golf ball is really good at getting holes in one!”

At that moment, as we stunned onlookers remain paralyzed in place, the chocolate fountain whirs to a stop. Luscious chocolate, Belgian or otherwise, no longer flows from it. Thanks to the golf ball plugging the hole, the fountain’s outer ring has ceased spinning as well, and a rather ominous silence has settled over the entire apparatus.

Seconds later, I don’t think I’m imagining it, a hiss begins to emanate from the chocolate fountain. It grows in volume until it becomes a shriek.

I guess I’m the type who’d stay to watch a train wreck because I stand mesmerized as the fountain begins to shudder. The harder it shakes, the more my stilettos seem rooted to the spot. The fountain’s outer ring again begins to spin, slowly at first, then gaining speed. Out of the corner of my eye I see the fountain’s minder back away, clearly too petrified to intervene. She called these European fountains “a little temperamental,” but I’m thinking that might be an understatement. For now I hear a menacing rumble from deep inside the fountain, as if it’s angry. Very angry. Sort of like Vesuvius before—

From behind me, Senior stomps closer to the fountain. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this damn thing?” he bellows. “What about what I have to say?”

I can’t imagine what more Senior has to say, and I suppose I’ll never find out, because the golf ball chooses that moment to rocket straight up toward the ceiling. Chocolate erupts behind it in a black rush. Now the ring is spinning wildly, whirling like a dervish, its spouts madly spraying chocolate near and far, streaking every surface it can find, from the Longley’s white walls and white carpets to the oh-so-modern white furniture and gorgeously attired hoity-toity guests.

Particularly hard hit is the only attendee to this affair who came uninvited. Legendary Broadway director Oliver Tripp Sr.

The chocolate cataclysm has just about run its course when Trixie materializes beside me. Since she was further afield, she’s sporting only one spot of chocolate on her cheek, which is nothing given the circs. “Now
that’s
a chocolate fountain!” she cries.

All around us, people are shrieking and yammering, swiping at their previously pristine ensembles and gaping at each other’s chocolate-smeared faces and hair. It is a mad, mad scene, like something out of a horror movie, except instead of blood everything is slathered with melted chocolate—from the area rugs to the walls to the ceiling to the buffet table. Bradley Cooper, impressively striped across his midsection, is waving his arms and hollering something at me that I don’t quite catch. Housekeepers buzz about wringing their hands and looking horror-stricken. The only person frozen in place is Senior, who’s been pelted with the brown stuff from bow to stern.

The bottom line is that it really, truly looks like a crime scene at the Willy Wonka Chocolate Factory. And I’m the perpetrator in chief.

Which has not been lost on our host.

Warren Longley barrels up to me, his clothes splotched with chocolate and his gray combover askew. “Get. The. Hell. Out. Of. My. Home,” he barks, an order I would’ve understood even if he’d delivered it faster.

“I’m on my way.” I say no more, judging that now is not the time to protest that I was only trying to help. I scurry toward the foyer, Trixie and Shanelle hard on my heels.

“I know a great way to get chocolate off upholstery,” Trixie whispers behind me. “Should I tell somebody? One tablespoon dish soap in two cups of cold water.”

“That won’t work in a case as bad as this one, girl!” Shanelle hisses. “You ask me, this calls for hot water and corn meal.”