The Rebirth of Wonder (2 page)

“
That's what
you
think!”

“
If anyone wants to
volunteer to direct and produce another show this summer,” Art
said, “it's fine with me.”

“
More money, huh,
Art?”

“
I thought you said
you wanted a vacation, Art!”

“
And it looks like
I'm going to get one,” he retorted. “I don't hear anyone
volunteering!”

There was no answer to that. The conversation
broke up gradually into several smaller conversations, none of
which included Art. Two of the women were badgering George, one on
either side of him, asking him to take them along to Paris. Anne
and Susan and Jamie were in a corner together, laughing at each
other's jokes. The other actors, and the guests they had let in,
gathered in clumps of three or four, talking and laughing, while
Art found a gap between ropes where he could lean back against the
wall and sip his champagne.

It was very cheap
champagne, that was obvious, but what else, he asked himself, could
he expect from a bunch of amateurs like this? Half the cast wasn't
even out of high school yet; the girls who had played Titania's
attendants might still be in
junior
high. This might be the first champagne some of
them had ever tasted – it could give them entirely the wrong idea
of what the stuff was
supposed
to taste like.

But it was no business of his; he was part of
the theater, not part of the company. It was entirely possible that
he would never see any of these people again after the party broke
up – and that might happen despite several sincere promises of help
in striking the set and cleaning up the entire building. Somehow,
such promises tended to be forgotten once the final performance was
over.

For the past three years George had always
made a point of helping, and he had always dragged along whomever
else he could find – but he wouldn't be around this time. His
flight left Sunday morning, a detail that had canceled the final
matinee that had originally been planned – even if they could have
managed without a director, George also played the Duke of Athens,
and they'd run out of male understudies.

The early departure meant George would be
unable to stay late at the cast party. The women who had been
trying to get into his bed – there was always at least one, every
show, attracted either by the director's aura of power, or simply
by George's natural charm – would be disappointed.

If he had been in George's position, Art
thought, he wouldn't have been so reluctant a conquest. He wasn't
the director, though; he was just the lighting director, a fixture
of no particular interest.

“
Hello, Art,”
someone said.

He turned, and found Marilyn peering at him
around a cluster of ropes.

“
Hi,” he
replied.

“
How's the
champagne?”

“
Awful.”

“
I
know.” She stared at him for a moment; he let his gaze wander out
past her to the mob of teenaged actors and actresses, and the
friends and family members who had drifted backstage to join them.
They looked younger every year – not because they
were
younger, but
because they stayed the same, on average, while he grew
older.

The individual actors changed, and went off
to other places or found other interests, but there were always new
ones, always the same – and he was always here, helping out, and
growing older, the gap between himself and the actors steadily
widening.

“
There really won't
be another show this summer?” Marilyn asked. “The theater will just
be empty?”

He could hear her dismay. He shrugged and
sipped his champagne.

“
I don't know,” he
said. “Something might turn up. No one's talked to my father,
though.”

“
Why don't
you
talk to him?”

Startled, Art stared at her. “About
what?”

“
About renting the
theater, of course!”

Puzzled, he looked closely
at her, noticing that she had a black smear of something on one
cheek. “About
who
renting the theater?” he asked. “Nobody wants it for the rest
of August. I suppose we'll have all the usual meetings and concerts
come fall, but nobody's
asked
for it for August. Not even hinted.”

“
Couldn't
you
rent it?”

Art studied her, baffled.
“I could get it free, if no paying customers show up,” he said. “I
mean, my dad knows I have to come in here to clean and check the
place over whether it's rented or not, so why not? But what would
I
do
with
it?”

“
You could put on
another play,” Marilyn insisted. “You'd have no trouble finding a
cast, you said so yourself, and I'd be glad to stage-manage and do
sets and crew again.”

“
Oh, right,” Art
said. “Who's going to direct? George is going to Europe, Jack
Gunderson is in Oregon, Fred Sohl is working for IBM somewhere, and
Jenny Dawson's got kids to take care of. Who else in Bampton knows
anything about directing?”

“
You
could do it. Or we could do it
together.”

Art shook his head. “I don't know anything
about directing, and I don't want to.”

Hesitantly, Marilyn ventured, “Then I could
direct, maybe.”

“
If you want to try
doing it yourself, go ahead; I'm sure my father will be easy to
persuade. He hates to have property standing empty. Don't expect
anything from me, though, beyond what I always do – I'll hang and
run your lights, and I'll handle building maintenance, and that's
it. That's my job.”

“
You won't help me
direct?”

“
Nope. Get someone
else.” He waved his almost-empty cup at the crowd of half-
costumed, smiling people.

“
They're just kids,”
she said.

“
So?”

“
You've been here
for years, Art. You probably know more about putting on a play than
anyone else here, even George.”

“
I just run lights,”
Art insisted.

“
But you've been
here for every show I remember! You've watched how everything is
done, you must want to try something besides
lighting!”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not really. I've
been here running lights for the last ten years because it's
something to do in the summer, a way to pick up a few bucks and
help out my dad, but that's about it. I never wanted to act or
direct any more than most of those kids wanted to run lights. I've
stayed on here because my father doesn't trust anyone else not to
burn the place down, that's all.”

“
But then what will you
do
all summer?”
she asked, her tone almost desperate.

“
Oh, I don't know –
spend some time at the beach, read a few books, or see a lot of
movies. Just relax, that's what I intend to do.”

She stared at him for a moment, then lowered
her eyes. “I guess it's different for you. You're not going
anywhere. I'm going off to grad school in September, though, and I
hate to waste my last month in Bampton.”

“
You'll be back
sometimes, won't you?”

“
Yes, but... oh,
hell.” She turned away from him and shuffled off.

He watched her go, then shrugged and looked
for more champagne.

Chapter Two

Nobody had showed up to help him strike.

Art was not surprised at all. George was
somewhere over the Atlantic by now, well on his way to his parents'
dream vacation in Europe, the whole clan reunited in London and
Paris. The others had all forgotten, or were still sleeping off the
party, which had lasted deep into the morning, roaring on long
after George had gone off to bed (alone).

Art considered phoning a few people and
demanding that they come and help, but decided against it. He
didn't think he wanted to see a bunch of bright and cheerful young
faces – or even dirty, sullen ones, so long as they were that
young. Bampton Summer Theatre's rental contract said the group was
required to leave the premises clean, and at least as tidy as it
was when they arrived in June, but nobody, not even Art's father,
who owned the place, ever seemed to take that clause seriously.
Cleaning up was Art's job – and unpaid, except in the form of
continued free lodging in his father's house.

That meant he had to do the job alone, and
the larger pieces of the sets would have to just sit in the wings
for now; they were too big and awkward for one person to haul down
to the basement for storage.

The first priority, though, before striking
the set or any of the other equipment, was to clean up the party
debris.

Art had come prepared, with half a dozen
green plastic trash bags and a pocket full of twist-ties. He
gathered up the cups and napkins and empty bottles and tossed
everything in the bag – he was not going to worry about sorting
anything for recycling. If someone wanted to sort through the bag
later, that was fine with him, but he wasn't about to do it
himself.

When the trash was collected from the stage
and wings he tackled the tiny dressing rooms and lavatory, and
finally the house.

He was scraping up a pink wad of relatively
fresh chewing gum from the aisle floor, two rows from the back,
when he heard the theater's big front door rattle. Startled, he
froze where he was kneeling, then looked up at the lobby doors.

He heard voices. He put down the putty knife
and dustpan and stood, brushing the dust from the knees of his
jeans.

“
I think you'll see
that it's bigger inside than it looks,” Art heard through the door.
He relaxed; the voice was his father's.

“
Oh, I saw that last night,” an unfamiliar voice
boomed, a voice with a slight British accent. “I was here for the
play, for
A Midsummer
Night's Dream
. A fine show they put on, a
fine show!”

Art grimaced slightly. The show had been
okay, but nothing special, even for a bunch of amateurs.

The lobby doors were locked; Art stepped up
and threw back the bolt just as his father turned the knob from the
other side. Together they swung the double doors wide.

“
Art!” his father
greeted him. “Glad you're here. This is Mr. Innisfree – he says he
might be interested in renting the theater for the rest of August.
Mr. Innisfree, this is my son Arthur.”

Mr. Innisfree was a tall thin man with curly
brown hair, his face darkened by sun and creased by lines left by
smiles. He was wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, white shorts, and
a long, loose white shirt that looked vaguely North African –
appropriate garb for the weather, which was hot, even for August,
by New England standards. His age was hard to guess, but Art judged
it to be at least twice his own twenty-six years.

The hair, Art thought, was probably dyed.

Mr. Innisfree shook Art's
hand vigorously and said, “Arthur – that's a
fine
name, for a fine young
man!”

“
Thank you, sir,”
Art replied. “Call me Art.”

“
I will, my lad, I
will. So this is your theater?” He surveyed the
hall.

“
It's a fine
building,” Art said loyally.

Mr. Innisfree grinned broadly. “I'm sure it
is, Arthur,” he said, spreading his hands. “I'm sure it is!”

It seemed his accent had changed slightly;
where before Art would have thought he was English, now he sounded
Irish. The lilt wasn't strong enough to be certain either way.

The elder Dunham gestured sweepingly. “Seats
three hundred,” he said.

Art quirked a corner of his mouth, and did
not point out that the place could only seat three hundred by using
every single seat, including the ends of the front row where most
of the stage could not be seen, and the dusty old balcony that was
now largely taken up with sound equipment and an empty projection
booth.

Mr. Innisfree nodded, smiling.

“
Would you like to
see backstage?” Art asked.

“
Yes, lad, I would,”
Mr. Innisfree said, his accent now almost a Scottish
burr.

The three men marched down the center aisle.
“I'm afraid I haven't finished cleaning up,” Art apologized.

“
Of course not,”
Innisfree replied. “Who'd have expected it? I shan't be troubled by
a little dust.”

“
Well, it's not dust
so much,” Art explained. “I mean, the lights are still set up, and
the flats are still hung, and the sets aren't put
away...”

“
Don't worry about
it, young Arthur!” Innisfree told him, as he vaulted onto the
stage. “We'll take care of everything!”

Art smiled briefly at the sight of a man
Innisfree's age hopping up like that; there were high school kids
he knew who didn't have that much energy.