The Chelsea Girls(3)
“Maxine runs the show.” Verna shrugged and introduced the other two ladies. Phyllis was a rotund milkmaid type with rosy cheeks, and Betty-Lou was a tiny slip of a girl, perfect for playing kids’ parts, most likely.
“She’s joking, right? About me going on?”
Verna shook her head. “No. We’ve been holding the curtain, waiting for you. You can get ready over there.”
But this was ridiculous. No rehearsal at all? Hazel didn’t even know which actress was playing which character. A lump lodged in her throat at the thought of all those men out there, waiting for the entertainment to begin. This had been a terrible idea. She’d be put on the next plane home, back to doing crosswords in the understudies’ dressing room.
Trembling, Hazel changed into one of her plainer dresses, as befitting a maid, and tied the apron Verna tossed over around her waist. She turned away so the other girls wouldn’t see her hands shaking as she looped the ends into a bow.
After standing in the wings for countless shows, watching others perform, this would be the first time she’d actually step onto the stage? Before thousands of people, with no rehearsal? She yanked the script out of her bag and leafed through the first scene, trying to imprint the cues in her head. The words swam around on the page as her heart pounded in her rib cage.
Another loud clap of thunder. “Will they cancel it if it rains?”
“You kidding?” said Phyllis. “Some of these men walked miles to get here. They ain’t going anywhere.”
Hazel followed the other girls behind the big truck. The rain was holding off, but probably not for long, judging from the soggy feel in the air. Hazel longed for a bolt of lightning to hit the truck and cancel the show. Anything to not have to go onstage in front of this sea of men, in a strange country, when she hadn’t eaten or slept in what felt like a week.
She waited in the wings, which was really a small set of stairs that led onstage, forcing back tears. Betty-Lou handed her a tarnished silver tray. “Here’s your prop.” Hazel couldn’t even whisper anything back—by then, her throat had closed up. She’d wanted desperately to act in a play, but not like this.
Even worse, her character had the first entrance.
The lights went up.
She couldn’t go out there. Into the spotlight.
“What are you waiting for?” A solid shove from Maxine, who’d silently reappeared, propelled her up the stairs. Hazel placed the tray on a table downstage as Verna entered from the other side. Hazel had no idea what Verna said, her mind had fuzzed over, but she answered with “Yes’m,” her first line. She managed to utter the next few, hoping she got them in the right order, before scampering like a dog with its tail between its legs back to the safety of the wings.
The soldiers roared with laughter. Backstage, Betty-Lou gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Not bad.”
The show continued. The other members of the cast were loud and confident, especially Maxine, who was a force of nature as the psychic Madame Arcati. The two male parts were played by men, presumably soldiers who’d volunteered. Each time Hazel ventured out, she relaxed a little more.
When she wasn’t onstage, she watched the eager faces of the soldiers in the first few rows. The men were desperate for entertainment, for something else to think about besides the war, and even when the rain began falling in sheets, no one stirred.
Unfortunately, in spite of the men’s rapt attention, her performance was far from perfect. She stepped on the other girls’ lines instead of waiting her turn to speak, and missed a couple of entrances.
But she’d done it. She’d acted on a stage, in front of people. Terribly, no doubt about that, but as the men whooped and whistled during the curtain call, Hazel managed a proud smile.
* * *
“Up and at ’em, ladies.”
Verna’s voice boomed across the pup tent.
Hazel groaned and sat upright. After being driven back to the base the night before, Hazel had skipped dinner and retreated to her assigned cot, the exhaustion from her journey and the sheer terror of performing having caught up with her.
Sure, she’d stunk last night in the show. But what had they expected with no rehearsals?
Better to come clean, try to start fresh. “Listen, everyone. I’m sorry about how awful I was. I didn’t expect to go onstage so soon.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Betty-Lou’s voice came out a sweet squeak. “We all had a period of adjustment. It’s to be expected.”
“Yeah,” agreed Verna. “The thing about this gig is that you’ll get a do-over. And another. And another.”
“I’m so sick of Blithe Spirit.” Phyllis yanked a stocking over a thick thigh. Everything about Phyllis was solid and grandmotherly, even though she couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. “The men love it, but they love anything. What’s the schedule today?”
Verna looked up at a ragged calendar posted on the bulletin board. “We’re off this morning, then shows at four and eight.”
“I’m serious.” Betty-Lou put her hands over her face. “I can’t do this play again. Please don’t make me.”
Maybe there was something Hazel could do to make up for last night. She pulled her suitcase out from under her cot and popped it open. Digging through the dresses, she found the book she was looking for and held it up.