FINAL BOWS — Lenore Tsakanikas
Opening Night, 8:00 a.m.
Darren’s left ear buzzes from a restless sleep. Dreams intertwine with scenes of imagined mishaps from Nutcrackers past. Throughout the night, he’d awakened startled: the orchestra signaling the rise of heavy curtains which refuse to budge; the gentle overhead light lulling Clara to sleep, transformed into a strobe light; the Snowflakes slipping off pointe and collapsing into a heap due to a too-slick floor, limbs crookedly awry. Of course, nothing like that had ever happened on his watch!
Enough! Darren sits up in bed and presses his hands over his ears. He gets a glass of water, glugs it down, and lights a cigarette. An image of Jane, the board treasurer with whom he was briefly involved dissolves his dreams. Smiling, he recalls her soft folds before her image hardens to a colder version.
He’s unable to push out of memory the undeniable fact that Jane had fired him. She wore the same demeaner days ago at the emergency board meeting as she did months ago when she ended their relationship, lips tightly pursed into an artificial smile. He doesn’t want to believe it happened. The rush of her choppy words reverberate in his mind. “We want you to always feel like family.” Her stale, cheerful smile embodied her scent, baking apples sprinkled with cinnamon. Dumbfounded, Darren listened to a vague explanation, something about donors, budgets, and insurance, that, in hindsight, didn’t ring true. He’s never done it for the money!
The whole thing is surreal, but yet an envelope sitting on his dresser amidst the clutter with two tickets to The Nutcracker is real enough. As is the Steinbach Limited Edition Mouse King Nutcracker, resale value $299, thrust at him at the end of the meeting. It’s still boxed resting next to his laundry.
Darren shields his eyes to block the sunlight streaming in. His black T-shirt with CREW written on it is draped across the back of a wobbly wooden chair that doesn’t support his weight but works perfectly fine as a clothes rack. He could easily fix the chair, but why bother? He rarely has visitors and has better things to do. His life is his non-paying job, the theatre.
Opening Night, 10:00 a.m.
After a double cappuccino, Darren pulls into a parking spot reserved for staff only. He slinks into his seat, rolls down a smudged window, and lights a cigarette. The smoke envelopes him like the fog in the beginning of the Land of the Sweets. He watches the temporary stage crew, a collection of misfits from the county jail working to fulfill community service requirements, recklessly unload the sleigh, the delicate swan, the throne, and the Victorian brocade furniture.
He sees Tom, a reformed felon and former right-hand man, move briskly like a lumbering bear towards his dented orange pick-up with “MERDE” on its license plate. Tom, sweating, recognizes Darren’s truck and walks over.
He wipes his forehead. “C’mon! What are you waiting for? If we were planning a heist, you’d be the weak link!”
“Sorry, bro!”
What a relief! Darren thought Tom was the appointed bouncer sent over to tell him to leave. Tom, over six foot and hefty, can be scary when he’s mad. He wears too-baggy jeans that fall below his waist, a thick gold chain, and a gray hoodie with a picture of Marilyn Monroe making gang signs. The spread wings of an eagle are tattooed on his dark skin and span the entirety of his thick neck.
Darren considers, if Tom doesn’t know, maybe others won’t either. There have been numerous times that the assistant director has quit or been fired after a spat over high or low buns. No one blinks an eye when he returns the next day as if nothing had happened.
Darren bolts out of his truck. He takes over as leader, barking orders. “Slide the carpet under the armor! Cover the sleigh! Mother Ginger’s costume goes over there!” Darren breathes in the backstage scent of glue, mold, paint, rosin, sweat. Nothing smells better!
He follows Tom past the large sewing area in the basement of the theatre. It’s humming with activity. The waist in Columbine’s costume needs to be taken out a quarter inch. An Arabian has ripped his pantaloons. Fritz’s black velvet jacket has a button missing. Alice, Jane’s mother and head seamstress, looks up from behind a sewing machine and smiles. Behind her in the back are long tables where children put their lunches. The back-stage moms with bobby-pins in their mouth and pincushions for bracelets scurry the children off to their dressing rooms. Everything seems as it’s always been.
I think I can pull this off! He darts over to the moving van and helps unload the last of the furniture. It’s past lunchtime when they’re finished. Darren’s hungry and wants a smoke.
To get back outside he’ll need to pass the small office on the left with individuals in the know. He hopes they’ll behave as expected and he can sneak by unnoticed. If all goes well, the artistic director will be tending to the Snow Queen’s stress-induced nosebleed; the assistant director will be vomiting, head bent over the extra-large trash can; and the choreographer will be summoning a Zen moment, eyes shut.
Darren moves stealthily past the office. He pauses. Tempting fate, he doubles back to the stage to see his replacement.
With clammy hands he hides behind the folds of black curtains that hang in the wings like rippling cliffs. He feels like one of the dancers, anxiously waiting before they take flight and land on the spot he would have previously marked with an “X.”
He panoramically views the stage. In the rafters, stagehands are tightening cables. Visible is an agile young man whose thick, coarse, dirty-blond hair grows straight out of his head like the bill of a duck. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says TECHNICAL DIRECTOR. An inexplicable anger collects in Darren’s belly and works its way up. He was never given a T-shirt that distinguished him! He looks down at his CREW T-shirt with disgust. After twenty-three years! He clutches onto the thick black curtains and wants to bring them down! And this child, working his first Nutcracker, gets a proper designation! The hatred he feels for this boy, who likely has only been shaving for a few short years, is dizzying.
Darren realizes he’s been grabbing too tightly and releases the drapes before they submit to his grip.
He wants to leave quickly. As he exits the stage from the opening to the left of the orchestra pit, he’s immediately confronted by the scent of mothballs and perspiration emanating from Herr Drosselmeyer’s cape which hangs on a T-stand next to the prop table. The folds of the cape gesture toward brightly colored props which glisten like rock candy on top of a black tablecloth. A top-hat, wig, eye-patch, and sideburns are next to the soft pink satin slipper Clara will toss to slay the Mouse King. Darren half expects Herr Drosselmeyer to sneak up behind him and rap his fingers with a cane.
Sir Henry, the elderly, self-anointed Shakespearean-trained actor who will play Herr Drosselmeyer has been with the company since its inception. He can’t dance but performs character bits, Herr Drosselmeyer being his forte.
Darren raises a bronze goblet with garnet-embedded stones from the prop table, thinking fondly of his role in the Party Scene. He and a few of the more adventurous sort would fill their goblets with vodka before engaging in their bastardized version of a Viennese Waltz. What fun they’d had! But that was before professional dancers replaced amateurs such as him.
Further down the table is the mask from the Puppet Scene. He sees the uneven part in the middle of the stem, which he’d painstakingly glued together when a crying Fritz admitted to breaking it. Fritz, afraid to tell the prop master, had gone to Darren who promised not to tell, and to this day hasn’t. He’d heard little Fritz, now grown, is dancing with the San Francisco Ballet.
Darren runs his fingers over the triangular-shaped Mouse King mask. His hand covers only the tip of its nose and jagged teeth. Its jaws, the size of softballs, are covered with loose cotton that looks like fallen clouds. He fluffs the Mouse King’s hair which is popping out from under a silver jewel-encrusted crown. He picks up the mask and considers putting it on, thinking that somehow the mask will enhance his personality, make him persevere despite possible defeat. He looks out through the mask before putting it down. Black, marbled, motionless eyes stare back at him.
“What are you looking at? You know you are going to die at the end of Act I.” The mask doesn’t respond. The embattled king on the brink of doom has no words of wisdom.
Darren’s feeling of unity with the Mouse King is misplaced. The two of them are not the same. No Rats will grieve for him, and he may not be back for tomorrow’s matinee.
He’s lingered too long at the prop table but can’t quite leave, feeling as if he were on the deck of a ship waving good-bye to the only people he has ever loved and whom he may never see again.
He twitches when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He recognizes Jane’s scent before he sees her.
“What’re you doing here?” she asks.
“You’re touching me,” Darren grins. “You know, that’s how things started.” He hopes his exaggerated cheerfulness has covered up the real state of his emotions.
Jane abruptly withdraws her hand. “I’m sorry,” she says, almost inaudibly.
What exactly are you sorry about? Me? You? Our so-called relationship? The position?
After a few minutes, eyes locked, Darren scoffs, “You’re kind of pathetic.”
“What? Did you say I’m pathetic?”
“I’m sorry, but you have no idea. Do you really think that by putting a T-shirt on that kid, he’ll be able to do what I’ve done here for over twenty years? It doesn’t work that way. He’ll be lucky if he remembers to bring a flashlight!”
“He came recommended!” Jane knows this isn’t entirely true. Sir Henry recommended him, but Phillip wasn’t hired because of a recommendation. It’s no coincidence that his termination came after their affair and near discovery.
“Darren, isn’t it nice that someone else will be responsible for all this?” Jane spreads her arms outward, as if to give life to the props.
“I don’t know how nice it is, but you’re right. I’m not responsible, whatever happens.”
“What do you mean, whatever happens? Nothing’s going to happen! Everything’s fine, right?”
“Whatever you say.”
“Darren, please.” She squeezes his arm.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says without really knowing. He really doesn’t want to check the work of his replacement.
Her distressed face moves him and he softens, “Don’t worry. What could go wrong?” He thinks of a million things that could, things that Jane wouldn’t consider. Suddenly confident, he swoops down and places his hands on Jane’s waist. He lifts her a few feet off the ground, twirls her about as if they were the Spanish Dancers, and gently sets her down. With an aristocratic bow, he heads out the door.
Opening Night, 2:00 p.m.
Jane’s flushed. Mistakenly she’d thought she could approach Darren with some semblance of authority. Instead, the props, sets, and scent of the theatre revive feelings of intimacy. Her manner of interacting with him immediately reverted to the familiar. It should have been nothing, her hand stupidly on his shoulder, but she kept it there too long. Her desperate grasp of his arm. He noticed, teased, held her, and left with a smug look on his face.
Dancers squeeze past her to get to their dressing rooms. She pretends to do something useful at the prop table. She sees Sir Henry in long underwear, leg warmers, and a beanie standing in the doorway to the men’s dressing room. She ignores his wink. How long has he been standing there?
She questions whether Darren would do anything to disrupt the performance. She doesn’t think so, but how well does she really know Darren? Small details. His lower teeth are endearingly crooked. He wears a small, gold St. Genesius metal on an unexpectantly thin chain, “the patron saint of actors,” he explained when she pressed the medallion between her fingers, “a gift from my favorite aunt,” whom Jane hadn’t and would never meet. He always wears black jeans that are too short for his long legs. He smoked, which surprisingly didn’t bother her at first.
The circular garlands on the prop table awaiting the Dance of the Flowers in Act II are the same garlands used in the spring performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They make her feel heated and dizzy as she had months ago when, under the spell of Puck’s nectar, she approached Darren from behind. He didn’t move, but continued to examine a half-globe almost the height of the room he’d he was painting.
“I need to make sure the surface reflects the light so it looks iridescent.”
“Like it’s glimmering in the moonlight.”
“That’s right,” he said, without looking at her.
“Do you create moonlight, too?” she asked coyly.
The garlands aren’t the only bittersweet reminders. There’re the bronze goblets, stones newly buffed and stems polished, she and Darren had borrowed to sip the Sauvignon BlancJane had safely snagged from her husband’s wine cellar. She remembers licking droplets of wine from his lips.
They only met at the scene-shop. She’d suggested other encounters, inviting him to her home once when Edward had been out of town. She imagined herself wearing something fluid, wispy, like the fairy costumes Alice forever adorned. Darren nuzzling behind her, while she arranged oysters on the half shell. Peonies in the crystal vase she’d bought in Prague. Solange playing in the background. Darren declined. He preferred the comfort of the scene-shop where he was in charge, never acting on her suggestions of meeting anywhere else.
The rank scent of Herr Drosselmeyer’s cape on the T-stand brings her out of her revelry and reminds her how Sir Henry, emitting his signature scent, bumbled into the scene-shop and almost discovered her with Darren. Now again, she feels a bit dirty and used, like the cape. But who used whom? Between the two of them, even Jane considers Darren the less guilty party.
Opening Night, 3:00 p.m.
Darren lies naked in rumpled sheets. He’d planned to take a nap before the performance but was too wired to sleep despite the vodka tonic next to him, his second. Alertly exuberant, he touches his left shoulder trying to feel Jane’s imprint. Had it been a signal?
He recalls the very first time she approached him months ago. He’d ignored her stealthy gaze and continued working, knowing all along that she’d been watching him. His thoughts drift to Titania’s Bower. How he’d made it theirs, adjusting plush pink cushions, creating a new moon to shine with leftover lemon sorbet paint, moving an upright piece of plywood he’d transformed into a willow tree to suggest shade. He playfully dressed Jane in garlands that he later attached to the base of the bower. He absorbed her scent and charmed her with explanations of how angles and color created mood and atmosphere, where the power of the stage came from, why the stage isn’t like real life.
Sleep evades him; He gets up to shower. He takes time with his attire and selects a hand-knit vest under a corduroy jacket trimmed in suede. He digs around in a dresser drawer and finds his black, antique opera glasses, a gift from his aunt, a perpetually aspiring actress and the only one in his family who loves ballet. He drapes the glasses around his neck, fills his silver flask with vodka, and places it in the inside pocket over his heart. As a final touch, he dons a beret which he tips to the side in a Catalonian manner. He’s in character and ready for the show!
Opening Night, 3:45 p.m.
It’s time for Jane to go home and change. Before leaving she checks in with Alice who failed her driver’s test in January and needs chauffeuring. Alice, eyes too impaired to drive, can still effortlessly thread a needle. The seamstresses, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colored fabric, gossip in time to the stops and starts of the sewing machines. Alice catches Jane’s eye and motions her out the door before resuming final inspection of the costumed dancers who parade by.
Once home and in her master bath, Jane lights a cinnamon-scented candle and pours Himalayan salt crystals into the steaming water. She eases into the egg-shaped tub and gives in to thoughts of Darren. She traces back to the beginning when she found him, working on sets for the spring performance of A Midsummers Night Eve.
She’d been bored with the endless chattering of the hard-of-hearing sewing ladies and wandered down the hall toward the light at the far end of the ballet studio. She’d entered his scene-shop, a large warehouse-type room with unfamiliar structures, tools, wires, and lights. It smelled of sawdust, paint, and varnish. She’d hidden behind a forested backdrop he’d built to evoke the forest and fauna of Titania’s kingdom. The muscles in his arms flexed as he wove wire into a sphere-shaped globe. Over several vigils, she watched him layer papier-mache which dried and rippled over time. Eventually, he split the globe open and discarded the wiring. She revealed herself as he painted the outside surface of the globe a chestnut brown. The inside was a soft, pale pink that shimmered like mother-of-pearl.
Jane tried but couldn’t imagine her husband, Edward, doing anything so meticulous. Darren painted lush peaches, grapes, and figs onto looming green cut-outs. He created fairies out of miniature, flickering lights. He polished long wooden tables and put markers on them so that the prop master would know how large to make the cauldrons, platters, and jugs.
Darren’s abilities magnified Edward’s shortcomings. Edward couldn’t coax their grapefruit tree to produce.He was too impatient to spend more than a few minutes untangling Christmas tree lights, trying unsuccessfully to find the faulty bulb. And as for helping her with the elaborate dinners he insisted they host, she was lucky if he were around to help extend the dining room table. Edward became more and more flawed. His positive characteristics diminished when compared to the those of Darren whom she imbued with everything lacking in her marriage.
It wasn’t just Darren’s creativity and attention that drew her in, but also an opportunity to carve out a separate place of her own. Stepping into the scene-shop evoked the feeling of travel. Travel without the clutter of Edward, her family, her life. She didn’t have to play tour guide and explain to anyone why a venture backstage was worth it. There she didn’t worry about the opinions and expectations of anyone. Darren certainly had no expectations and appeared childishly pleased by her displays of affection.
She’s now embarrassed by the efforts she took to woo him, the gifts she brought, the suggestions made to do something, go somewhere. In hindsight, it made sense that he always declined her invitations; their one venture out of the scene-shop ended the fantasy. She’s irritated that she’s the one who feels flustered. He’s perfectly comfortable around her.
She gets out of the tub to dress. She slides her long gown over her head; slips into a pair of low-heeled pumps; puts her driver’s license, a lipstick, and some cash in a black clutch; grabs her cashmere capelet; and heads back to the theatre.
Opening Night, 7:20 p.m.
Darren settles into plush velvet, Row O, Seat 302. The scent of perfume, hairspray, and damp wool mixes with the musty scent of the theatre. He moves his knees to the left as attendees squeeze by. He hears the crinkle of cellophane as bouquets of roses brush against his thighs.
He fans himself with the colorful playbill before perusing it. He flips through the first few pages of company headshots to the section with photos of the board members. Jane gazes up at him with gray-blue eyes. Her round face is framed in a blondish bob with side bangs. Her sealed lips almost smile. She wears a string of pearls with a dime-sized emerald clasp. A section devoted to donors categorized by the size of their donation feature Edward and Jane Hudson among the Champions, the highest-ranked donors in the $10,000 club. Darren thinks of what he could do with $10,000. The playbill is full of ads. Jane’s husband’s company, Hudson Consulting, Inc., takes up a full page. Her husband’s photo consumes half of it. He smiles through perfect teeth. Darren drops the playbill in the empty seat next to him.
Through opera glasses, Darren sees Jane, dressed in a plunging long forest-green jersey dress which clings tightly at the hips. She’s holding an oversized nutcracker and is poised to take the spotlight and announce the first-place raffle prize. It’s the same version of the Mouse King Nutcracker still boxed up in his bedroom. He can’t understand why anyone would purchase a raffle ticket for what he considers a consolation prize.
The red velvet curtains are still drawn but not entirely closed as they should be. A sliver of light is visible where the drapes come together. He can make out Sir Henry stage center adjusting his wig-cap and eye-patch. It’s something the audience wouldn’t notice, but like a gnat it bothers him. No light should be coming through! That’s what the curtains are for!
The narrow carpet Jane walks across on her way to the podium is buckled. The lighting is off. The Leko piercing down on Jane has a sharp edge making her look like a flat cut-out. Her cleavage, two dark, sharp lines of shadow making a “V” in the bodice of her gown, is devoid of softness. She displays the Mouse King Nutcracker raffle prize as if it were the Christ-child himself. Its head is fully ensconced in light, its body barely visible. Its sinister appearance, coupled with a barely noticeable tremor in Jane’s hands, makes the oversized open mouth look as if it were actually searching for nuts to crack. An adjustment to the concealed shutters would fix the entire lighting problem.
Opening Night, 7:45 p.m.
Jane descends the staircase and sets the raffle prize down. Edward waves from a few rows up. He approaches her and gives her a peck on the cheek before taking her elbow to steer her to their spots, Row G, Seats 504 and 505. She snuggles next to Edward in an effort to put Darren out of her mind.
The orchestra files in and arranges sheet music. She tries to tune out the screeching of instruments being tuned. Her low heel had caught on a lump in the carpet. She’ll have to pay attention at intermission when she announces the winner of the raffle.
She doesn’t want to admit that she still misses Darren. He’d made her feel young, pretty, sexy. Sure, Edward noticed when she wore a flattering outfit, but his compliments were mere observations and linked to his ability to pay for her “whims.” Her appearance never moved him. With Darren, she was enticing. She started shaving her legs every day and working out. When she began to see that sex was inevitable, she’d been somewhat concerned that she would be dry, unresponsive. Her concerns were nothing her friends would ever discuss. Most thought she and Edward were the couple. Truth-be-told, she and Edward were as discordant as the strings in the pit, having only obligatory sex on special occasions.
The fear that her fifty-eight-year-old body would let her down had been unfounded. With Darren, she’d been as lush as the Adriatic dates Titania fed to her lovers. In those days Jane walked around with a smile on her face and a moistness between her legs she hadn’t experienced for years. She hasn’t been able to replicate that feeling with Edward, despite their Croatian trip in the summer to a couple’s resort with warm mineral baths she’d arranged with the hope of recreating that spark with Edward.
Opening Night, 7:55
Darren drums fingers on thighs. The rush to replace him doesn’t make sense. Even if his replacement had the proper training, every theatre is different. It’s experience that matters! Did any of the board members consider this? Did anyone ask him? His replacement may be more facile with updated technology. What good does that do when the equipment itself is old?
Over the years he’d suggested improvements, and some had been made: weak surge and spike protectors enhanced; stage pins replaced with twist locks; the manual control console replaced with memory. Even so, most of the outdated equipment had been there as long as he had. A younger technical director may not even be trained in techniques still practiced here.
If money is the issue, he’ll volunteer his time. He was paid a pittance anyway.
He doesn’t want to believe that Jane orchestrated his firing, but it’s the only plausible reason why he’s sitting here amidst stiff suits and spanx. He can’t recall a significant falling out with anyone. Granted, there’ve been a few tiffs here and there with the artistic director, but she apologized to him. The dancers only noticed him when the rosin box needed filling.
He wonders if Jane thought of sex when he held her earlier today.
The break-up, if you could call it that, was entirely expected. Unexpected, was her loitering around the scene-shop those spring evenings, bringing fruit, truffles, homemade cookies. During that pleasant interlude, he did most of the talking, carried away with explanations of the artistry behind the stage. She was entranced. He never imagined that he would be drinking expensive wine with her. It happened, though, along with the dressing and undressing.
He’d reduced their break-up to bits of images and conversation. Sir Henry, as Bottom, barging into the scene-shop like the ass he is. Alice, running in behind and pulling an extension cord out of the side outlet, leaving the scene-shop in total darkness. Jane, jumping up to hide behind the willow tree cut-out as she righted her partially unbuttoned blouse. Darren, shoving Jane’s purse and sandals behind a toolbox, grabbing a flashlight as he nonchalantly went to plug in the extension cord, solicitously asking Alice if she were okay. Sir Henry, “Who’s with you?” eyes scanning through stage sets, furniture, paint gallons, platforms, “I heard feminine laughter!” Alice laughing loudly, “That was me.” Sir Henry, chin up, sniffing at the air, “If my intuition is correct, which it always is, you’re hiding a woman!” Darren, “Get out of my scene-shop!” Alice urgently ushering Sir Henry out.
Darren covered his mouth to stifle laughter, joining Jane whose panicked look made the situation even funnier. Cowering, she reminded him of Titania’s Changeling.
“I can’t go back out there! I’ll be the laughingstock of the studio! You’ve got to get me out of here!”
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“You can’t take me home! I live in a gated community!”
Darren struggled not to laugh. “We could leave and circle back to the studio. You could enter the front door and pretend you went out for a stroll.”
As they scurried out the back door, Darren handed Jane her purse and sandals, picked her up, and carried her to his truck. He was still stifling giggles. She was shaky and had buried her head in his neck. Even in spring, she smelled like apple cider. He didn’t have anywhere other than his home to take her. He let her in through the front door. It was only then that he remembered his house wasn’t in shape for company. His only option was to keep the lights turned off and hope she didn’t notice. He tried to distract her by pulling her close. Suddenly, things weren’t quite so funny.
The theatre is still for a moment before the orchestra commences the overture and the curtains rise.
Opening Night, 8:00 p.m.
The stage appears, a tableaux of a Victorian Christmas scene with snowy cobblestones, two-story wooden trimmed homes, the Chestnut Seller behind her cart, Party Girls gathered to sing carols, Party Boys misbehaving.
Sir Henry enters stage right, bringing with him the reminder of the predictable end to her love story. Jane cringes when she thinks of him sniffing around in the scene-shop.
She should have done as Darren suggested, drive around and enter the studio through the front door after things had settled down. Stupidly, she insisted they leave together.
As soon as she’d stepped foot inside his home, romantic notions were gutted. The scent of bacon grease permeating the air made her nauseas. As Darren pointed directions to the bathroom, Jane stumbled over discarded clothing, take-out containers, and overfilled ashtrays. She found the bathroom and knelt over a yellow toilet next to a yellow bathtub. Gray scum created a border around the base of the toilet. She’d needed to wipe her mouth and did so with three sheets of toilet paper and then brown cardboard. She went to the sink and turned on the faucet. Lukewarm water dribbled out. Suddenly Edward’s shortcomings didn’t seem so bad.
Jane couldn’t reconcile this disgusting hovel with the eclectic beauty of the scene-shop. It seemed a cruel joke. Feeling completely displaced, she asked Darren to take her somewhere where she could catch a ride. “I’m not feeling at all well. It’s this stomach thing I have.”
“I’ll call you!” she said as she climbed out of the pick-up.
As the Party Girls and Boys frolic about on stage in their satin dresses and velvet knickers, exuding Christmas cheer, Jane feels empty and sad.
Opening Night, 8:12 p.m.
The house is dark. Darren shifts in his seat. Woodwind instruments playfully stream through, creating a marionette-like fantasy. The winter scenery lifts, revealing a grand hall, replete with fireplace, wreaths, stockings, family portraits, Grandfather Clock. Soon, the Christmas tree center stage will grow to three times its size. The audience doesn’t see the weights and pulleys responsible for the tree’s transformation. To them, it’s magic.
Darren’s nostalgic. He wonders how he would celebrate Christmas without The Nutcracker. It’s always been Christmas for him. Whereas others attend Christmas parties, he attended the Party Scene. Whereas others put up Christmas decorations, he set the stage. Whereas others selected Christmas trees, he tightened the ropes, secured the lights, and pulled the levers of the opulent Christmas tree.
I don’t belong here! Ignoring the irritation of the patrons in Row O, he makes his way to the aisle, leaves the house, and enters the lobby. A long table is set up with trinkets on display, paper dolls, Christmas ornaments, books, charms, nutcrackers of various characters and sizes. A few buckets filled with carnations sit at both ends of the table, anticipating those parents who forgot to bring flowers. A TV overhead is streaming the live performance. Herr Drosselmeyer is doling gifts to the Party Girls and Boys from the huge nutshell filled with toys.
Darren steps out into the chilly December air. A drizzle mists the façade. The cold air is more welcome to him than the toasty theatre. Backstage, there’s no heat. Stagehands wear beanies and fingerless gloves. Constant movement keeps them warm. He walks the length of the theatre, rounds the corner, and sees Tom sitting on the loading dock backstage, legs dangling over the edge. The scent of marijuana wafts through the air.
Darren takes off his jacket, vest, and beret and throws them onto the loading dock before hoisting himself up to sit next to Tom. His flask clanks when it hits the concrete floor. He takes off his opera glasses and wraps them inside his vest.
Tom blurts out, “Why you dressed like a clown?”
Darren shrugs and rolls up his sleeves. From the faint strains of the orchestra, he can tell that Columbine and the Soldier have finished their dance and are being placed back inside their checkerboard boxes. His replacement, stage left, is rolling the boxes out of sight. Tom should be helping him instead of lounging on the dock smoking a joint.
Darren’s going to be of use. Set a good example. He empathizes with his replacement and knows what it’s like to be put in charge for the first time in an unfamiliar theatre.
“Tom let’s move it. You know there’s always something to do.”
They get up off of the loading dock to help. As they approach the stage-hands rolling set pieces off stage, Darren notices that his replacement bears a striking resemblance to Sir Henry. That’s where he’s seen the hair. Never mind. He’ll make an effort. More than an effort.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Phillip.”
“Can I call you Phil?” Darren asks.
“I would prefer Phillip, if you don’t mind,” Phillip smiles amiably.
Tom rolls his eyes.
“Okay, Phillip it is. What’s your experience?” Darren asks.
“I interned last year at Boston Ballet. This is my first paying job,” Phillip proudly responds.
Tom mocks Phillip behind his back. The music becomes playful.
“This is when Clara performs her solo,” Darren comments, “The music is a cue.” Darren looks at his watch, “We have about twenty minutes until we need to raise the grand hall and expand the tree.”
“At Boston, the back of the tree was covered with metal plates. We didn’t have wires sticking out,” Phillip comments.
“This ain’t Boston,” Tom says. “Here, the tree’s three hundred pounds of exposed wire, light, rope, and plastic branches. The branches swat those kids when they walk through the trap door at the base of the tree. Gotta’ be careful.”
“You’ll get to know what you’re working with here,” Darren reassures. “Did you notice the scales are off? I always add extra weight.”
“Really? I didn’t at rehearsal, and it worked.”
“The scales here aren’t always reliable. I’ll go check. Let Tom know what you need.” Tom scoffs at Darren who heads to the grid.
Staccato notes mirror the brisk movements of the mice who wake Clara. A few moments later, somber bass accompanies the Rats who leap across the stage. The Grandfather clock chimes midnight.
As the music crescendos to its climax, the crew hears loud SNAPS and the sound of broken glass. Sparks fly from behind the tree.
Tom sees where one of the ropes has split and jumps up to grab the loose end. “Find the other end and grab hold tight!” Tom yells to Phillip, “Don’t even think about rope burn or anything else! We’ve got to save Clara’s ass! This three-hundred-pound tree can topple over and crush her teeny bones!”
Opening Night, 8:35 p.m.
Jane slips off her shoes and rests her head on Edward’s shoulder. The guests in the Party Scene have left. Dr. and Mrs. Stahlbaum gaze lovingly in each other’s eyes. Another fairy tale marriage perpetuating myths. Were they happily married? Jane doesn’t buy it.
She can’t pinpoint when she and Edward became estranged. It was sometime long before the affair and unrelated to any specific event. They simply experienced an unnoticeable distancing, like the silhouettes of the Stalhbaums gradually fading behind the scrim.
Clara’s stage right, sleeping on a divan, cradling her nutcracker. The lights of the Christmas tree flicker as the orchestra screeches. The Little Mice, the youngest in the Children’s Ensemble, run out and claw at her.
Herr Drosselmeyer gallantly walks across the stage and takes Clara’s hand. He leads her to the front of the Christmas tree.
Isabella, playing Clara, is barely fifteen and weighs about ninety pounds. She doesn’t have the build of a Balanchine dancer, but her kicks are every bit as powerful. The milestones of her youth were marked by the roles she played in Nutcracker, Angel, Mouse, Pastry chef, Lamb, Gingerbread, Bonbon, Party Boy, Party Girl, and now Clara.
Herr Drosselmeyer and Clara are alone on stage. He follows her as she makes grand steps toward the tree, arms alonǵe, then plies and pirouettes in front of it. He partners her in an arabesque.
Jane abruptly sits up! He should be supporting her with his palms, not digging his fingers into her waist! A few arabesques later, Jane elbows Edward and whispers, “Did you see that?”
“What?”
“I think he just said ‘fuck’ to her.”
“I didn’t see anything. I’m sure he didn’t say ‘fuck.’”
It’s so like Edward to see only the surface of things and believe nothing’s wrong! The orchestra bellows.
“He just did it again!” She says in loud whisper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He did it again and he’s clutching Clara in a weird way! You don’t see that?”
Isabella’s expression, that of excitement, awe, and wonder has not changed. She, trained at an early age, instinctively remains in character. The wrath of the director is more dangerous than any set misfunction. Her look of wonder becomes more exaggerated despite Sir Henry’s erratic movement. The intimate moment they should be sharing, the moment right before the toy nutcracker turns into a Prince, her Prince, appears a parody. Sir Henry moves Isabella as if they were on a skating rink and he’s trying to avoid thin ice. He continues to mouth expletives Jane can’t make out. His eyes are wide open.
Isabella exaggerates her movements and gracefully adapts to Sir Henry’s haphazard partnering. Jane thinks they’re too far upstage. Sir Henry lifts her up onto his shoulder as the Grandfather Clock chimes and the Christmas tree rises.
And then it happens! The top third of the Christmas tree collapses in a bow. It looks like an oversized apron hung out to dry, suspended by sagging tarps. The family portraits with stern, mocking faces are askew.
The music signals the Bugler to climb through the trap door, which is now a bisected steel rod, waist high. The Bugler quickly straddles the rod and gets to her spot. A stream of Toy Soldiers follows. Parents in the audience, focused on their own children, don’t seem to notice that a potential disaster is unfolding. As young dancers confront the rod, shiny uniforms of red, white, and blue catch on broken ornaments. Jane can’t hear it but imagines the sound of satin tearing.
“I’m going backstage,” she whispers to Edward.
Opening Night, 8:45 p.m.
Darren hears the sounds of breakage from the stairs leading up to the grid. Down below, Tom and Phillip are clinging onto ropes, trying to prevent the entire tree from toppling over. Tom is closer to the ground, while Phillip is several feet above. Both are being thrashed around as they manage to hold on. They swing back and forth like the pendulum in the Grandfather Clock and dangle for a several minutes until the weights Darren has added stabilize the bottom two thirds of the tree. It’s too late to do anything about the top of the tree. Tom and Phillip slowly descend like hang gliders and land unhurt.
The Toy Soldiers don’t know what to do. The director is telling them to go, the assistant to stay. The Bugler takes off and the Toy Soldiers follow as they attempt to walk through the trap door which is now bisected by a rod.
Opening Night, 8:57 p.m.
The curtains are drawn, and the lights in the house emit a dim glow. Jane makes an announcement thanking the audience for their patience. Darren doesn’t acknowledge her. He and a few other stagehands roll the damaged Christmas tree up-stage. The Toy Soldiers, Buglers, and Rats are in the wings, waiting for the crew to sweep up broken glass, ornaments, and tree limbs. As soon as the tree is a good distance from the performers, Jane sees Darren go over to Phillip and a bulky stagehand and give each of them a jovial punch in the arm. She’s envious of their comradery.
“Darren’s here. He can fix anything!” a child says.
She’s suddenly aware of how poorly she’s handled everything. What a mess she’s made. So what if Sir Henry suspected them? Firing Darren had been unnecessary. And it’s not just that. She was so eager to keep Sir Henry quiet that she listened to him tout his grandson’s skills, never considering that Phillip would not be ready for a performance of this magnitude. All she’d wanted was to make Darren disappear. What she’s accomplished is the certainty that he won’t.
She knows the dangers she’d exposed the company to overshadow anything that’s going on in her personal life. Broken shards of glass could cut through ballet slippers! Live wires could combust and set the plastic tree branches on fire! The broken rod could trap the Toy Soldiers! It’s a miracle none of this happened.
Jane expects her knees to buckle from the shear heaviness of the weight of her culpability. She slips out the side door, without speaking to anyone, and makes her way back to Edward.
“How was it back there?” Edward asks. “No more interruptions, I hope. Our patrons seem restless.”
Opening Night, 9:17
The floor is swept. The Toy Soldiers, Buglers, Rats are in position waiting for the curtain to rise and the music to resume. Darren’s leaning against a side wall to watch the Battle Scene. The Mouse King springs onto the stage.
The production resumes. Darren knows none of this is Phillip’s fault and doesn’t even care anymore about the T-shirt. He doesn’t need a T-shirt to advertise who he is and what he can do. He’ll do what he must to remain part of the company. Avoid Jane, train Phillip, take a demotion, volunteer. He knows the value of his skills, if no one else does. He can even overlook the fact that Phillip is Sir Henry’s grandson. He believes Phillip loves the theatre as much as he does. The fact that Phillip was willing to put up with Tom, dangle twenty feet above the ground, and treat Darren with respect really says it all. He’ll train him, starting with the basics. Some common sense. He’ll warn Phillip to be wary, wary of anyone who wanders into the scene-shop. The enticing scent of caramel apples isn’t worth a life without theatre.
The Battle Scene ends with the Mouse King carried off for a proper burial. Backstage Darren finds Phillip and takes him over to the fog machine. “Be careful with this. If it’s not set correctly, it spews out clumps of steam. We don’t want the dancers choking in the Land of the Sweets! Phillip, we need to . . . . ” The list is endless.
So much to do before final bows!
***
Lenore Tsakanikas has been a student with the Writer’s Studio since 2017. She was a presenter at the Writer’s Studio Annual Student Reading in 2023. Her short fiction has been accepted for publication at Fiction on the Web and Discretionary Love. She holds a J.D. Degree and is a practicing family law attorney in Tucson, Arizona.