AT 29 (120 page)

They rounded the corner and came into view. George was disoriented from the long flight. Miles could see it in the older man's face. His wife held his arm. Miles signaled the porter and rushed over. He took George's other arm and guided him to the taxi as the porter wheeled their luggage to the rear of the car.

Les found Jimmy discussing something with a distracted Tim Seligman. Actors were scurrying about making their way to the dressing rooms when she hooked her husband's arm, gave Seligman a knowing smile and pulled Jimmy away. He was white as a ghost.

“You need to relax,” she admonished as they moved to a side room and sat on a pair of folding chairs. “Have you eaten anything?”

“Not now, my stomach's churning. Did you see him?”

“Yes, he's there.”

“Tim says he always arrives early.”

“Calm down.”

“I can't. This is Tim's sixth show and Clarke's panned every one.”

McCabe guided George and his wife down the aisle. The faltering steps of the elderly man made Miles second-guess bringing him from Mannheim to Melbourne for the opening. They stopped to let faster people pass. He took the moment to look up at the balcony. He caught a glimpse of Lloyd Gannon Clarke, the notoriously harsh critic from the Sydney Times.

“Who's he?” Miles turned to find George looking up as well.

“Theater critic from Sydney.”

“You know him?”

“Only by reputation. He's widely read. Productions like ours live or die based on what he writes.”

“You don't say?” They continued on. “Where's Jim at?”

“He's backstage. Here we are. Best seats in the house.”

George held back. “I wanna see him.”

“After the show. Remember, it's a surprise he doesn't know you're here.”

“That don't matter. I wanna talk to him before things start.”

George's wife went first, taking a seat near Sister Marie who smiled and introduced her to Fanny.

“George, you've had a long trip. It would be better to take your seat and relax. Jim's probably very busy at the moment.”

“Not for me he ain't. Point me in the right direction and let me go.”

Miles sighed and looked around. The curtains would open in twenty minutes. A voice took over from the rear.

“I'll take him, Miles.” Les kissed George on the cheek. “Jimmy will be thrilled to see you.” She took his arm and guided him toward the side door, stage left.

Nigel helped Reina get settled in the orchestra pit. He positioned the music stand and switched on the reading light. The other musicians took their places, unconcerned that there was an intruder in their midst. Reina watched them get into position then smiled weakly at her husband.

“I wish I had my violin.”

“You lead the orchestra.” He stooped and took her face in his hands. “You make me the happiest man in the world.”

Les led George to the side room where she had sequestered Jimmy. Before opening the door she cautioned. “He's a wreck. Make him understand that whatever happens tonight he'll still be the same man in the morning.”

George chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

She opened the door. Jimmy was still sitting hunched over in thought on the folding chair where she'd left him.

“Sure is a long way to come just to see a Kendall boy.”

Jimmy jumped at the sound of George's voice. Les closed the door behind them.

“What are you doing here?”

“It's supposed to be a surprise.”

“It sure is.” The two men hugged and Jimmy guided George to a chair.

“So you're sittin' here all alone. Why's that?”

“Just gathering my thoughts before the performance begins.” He took the chair next to George. “You flew all the way from Germany?”

“Yeah. It was Miles' idea. Jeez, that's a long ride.” He stared a Jimmy. “You ain't looked this bad since I picked you up durin' that fool run up there in Vermont.”

Jimmy shrugged. “In a way it feels the same.”

“Why's that? Ain't you a big star?”

Jimmy looked away. “I want the audience to like it.”

“If they don't?”

“I'll be crushed.”

“This ain't life and death. It's just a show.”

“I know. It's a long story.”

They fell silent. A minute later the lights blinked on and off, summoning the cast to the stage and the audience to its seats. Jimmy stood up. “We'll have a chance to talk after the show.”

George didn't move “What're you gonna do?”

“I'm too nervous to take my seat in the audience. I'll watch from behind the curtains.” He headed for the door, but George didn't move.

“Let's stay here for a little while.” He reached into his coat pocket. “I been savin' these for later, but now's the better time.” He produced two Cuban cigars. “Do you suppose no one will notice if we just enjoy these?”

When he saw Alice Limoges take her seat in the front row Lloyd Gannon Clarke jotted down a few notes. The theater was full and the lights blinked for the second time. Two seats remained empty and he wondered when the American producer would take his place. Typical grand entrance, he surmised. He recognized some of the others from their pictures. Miles McCabe from Blossom Presents was easy to spot. Nigel Whitehurst, of course, sitting next to the executive. The nun must be from the orphanage that was receiving some of the proceeds. Fanny Holmquist, the rich philanthropist. He didn't care about the others. The theater darkened as Reina lifted her baton. The overture commenced, bringing the audience to silence as striking notes filled the air, AABB in the familiar cadence Lloyd knew so well, but this music caused the feared critic to cock his head.

Jimmy puffed on his cigar. George gave him a satisfied look as he also puffed and rocked back in his chair. “Nothin' you can do now. Might as well enjoy our cigars.”

“Where's Jim?” Miles whispered to Les two seats away. She shook her head also confused.

Mid-way through the first act Tim Seligman turned away from his vantage point overlooking the stage. He was perplexed. Something was wrong. The production was perfect in everyway. In fact, it was the best work this or any other cast he'd directed had ever done. The singers were primed from the opening note. Reina drove the orchestra to a level unheard even in the best rehearsals. As a veteran director, he knew a fine production was unfolding. Yet, while the audience sat attentive, it seemed to be unmoved, no response, no applause between scenes, no rustling, no sound of any kind. He recognized panic in the faces of his young performers. They saw the stoic audience, too. He encouraged them, smiling and making certain to pat each one on the back even though his own inner confidence was wavering. He went in search of Jim.

George dozed in his chair. Jimmy stubbed his cigar, wondering at the ease with which the old man settled his Kendall boy down. The room stank of smoke. Fortunately, the first act would be over soon. He would take George to his seat. Then it was time to face the music. He smiled at his pun. The scratchy sound from the speakers did no justice to Nathan Whitehurst's songs. Jimmy no longer obsessed about being among the cast members as they hurried between scenes. He knew it was expected. Tim Seligman explained the routine.

“Just like athletes,” the director said. “They need constant encouragement to do their best. That's our job, to be there for them every step of the way. It's as important as anything else we do. And,” Jimmy remembered. “Once the show begins it's the only thing we can do for them. Good or bad we are the cheerleaders.” The door opened. Tim Seligman entered with a dark expression on his face.

Miles Michael McCabe sat awestruck. From the moment the overture commenced he found himself transfixed by the most beautiful music he had ever heard. As a businessman he knew he'd taken a big gamble, but he wasn't thinking about that when he
stared at the stage. He was totally absorbed in a story that unfolded audibly and visually before his ears and eyes.

Nigel Whitehurst touched Sister Marie's hand. Of all the people in the theater, he alone grasped the singular satisfaction of these moments. He was more at peace than at any other time in his life. If she felt his touch, Sister Marie Bonaventuri did not show it. Like Miles McCabe, her every sense was under the spell of Nathan Whitehurst's music and Melba Whitehurst's story.

Alice Limoges stole away from her seat. She hurried up the aisle and out into the empty lobby stifling sobs. In her mind she could not rationalize the unresponsive audience. In her heart she was convinced that she had failed. A startled usher held the door as she burst out onto the sidewalk, finally able to scream in total disappointment.

Les concentrated on every nuance. She knew Melba's story by heart and the battles with Alice Limoges had left both women anxious. The opening scene with Illalangi Illuka on clapping sticks, told the legend of Jonathan Whitehurst. But it offered merely a prelude since only the pamphlet written by a British journalist could be relied upon. The heart of The Whitehurst Legacy began with Melba's words, recounting her life with Nathan. Here, the story flowed in music and lyrics so sweet that Les found herself envisioning the two lovers, not as represented by the cast, but as her mind saw them from the bustling whaling town of Nantucket to the pastoral farm of Apollo Bay.

Alice left her seat a moment earlier. Les watched as the writer she'd battled for months ran up the aisle. Their relationship was tenuous, but Les caught the anguish on Alice's face. The high-strung Pulitzer Prize winner was distraught. Les rose from her seat, stealing past Miles McCabe to the semi-lit aisle. She hurried to the lobby. An usher led her outside with his eyes. She pushed through the door.

“Alice?” The writer leaned against the façade nervously smoking a cigarette, eyes reddened with emotion.

“They hate it.” She took a drag. “No reaction at all.”

Les approached, wanting to console. “It's not even the end of the first act.”

“No applause. Not a sound from anyone.”

“Did you see their faces? They're engrossed.”

“Sure.”

“Alice it's a beautiful story. You did a masterful job.”

“With all the changes you forced me to make it's as much yours as mine.” She dropped her cigarette to the pavement and crushed it with the sole of her red high heel. “I only did this because Jimmy asked. Now, I've made a mess of things. The show won't last a week.”

“It's magnificent.” She took hold of Alice's arm. “The audience is awestruck.”

Tim Seligman glanced at George then spoke to Jimmy. “Something's wrong.”

“Tell me on the way.” Jimmy took George's elbow. “As soon as the curtains close I'll take George to his seat for the second act.”

“If there
is
a second act,” Seligman responded, morosely.

When the curtains closed the lights came up to a silent greeting that few in any theater had ever experienced. Tim stood stage right and watched as Jimmy took George to the aisle and handed him off to Miles. When he returned Seligman pointed to the balcony.

“If Clarke's still here when the second act begins I'll be shocked.”

“We'll know soon enough.”

“Jim, nobody applauded.”

“No one has moved, either.” Jimmy stole a glance at the audience from offstage. “It's intermission and they're still sitting in their seats.”

“This is the strangest reaction I've ever witnessed.”

Reina was in her dressing room. Seligman approached, shaking his head.

“Have you ever seen this before?”

“Never,” she replied. “There ought to be applause.”

After settling George in his seat, Miles remained standing, surveying the full house where most of the audience hadn't moved. He, too, was caught off guard. He looked up at the balcony. Lloyd Gannon Clarke was seated and staring straight out at the stage. The lights blinked on and off. Miles prepared to sit, making a mental note to look at the balcony again midway through the second act. Les came back with Alice. The executive made room for them to pass. Les touched his arm. He looked at her with no idea what to say.

“Magnificent,” she whispered.

Sister Marie leaned against Nigel.

“Do you like it?” he asked, as she turned to meet his gaze.

“Stunning,” she answered. “The music, Nigel. God's hand at work.”

Throughout the second act Les held Alice's hand. The heart of The Whitehurst Legacy commenced with moving melodies that closed Nathan Whitehurst's life and heralded the wrenching emotion that followed. Aaron was depicted amidst the backdrop of war, love, pain and new love until another child was born. Melba's story ended, but a new one began, mostly written by Les and packaged in verse by Alice Limoges. The scenes once again changed to silence as the audience sat unmoving from melody to melody, but the seats remained filled to capacity. McCabe made a quick turn, expecting to see empty space where Lloyd Gannon Clarke once sat. The critic was still in his customary spot, leaning forward in total concentration.

Jimmy and Tim encouraged their actors, careful to conceal their anxiety as The Whitehurst Legacy approached its final climactic scene. Apart from encouragement, there was nothing either man could do to assuage the apparent failure that would be chronicled in the morning newspapers. Jimmy forced a smile as the ensemble gathered onstage to close the show with the most stirring of Nathan's songs. He stood at the edge of the curtains, watching the audience. He scanned the faces disheartened that his yearlong effort had failed to win their hearts, but he was also puzzled. The music of Nathan Whitehurst was the most beautiful he had ever encountered. It touched him deeply. It was the reason he produced this musical. Now, he felt nothing but dejection, not for himself, but for all those who trusted him, all those who would now be connected to his failure. They deserved better. The memory of Melba and Nathan deserved better.