Crossing the Bridge (14 page)

I hadn’t wanted to risk Iris seeing me at the box office, so I waited until just before the curtain to get a ticket. This nearly backfired on me, as I bought one of the last three seats and would have missed out entirely if I’d had that second cup of coffee. While this left me sitting in the very back of the theater and I chided myself for the folly of committing to four hours of driving without securing a seat first, I was impressed that the Ensemble could fill the place with a midweek opening before the official start of the season.

The production was the world premiere of the latest work from Miller Citron, a New Hampshire play-wright who’d begun to generate regional attention for his earlier dramas. His previous play had in fact gotten excellent notices for a version staged in downtown Manhattan. Iris had told me that she expected it wouldn’t be long before Citron opened a play
off-Broadway, and there was even talk of taking this work there.

The play, titled
The Last Week in October
, was about a couple in Martha’s Vineyard closing down their small inn for the season. As the play progressed, however, it became clear that what they were actually in the process of closing down was their marriage. The writing reminded me of Edward Albee. It was acerbic with a deep core of cynicism, yet occasional flashes of romance and charm elevated it and made me care about the people on the stage. The two lead actors gave nuanced performances, balancing anger, disappointment, sadness, and longing without ever allowing any one emotion to dominate. The small handful of other players was less accomplished. The best friend was too consciously sympathetic, the lawyer too openly flirtatious. Having heard so much about the set designer, I was especially interested in seeing how he dressed the stage. It was spare, offering the suggestion of a country inn rather than the depiction of one, using muted colors with the occasional touch of a vibrant red.

The play was very powerful. It moved me and caught me up in its complexities. At the same time, I remained aware that Iris had helped bring this play to the stage and I felt a strong surge of pride at her involvement. When the audience applauded appreciatively at the end, I couldn’t help but think of how Iris received that appreciation.

One of the guys I’d seen at Iris’ office on my visits recognized me and let me backstage afterward. The entire area was a swirl of motion. A couple dozen people either milled or darted and others made their
way in behind me. I saw Iris moving quickly from one end of the room to the other and I called to her. She stopped and turned in my direction. For a moment, her eyes opened widely in obvious (and, I hoped, pleasant) surprise, but then her brow furrowed and she put up one finger to indicate that she was in the middle of doing something else. She headed toward the far corner of the room. I didn’t want to crowd her, but I took a few steps in that direction. Doing so allowed me to see what she was dealing with. The male lead and the man who played the best friend were exchanging heated words. I couldn’t make out all of it, especially when others in front of me began to comment on the proceedings, but it appeared that the lead felt this was the appropriate time to question some of his fellow actor’s choices. His subordinate took exception to this. Their verbal sparring quickly descended to profanity and name-calling. An actor I’d admired just minutes earlier now seemed petty. I wondered if there was a history between the two or if perhaps the lead had a reputation for belittling his fellows.

There seemed an excellent chance that things were going to come to blows, especially when one actor put his hand on the shoulder of the other. But then Iris intervened. She said something sharp but
sotto voce
to the lead actor and he responded to the comment by briskly turning his back to her and walking off in the other direction. Iris then put her arm around the other actor’s shoulder. The man was obviously having trouble regaining his composure and he gesticulated harshly for a minute or two before Iris turned him toward her, patted him on
the chest, and calmed him down.

This fire doused, Iris started walking in my direction. Since she hadn’t made eye contact, though, it wasn’t clear whether she was actually coming to see me or not. She didn’t get particularly far. The director intercepted her about fifteen feet from me.

“Can you believe the incompetence of those lighting people,” he said.

“It wasn’t that bad, Art,” Iris said in response.

“Not bad if this were dinner theater. The audience must have been cringing from all the gaffes.”

“Most people probably didn’t even notice. I only saw a couple mistakes myself.”

The director drew back from this comment. His body language suggested that Iris’ statement had diminished his estimation of her.

“Don’t give me that crap, Art,” Iris said. “You knew it was a difficult set to light and you knew that we were going to have to make certain compromises. Did they do a great job tonight? No. Did they do it appreciatively differently from what you agreed to in the last rehearsal? No.”

“Pardon me, Iris, I thought you cared about excellence as much as I do. It seems I was wrong about this.”

“Art, is there any chance you might consider the possibility that you’re a little too close to this?”

“A director can never be too close to his work.”

Iris glanced off in the other direction and waited a beat. She was obviously trying to avoid saying something that would escalate the situation. “We’ll do a run-through of the scenes that you think need to be corrected tomorrow afternoon. I’ll set it up.”

The director sighed theatrically (which I suppose was appropriate) and said, “See what you can do. Right now, I need a scotch.”

He walked away and Iris stood in her place for a moment, staring off toward the back wall. I was about to approach her when she started walking away. Someone stopped her and congratulated her on the production and she smiled and offered thanks. While she was doing so, she glanced up at me and I could tell from her expression that she had forgotten I was there. She said a few additional words and the man walked away. Her face dropped as she turned to me and took a few weary steps.

“Congratulations?” I said warily.

She shook her head. “What a disaster this was tonight.”

“I’ve gotta tell you, it didn’t seem like a disaster from out there.”

“Trust me; I know a disaster when I see one. This was a classic. Theo delivered his lines like he was on Seconal – and Walt nearly punched him out because of it. Art thinks the lighting director should never work in this town again. The reviewer for one of the local papers had to beg for his tickets because there was a screwup at the box office, and even the ushers botched their jobs. Sounds like the definition of the word ‘disaster’ to me. Do you have a better one?”

“Under the radar?”

She dropped her head and took a deep breath. “Did you like the show?”

“I loved it. I really did. That guy can write. And Walt might be an asshole, but he’s an excellent actor.”

Iris’ face relaxed a little more. I’d never seen her
this tense before. “Yeah, he is. And yeah, he’s definitely an asshole. I don’t know how someone who is that much of a jerk can show so much tenderness on-stage.”

“That’s why they call it acting, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.” She looked toward the back of the room and I could see her shoulders stiffen. When she turned back to me, though, she smiled. “I had no idea you were going to be here tonight.”

“Spur-of-the-moment thing. I wanted to see what your opening nights were like.”

She gestured toward the rest of the room. “Now you know. It’s a glamour profession.”

“Hey, not everyone gets to have their chains yanked by artists. Some of us only get carpenters and real estate brokers.”

“I feel so much better now.” Whatever had concerned her in the back of the room was continuing to bother her. She looked in that direction again and her eyes remained there for several moments. She turned back to me and said, “Listen, I’ve gotta get over there. Art is talking to the
Eagle,
and considering his state of mind, he could wind up saying anything. You’re going to stick around for a while, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here.”

Iris moved as if snapped from a bungee cord. I went to get something from the buffet table. This scene didn’t exactly mesh with the one I had in my mind while I was driving to Lenox. I’d envisioned a small cast party with champagne and erudite banter and me standing by Iris’ side as she celebrated. Most specifically, I’d envisioned Iris seeing me backstage and hugging me close as she thanked me profusely
for sharing this important moment with her. I’d imagined that I might even get a chance to toast her privately at a bar later in the evening.

Instead, I hadn’t even gotten a kiss on the cheek.

The crowd thinned over the next twenty minutes. I milled around, eating a pastry, listening in on some conversations. I didn’t know anyone here other than Iris and I was beginning to feel a little awkward about being in the room. Iris had disappeared with Art a few minutes after she walked away from me and hadn’t been back since. I wondered if all opening nights were like this for her. I probably should have asked at some point. Regardless, she very obviously didn’t have time for me.

I was getting another cup of coffee when I saw her come back to the room. But as she did, Art called her back in the direction she came. He was with a woman I hadn’t seen before. The three gathered by the doorway, standing very close to one another and speaking intently. I figured this was my cue to leave. As I passed Iris, I caught her eye and waved to her. She tilted her head and mouthed the word “sorry,” to which I responded by raising my hands in a gesture that I intended to mean, “No problem.”

I drove through town and onto the highway without music. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed with the way the evening had turned out. Clearly, Iris was besieged and at least some of this seemed unexpected to her. But at the same time, she hadn’t given me any indication at all that she was glad I’d made the gesture. I concluded that this meant one only thing: that what I saw as a growing friendship
between us meant far less to her than it did to me. I felt stupid for having let my guard down.

I didn’t want to be in that position, especially with Iris. To me, it was far better to scale back my perception of our relationship – perhaps completely – than to feel like a footnote in her life. I decided to give myself some time before I called on her again.

The road was open and dark. I reached for the iPod. I wanted something loud. I scrolled down to a Korn album and let the thudding rap metal lead me back to Amber.

The next night, Tyler and I closed the store together. Thursdays were always considerably busier than Wednesdays and this one was much more so. Though it would be a month before the real peak season began in town, the days had been clear and warm for the past couple of weeks, and this meant people started coming to Amber earlier for long weekends. Progress on the repairs continued to slog along, but even this didn’t seem to deter the customers. I was thankful for the activity and its ability to take my mind off the night before in Lenox.

As we walked toward our cars, I asked Tyler if he wanted to get a drink and we drove over to the Cornwall. He ordered a Danish pilsner and I got a deep red Irish.

“Home stretch at school, huh?” I said after the drinks arrived.

“Yeah, if I survive. I thought I was coasting with
this independent study project, but it’s turning into something like a Master’s thesis for me.”

“You gonna make it?”

“I’ll definitely make it. I’m thinking that next Monday might be the last night of sleep I get for the next couple of weeks, though. You’ll be okay if I pass out on top of the cash register every now and then, right?”

“No problem as long as we can reach around you.”

“Thanks.” He took a drink of his beer. “I had a great trip into the City a couple of days ago.”

When people in Amber talked about “the City,” they could as easily be talking about Boston as Manhattan. New Yorkers found this hilarious. In Tyler’s case, though, I knew that the only city that mattered was Manhattan.

“Job interview?”

“Exploratory stuff. I talked to someone at Pfizer, though I can’t really imagine working there. I had another conversation with that nonprofit organization I told you about, which was actually interesting. I never considered myself an NPO kind of guy, but a woman I saw there got me a little intrigued. My best meeting, though, was with the president of an independent marketing firm. Relatively small shop but with some decent-sized clients. I think I’d like something like that. Not getting lost in a huge corporation but still getting to work on some big stuff. I told the guy that I would be going back to school for my MBA in about two years and he couldn’t have responded better. He told me that he had set things up with other employees so they could go to school mostly full-time and still keep their hands in the
business. I could definitely see myself working for someone like him. Not that he had any job openings.”