Idea in Stone (16 page)

My John Wayne is better,
thought Stefan.

Helen looked over her list. “We’ve got everyone we need, Stefan.”

“Yeah, I guess we do. God, they’re all going to want me to direct them.”

“Yup. And you’re going to be great.”

“Want to get out of here?” he asked. She nodded, and gathered her things. As they left the room, Stefan looked back in at the blank walls and the holy barricade of a cheap wooden table. He’d never see this room again, and that was just fine. It did its work, and now there was an inescapable momentum to his plans.

Hope we got what you wanted, Dad,
he thought, shutting the door.

Eight

Final Dress

Stefan pulled the car into the curved driveway of the convention centre, which was lit by hundreds of small bulbs overhead and the hot lights of the press above. He got out and handed the keys to the valet, then opened the passenger door. Delonia stepped out in a long turquoise dress that made her look like a high waterfall. Photographers stepped forward and snapped pictures of her. She stopped and smiled politely for them, knowing she had to play the press’s game or be subject to scorn about her appearance, her music, or—most feared—her lifestyle. After a media scuffle several years before, one tabloid printed pictures of her from this same annual event, on Stefan’s arm, accusing her of having a new “boy toy”. Stefan wasn’t sure at the time whether he was more put off by the accusation or by their complete ignorance of his existence as her son. One television special about her life declared that “her songs are her children”. After these events, Delonia made it up to him by mentioning him repeatedly in public, which was worse.

Delonia linked her hand in his, waved to the reporters and the crowd outside the convention centre, and they walked inside. The lobby was elaborately decorated, as was the large hall where the ceremony would take place. Television cameras stood on either side of the stage, hanging down on their large bases as if asleep. Large round tables filled the rest of the room. Stefan and Delonia joined Cerise, who pouted into her large, fruity drink. Not only had Delonia asked her to arrive separately, she had to work that night, playing in the show’s orchestra.

Stefan sat, and a cater-waiter quickly came over to them. Stefan looked at him.
Oh God
, he thought.

“Hello, Sir, can I get you something to drink?” asked the waiter, a tall young man with curly red hair. Just weeks before this same actor-singer-dancer-waiter had given Stefan ‘the finger’ after his audition.

He knows it’s me
, thought Stefan.
He knows I know it’s him
. But the waiter did nothing but wait sullenly for their drink order.
This is the Canadian equivalent of a bar room brawl
, thought Stefan,
being impolite to each other
. “Uh, just a ginger ale for me,” said Stefan as nicely as possible, “and a soda water for—”

“Make mine a double bourbon,” corrected Delonia. Stefan flared his eyes at her.

“Very good,” said the waiter, rising on the balls of his feet, then darting away.

Every year since his father died, Stefan came to this music awards event with his mother, yet he could never remember the name of it. He always got it confused with its American equivalent, so he just referred to it as the “Piece of Glass Awards”, since that’s what they left with year after year. They didn’t even bother displaying them anymore; there was no pride for winning in a category with no other nominations. He suspected that the governing body invented categories for her music so she could win, either out of kindness or to keep her ratings up.

The room soon filled up with other Canadian performers, their coteries, and people who thought impressive company was worth the exaggerated ticket price. Canada produced a disproportionate number of music stars, many of whom remained conscious of their roots and made yearly appearances at this event. Stefan saw a few people this year he thought were dead. He double-checked to make sure they weren’t visions like his father, but they weren’t, just entertainers who hadn’t died yet.
Perhaps
, he figured,
they’re showing up just to prove they’re alive.

A young man came to their table, dressed in a borrowed-looking suit. He smiled at Delonia. “Oh,” she said, “Stefan, this is George—”

“Jeff.”

“Jeff. He’s, uh, a young doctor I met. I figured you didn’t have a date, so I invited him along.” Stefan gave her a flat look and tried to kill her with his mind. She remained alive and sipped her drink.

Stefan looked at the doctor and nodded his head. He thought the young man was handsome, especially his smile. He was nicely tanned, and not too tall.
He’s the kind of good-looking that comes in calendars,
thought Stefan,
so flawless he’s almost bland. Almost
.

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked. Stefan detected a trace of a New York accent.

“Oh, sorry. Not at all,” said Stefan. Jeff sat next to him, pulled in his chair, scuffing it across the carpet, and banging it into Stefan’s. Jeff laughed and smiled at him. Stefan felt Jeff’s leg press against his.

Cerise stood up. “I have to go work now,” she said, and lumbered away from them as if wounded, heading for a door beside the stage. Two couples arrived and took the rest of the seats at the table. One of the women announced that her friends were there to indulge her: She was a huge Delonia Mackechnie fan. “Well, then,” said Stefan, “you and she have a lot in common.” Delonia graciously overlooked the comment and proceeded to ask the woman all about herself and her friends.

Delonia gestured, and the make-up-artist-costume-designer-cater-waiter brought them another round of drinks. Stefan and Jeff sat in silence while Delonia held court with the fan and her friends. The orchestra took their seats and tuned up while the stage crew made final checks of the set. Not wanting to be left dry when the show started, Delonia ordered them more drinks.

Stefan turned and asked the young doctor, “So do you have a practice, or do you work out of a hospital?”

Jeff looked confused.

The orchestra came to life, filling the room with opening music for the show, a medley of the year’s Canadian hits. Stefan even recognised a few bars from a song he’d heard his mother rehearse at home.

The next few hours were familiar territory for Stefan. In the breaks, he and Jeff made chit-chat. He liked Jeff. The “Maybe...” portion of his brain whirred, recalculating.
Maybe I shouldn’t leave Toronto. Maybe I don’t have to go with the show. Maybe I can still do what Dad wants but still stay here. Maybe Jeff has a great condo and I can move in.

Stefan did his best to be charming, searching for witty, knowingly cynical things to say about the event that would impress Jeff. “These shows make me sick, the recording industry congratulating itself and throwing ornaments to artists to thank them for bringing in lots of money. But the second the musician stops being useful, they’re chucked back into the bar circuit .”

“It’s cool that your mother is so famous. I’ve never been to one of these before.” said Jeff. “I mean, who can afford tickets?”

“Yeah,” said Stefan, unsure now. “You’d have to be a doctor or something.”

“Really!” said Jeff, smiling.

“Or have someone buy you a ticket.”

Jeff’s smile wilted.

“Holy crap,” said Stefan. “My mother paid you. Are you an esco—?” But the music started up again before he could finish.

Onstage, a young waif in a pink elfin dress read from an electronic prompter. “In the category of Best Variety Hour Holiday Special by a Female Folk Artist Singing in Both Official Languages, the nominees are—”

Stefan felt Jeff’s hand searching across his lap. His mother looked at him and smiled. He stared with wide, blank eyes. Jeff groped him expertly under the table.

“—Delonia Mackechnie,” said the girl. She opened a small envelope. “And the winner is... Delonia Mackechnie!”

Delonia smiled and rose from her chair. She waved for Stefan to go with her to collect the award. He shook his head no. She gave him a look, half-angry, half-hurt. Stefan grabbed Jeff’s hand and threw it from his lap, and got up from his seat. He buttoned his jacket and tried to pull it closed.

Delonia took his arm and they walked to the stage. They walked up the small staircase together and she crossed to the podium. He stood behind her, trying to hide. She read from a speech she’d written on recipe cards, and Stefan turned to face the back of the stage. The waif-presenter looked at him, then looked down. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she giggled. Stefan felt a hand on his shoulder. Delonia was thanking him for his support, and wanted him beside her. He turned and tried to angle himself behind the podium. Delonia stood back, thinking he wanted to speak.

“Um, thank you. I mean, we thank you. I know these awards—this award—means a lot to my mother.” Then he realised the podium was made of clear glass. “Oh God,” he said. “God, it’s great to see so much Canadian talent here tonight. Thanks for supporting my mom.” Delonia held the large glass wedge of the award in one hand, and grabbed Stefan’s hand with the other, raising their arms in the air. Stefan saw himself on the two giant monitors in the hall, his trousers poking out between the flaps of his jacket. He pushed his mother’s hand down and rushed them from the stage.

Back at the table, Delonia stopped smiling and turned on him. “What’s the matter with you?”

Jeff spoke up, “I think he’s just happy to see—”

“Shut up,” said Stefan, standing back up. “I’m leaving.”

“The show’s not over yet,” said Delonia.

“I mean I’m leaving Toronto. I’m leaving Canada. All this stuff—you—I have to get away.” He stormed from the hall.

~

“Boy, you were sure happy about your mother winning that award!” said Jean, the producer of
The Green Brigade
, as she watched highlights from the previous night’s awards show on the green room television. The newspaper on the coffee-table ran a picture of her acceptance, too. He figured it was the media’s version of an in-joke, as he was clearly visible in all of them.

Stefan tried to kill Jean with his mind, but the trick didn’t work on her, either.

Jean crossed her hands on her lap. “The lead animators have finished the pencil tests for this year’s shows. We’re ready to do the recording, start inking key-frames, then farm the in-betweens to Korea again. So are you going to sign the contract, or not?”

“Yeah, about that,” said Stefan. “No.”

Jean sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Stefan, come on. We’ve got Globoil as a sponsor this year. We can give you a raise, if it’s money you want.”

Stefan stood. “No, I’m not coming back. Sorry. The show’s become an apologist piece of corporate PR crap, and I’ve got other plans. I appreciate all you and the show have done for me, but it’s time for me to leave.” He held out a hand to Jean, who did not accept it. Stefan shrugged, and left, walking down the studio hallway for the last time, and out into a bright afternoon. He took a long, deep breath of the humid city air, and coughed.

He walked down to the waterfront, crossing busy stretches of road where the highway passed through the city. He kept walking until he reached the waterfront. On a whim, he rode a ferry to one of the man-made islands in the lake, and sat on its sandy shore with his feet in the water, looking back at the giant glass machine of a city.

~

“Ten minutes to curtains up,” said Charlene to Stefan. She wore a headset, through which she spoke unintelligible cues to the lighting and sound man. On the road, she would be running the whole show, but the rehearsal theatre had strict union rules about who did what. Stefan learned this when he moved a chair on the stage and was taken aside for a stern talking-to by one of the stage crew.

Stefan went to the women’s dressing room and knocked on the door. Maria answered, wearing a thick, fluffy dressing-gown. “Hello,” she said, smiling.

“Five minutes till places. Good luck.”

Serena popped up behind Maria, wearing a long, red silk robe. She held a small green book. Stefan had come to dread the sight of it—
The Actors’ Equity Handbook
—during the three weeks of rehearsals. “Stefan, this dressing room is not regulation temperature. I was wondering if you could do something about that. I wouldn’t complain, except it’s dangerous to our health, and Equity has strict guidelines about that, and fines for violations.” He didn’t need reminding about the latter, as he’d already paid a “Violation of Rest Period” fine for a rehearsal that ran too late into the evening. Serena had appointed herself Equity Deputy for the show, and was better acquainted with the handbook than with the play.

“I’ll look into it. Places in five,” said Stefan.

Serena grabbed his arm before he could leave. “What did Charlene say about making that change to my costume?”

“She said no,” Stefan lied, as he pulled away and headed for the men’s dressing room.

He knocked and opened the door. “Five min— Oh my God.” Chris stood in the middle of the room in his ‘dance belt’, a flesh-coloured thong that formed his genitals into a conspicuous pear shape in front and rode between his buttocks in the back.

Chris raised his hands over his head and posed. “Guten tag, Herr Direktor,” he said in a sultry Marlene Dietrich voice, slinking toward him.