At six-thirty, Spencer and Scarlett went to Central Park, where he had arranged for the cast and crew to meet, well out of sight of the hotel. The idea of meeting a bunch of Shakespearian actors intimidated Scarlett a little at first, but when she arrived, she saw a bunch of people who looked pretty much like the same people Spencer went to high school with. They were a little older—mostly college students—but looked pretty harmless.
Trevor, the director, was tall and kind of heavy, with red hair, a tiny beard, and a massive voice. Hamlet was played by a Juilliard student named Leroy. He was the quietest. Scarlett thought he was keeping in character and brooding, but then she noticed that he was really just trying to balance a spoon off the end of his nose. Horatio, Hamlet’s best friend, was a carefully groomed guy named Jeff who thought he was funny, but wasn’t. Scarlett watched him look over in annoyance whenever Spencer did or said anything that
was
actually funny.
There were only a handful of girls. Paulette the stage manager was a tiny and curvy Texan redhead. She had the group well in hand, barking orders and asking about schedules as she ate cold macaroni
and cheese out of a Tupperware container. She was roommates at NYU with Ophelia, who was played by a tall, dark-haired girl named Stephanie. She wore tiny glasses and had the firm build of someone who did a lot of gymnastics or modern dance. She also gave Spencer a lot of looks, but of a different kind than Jeff.
Eric was one of the last to arrive, sauntering along with a smile on his face so warming that he might have been singularly responsible for melting an ice shelf.
Getting everyone down the alley was even easier than they had imagined. Spencer and Scarlett had prepared everything as best they could, stuffing old towels under cracks, hanging blankets from the walls, covering the wooden steps and the concrete floor with everything they could find. It wasn’t a pretty effect, but the cast didn’t appear to think anything of it.
Except for Trevor, they were all good at self-monitoring the noise level. And with Scarlett in command of the washing machine, demand for the basement was nonexistent. They left at eleven, unnoticed by anyone except Weird Carlos, the guy who walked up and down their street with a nonfunctioning radio, telling everyone that he was Bill Clinton. When the last of them had gone, Spencer and Scarlett returned the basement to a more or less normal state.
“I can’t believe this,” Spencer said, pulling down an old blanket they had taped to the wall. “If I had realized that our basement was this ignored, high school would have been totally different. I feel cheated.”
“Cheated how?” Scarlett said, folding one of the dozens of towels she had washed. “What
didn’t
you do in high school?”
“I never threw a party. Mom and Dad were always home, or one of them was. I was the only one in my class who didn’t throw a party.”
“Yeah, but you
went
to about a million.”
“It’s not the same,” he said.
“And didn’t you say that you made out with your girlfriend from junior year, I can’t remember which one, in every single room, even on the front desk? Actually, it sounded like you did more than that…”
“When did I tell you
that
?” he said, snapping in her direction.
“I don’t know. Some night at the hospital.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that story,” he said, admonishing his former self. “And it was
under
the front desk. I told you this in the hospital?”
“Yeah. Some night that Marlene was really sick and we got stuck there all night, and you were working on
Romeo and Juliet.
I think you were sleep deprived. You were trying to stay up to learn your lines, and I fell asleep on your shoulder and you couldn’t move.”
“Oh, right.” He nodded and set to work pulling up the mats from the steps. “I remember that. I still shouldn’t have told you. Can you forget that? Don’t do that.”
“Did you go in
my
room?” she asked.
“It was so long ago, Scarlett. It was back before I took my vow of celibacy. I can’t remember these things in my pure state.”
Scarlett shuddered and turned her attention to folding Mrs. Amberson’s yoga pants.
“Stephanie is
really
pretty,” Spencer said. “And really, really annoyingly professional.”
“Professional how?”
“She’s one of these serious types who believes you can’t date anyone you work with. It makes sense, but…”
This would have been the perfect time to ask the question about Eric, but just as she was working up the nerve, Spencer moved on.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Things can’t be perfect. Besides, this will all be over when we get caught tomorrow night.”
But they didn’t get caught.
Against all odds, this plan worked for two entire nights. Either the gods were smiling on them for once, or their basement was truly the place where no one could hear you scream. There were a few close calls when Scarlett had to throw herself at her dad trying to take down some recycling or when she and Spencer had run evasive maneuvers around Marlene. But for the most part, it went like a dream. They even stopped meeting in the park. Spencer just propped the side door open, and the cast let themselves in.
The whole time in the basement they only went over a handful of scenes, most of which didn’t involve Spencer or Eric. But the third night was different—they had just moved on to a major Rosencrantz and Guildenstern scene. Trevor was arranging the three actors. Eric and Spencer were doing something behind Hamlet where they had to keep passing an object back and forth very rapidly. It was obvious that the final effect was going to be entertaining, but Scarlett couldn’t see from where she was sitting. She got up and slipped against the wall to watch.
“Leroy, I think it’s going to be hard to hear you if you put your head in your hands like that,” Trevor was saying. “And, Eric, come around a little, upstage. There. I think that’s better. Frame him a little. Now we can hear you. Try it from there.”
“I can hear him fine.”
That voice came from the direction of the steps. The cast of
Hamlet
froze in their positions. Scarlett’s mother stood there, looking at the large group of actors who had assembled in her basement.
“Can I talk to you?” she asked.
This was obviously directed at just two of them. Scarlett and Spencer stepped forward. She at least had the decency to retreat to the steps and speak in a low voice.
“How long did you think this was going to remain a secret?” she asked calmly.
“Um…forever?” Spencer said.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” cried a voice from the opposite corner.
Mrs. Amberson, dressed entirely in black yogawear, stepped out of the shadowy anteroom where the hot water heater was. There was a faint, audible gasp from one of the girls over by that wall—which was totally understandable. Otherwise, absolutely everyone stood in shocked silence.
Mrs. Amberson walked into the middle of the group, as natural as day, dusting a bit of smudge from her sleeve. She was holding one of the small French notebooks and had been scrawling away.
“I think you’re right, Trevor,” she said, consulting the opened page. “That last line is hard to hear from a distance. We’ll need to do some vocal work.”
Trevor, who had never met Mrs. Amberson, nodded slowly. He did remarkably well by not going insane when the strange woman emerged from the wall to answer his question.
Mrs. Amberson walked up to Scarlett’s mother, who was receiving a double surprise. She flashed her biggest smile, which was longer and more insidious than a holiday traffic jam.
“We were just using the downstairs tonight as there was a little problem with our rehearsal space,” Mrs. Amberson said. “It’s not a problem, is it? I promise I’ll have them moved out as soon as possible. I would have asked…but I hated to bother you. Oh, I
hope
you’re not mad. Please, let’s have a talk. You come along, Scarlett. Take a break everyone. We’ll be back.”
“Um…sure,” Spencer said. “We’ll break.”
His look to Scarlett said:
Please tell me you know what’s going on.
But, of course, she didn’t.
Upstairs, in the dining room, Mrs. Amberson gratefully accepted the offer of a cup of hot water while Scarlett was sent upstairs to fetch one of her organic-ginger teabags and her box of pickled Japanese plums. She bypassed the elevator and took the stairs three at a time. When she got back, winded, Mrs. Amberson was in full conversational swing.
“…I’d been hearing a lot about that theater group, First National Bang, from friends of mine in the business. It’s a cuttingedge production, and it’s going to get a lot of attention in the industry. Color me amazed when I heard Spencer was part of the cast and
that
was the show he mentioned on the night I arrived!”
She gave her hand a little swirl in the air.
“And naturally, when I heard they had run into a small spot of financial trouble…which
every
worthwhile show does, believe me…I absolutely jumped at the chance to become the company’s new artistic director and the main financial backer. It was the ultimate piece of good fortune. This is
exactly
the reason this hotel is recommended. Wasn’t I thrilled, Scarlett?”
Scarlett got two stares from across the table—one looking for verification, and one waiting for her to verify. There was no time for her to process this utter and insane lie, so she simply said, “Oh…right.”
“It’s just that we’re a bit…concerned about Spencer’s career,” Scarlett’s mother said. “He won a scholarship to the culinary school and there’s a window of time that he can still qualify.”
Mrs. Amberson was nodding away gravely and gulping back steaming hot tea.
“I absolutely agree,” she said, though there didn’t seem to be anything to agree with. “The acting life is not an easy choice, and I think you’re handling this with exactly the right attitude. Spencer has obviously gotten the excellent training that the High School of Performing Arts is famed for. I know teachers there. They speak fondly of him.”
This could have been true, but Scarlett doubted it. She decided that it was too hard to keep up with the lies and keep a straight face, so she pretended to be interested in an imaginary spot on her T-shirt until she got a better idea of what the hell was going on.
“That’s good to hear,” Scarlett’s mom said slowly. “But Spencer is—”
“A rare and gifted physical comedian,” Mrs. Amberson cut in. “But that’s no surprise to you.”
“Well, no. He’s definitely that. He’s been throwing himself down the stairs since he was seven years old.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Amberson said. “There’s a huge potential there. In my thir…many years in this line of work, I’ve only seen a handful of people like him, and they’ve
all
gone on to have full, flourishing careers.”
Lie or not, it sounded so good. Mrs. Amberson had a way of doing that. It stunned Scarlett’s mom into silence. The message was clear—the hotel’s most important and highest-paying guest in its history was now connected to this show. Scarlett couldn’t help but stare as her mother grappled with this new reality.
“Well,” she said, “it sounds…like it’s quite an opportunity.”
Scarlett had to bite her tongue to keep from yelping in joy.
“I assure you, it is,” Mrs. Amberson said. “Now, I’m just going to step outside to indulge my vice. And I promise you, they won’t be back here. This was a one-time offense.”
Outside, Mrs. Amberson broke into her strange, chin-jerking laugh and snapped open her cigarette case.
“It looks like I just got a theater company,” she said.
“But how did you…?”
“Scarlett, I smoke on the balcony. For the last three days, I’ve been watching a trail of actors sneak around the side of the building at six-thirty every night, like clockwork.”
“You knew they were actors?”
“They were carrying unicycles and swords. What else could they be? Circus burglars? Of course, I had to find out what they were doing down there. You should never leave doors propped open in this city. I’ve been letting myself in the back and observing for the last two nights. This is the most fun I’ve had in
weeks
!”
“So what happens now?” Scarlett said, almost not wanting to know the answer.
“What happens now? Some decent direction. Vocal work, for sure. And if Polonius doesn’t stop playing with his fake beard, I will personally break all of his fingers.”
“So…this is real? You’re really backing the show? You weren’t just saying that?”
“I never just
say
things, O’Hara. I
do
things. And I do them well. All in all, it’s a good group. And your brother is every bit as good as I said to your mother. And what a physique! I thought he looked like a scarecrow when I first saw him, but once he gets his clothes off you can see he’s really just a bodybuilder who’s been stretched on a rack. The things that boy can do upside down…”
Something inside Scarlett put out a faint wheeze of alarm, and this luscious description of Spencer made her want to throw up. But overall, things had taken a turn for the miraculous and good.
“What about your book?” Scarlett ased.
“It’s a funny thing, O’Hara, I’ve been feeling stagnant about the book. You’ve probably noticed. But as soon as I saw your mother standing there, I knew exactly what I had come here to do…New York, this hotel…I came here to reconnect to my theater roots. I saw it all in one shining moment. The book can wait. For now, we’ll find them a space, and we’ll
really
develop this show. It won’t be one of these little productions that falls through the cracks. I am going to make something of this show and everyone in it. I have tricks up my sleeve, O’Hara. Tricks like you wouldn’t believe. Here. Have an umbeoshi plum. They taste like salt. Don’t eat the stone. Go on.”
She thrust the box of grayish things at Scarlett, who reluctantly took one. They did, in fact, taste like sour little fruits covered in salt. She winced and spit out the stone.
“They’re extremely good for you,” Mrs. Amberson said. “They’re a secret to health and vitality, and I want you vital, O’Hara. Now, let’s go down and meet our cast.”
The cast of
Hamlet
had not moved much. They had that haunted yet hopeful look in their eyes, like the ones you see in old photos of people crammed into steerage compartments, traveling to some new, unknown land.
Trevor, as director, stepped forward to assume some sort of control over the situation, and Mrs. Amberson met him and shook his hand.
“Amy Amberson,” she said, introducing herself. “I’ve been watching you from over there for the last two nights. I was surprised no one noticed me—but then, you were fully engaged in your task.”
She pointed to her spot in the dark vestibule.
“Well,” Spencer said, “we also kind of assumed that no one was hiding behind the hot water heater.”
“Never assume,” Mrs. Amberson said. “This city is unique. Every place you go—everything you do—you never know who’s watching. There’s always an opportunity, if you know how to spot it.”
This would have been an extremely annoying little maxim if it wasn’t so literally true in this case. She really had proven her point.
“We lost our rehearsal space,” Eric said, flashing Mrs. Amberson a smile. “We got a vacate order. So we came here. It was Scarlett’s idea.”
He knew it was her idea!
Eric’s appeal was not lost on Mrs. Amberson. This was dismaying. But worse, it was Spencer that she turned to when she let loose one of those slow, creeping smiles.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “No one understands better than I do how hard it is to find a place to rehearse in this city. I was an actress. You want suffering? I’ll give you suffering. I landed a part in the hot new Broadway show of 1976,
Rockabye Hamlet.
It was
Hamlet
staged as a
big rock concert. Ophelia strangled herself with a microphone cord to commit suicide. The audience
laughed.
We closed after seven performances. Seven. We were all over
The Times
the next day.”
This remark met with sympathetic mumbling and exaggerated interest.
“I have a proposal for you,” she said. “Of course, you are free to accept or reject it. I’m offering financial backing in exchange for an artistic say. If you agree to bring me on as codirector, I can offer sound advice and excellent connections.”
“Codirector?” Trevor said.
“And you all know my assistant, Scarlett. Her resourcefulness will come in handy as well. Talk it over. Do what feels right.”
While Trevor looked thunderstruck, everyone else appeared jubilant. This was precisely the kind of deal that Scarlett had been offered, just on a grander scale. It was no surprise that the group immediately agreed, Trevor’s shocked reaction nonwithstanding.
Mrs. Amberson plunked herself down in the middle of the group and started talking about her “deep love of Shakespeare” (even though she asked Scarlett to get her a copy of the play and every book on the subject she could carry the next morning). As the night wore on, various people started to go. By the end, it was down to the residents—Spencer, Mrs. Amberson, and Scarlett—and Eric.
“Do me a favor, O’Hara,” she said, not taking her eyes off her two new recruits. “Run down to the corner and get me a box of green tea? I just remembered I was out.”
“You have three boxes,” Scarlett said.
“Do I? I don’t think so. Best get another to be sure.”
She did have three boxes of green tea. She also had two boxes
of white, ginger, and rosehips, and a box each of plum, ginseng, spearmint, DeTox blend, Restful Blend, Mindful Blend, and Yoga Blend…all of which Scarlett had purchased. But it was clear that she didn’t want to be argued with. Mrs. Amberson wiggled herself into a more comfortable seat on the floor by shifting through a lot of complicated dancer positions that clearly said, “I am more flexible than anyone you know.” Sadly, Spencer took careful note of this.
“Fine,” Scarlett said, pulling herself up off the floor. “I’ll get you another one.”
As she headed up the creaky basement steps, she heard Eric say. “You know what? I should head home now. Have to get up early.”
She immediately stopped and dove down to do some completely unnecessary maintenance on her flip-flop—just enough to give Eric time to catch up to her. This only bought her a few seconds more with him, but seemed worth the effort.
“So soon?” Mrs. Amberson said. “Well, see you tomorrow. We’ll be in touch with the new rehearsal location. Scarlett will call. Are you all right there, Scarlett?”
“Fine!” Scarlett said. She’d pulled the thong from the center hole and was now desperately trying to shove it back in again. She had done such a good job of sabotaging her own shoes that it was looking like she might have killed them and would have to go upstairs for a new pair. She hopped up a few steps to get out of Mrs. Amberson’s view and managed to get the thing loosely in place enough to walk, as long as she kept her toes wrapped around the thong. It made her hobble, but she was more or less ready when Eric was behind her.
Her mother was at the computer at the front desk, still looking at the basement door with a look of great skepticism.
“I have to go to the deli and pick up tea for Mrs. Amberson.”
“
More
tea?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Martin,” Eric chimed in. “My scooter’s up the block. I’ll walk her down, ma’am.”
The idea that Scarlett had to be escorted up and down her street at eleven at night was ridiculous, and the “ma’am” was too strange to comment on. But it was hard to argue with that honeyed voice and the manners from some other century.
“Oh…thanks, Eric. That’s nice of you.”
Scarlett shot out the door before her mother could read anything from her expression.
“You look like you’re in a hurry,” he said, as they stepped outside. “And is your foot okay?”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m just trying to get away from seeing my brother making out with my boss. I think it will save me some money in future therapy.”
Eric responded with a gratifying laugh.
“She does lay it on a little thick,” he said. “I can see what you were saying about your first day. She kind of comes out of nowhere. Literally. Out of nowhere.”
“Welcome to my life.”
The deli was sadly all too close, and Eric’s scooter was chained to a tree next to it. He was the owner of one very old but still extremely stylish black scooter. Its obvious age and many dings made it seem so much better than the shiny new ones.
“Online ad, six-hundred bucks,” he explained. “Another gift from
the commercial. It conks out a lot, but I’ve been able to keep it running. Faster than the bus, you know?”
He made no move to unchain it. Instead, he followed her in and walked with her past the Pringles, the empty steam trays, and giant stacks of cat food. This deli knew its people and kept a large selection of organic things in the back. They charged double for the convenience, but Mrs. Amberson never seemed to care.
Scarlett was feverishly working out a good-bye when they stepped outside, but he made no move for his scooter.
“I hope you don’t mind about this,” he said apologetically. “I just have this thing about girls walking alone in the city at night. I’d feel better if I could walk you back. I did promise your mother I’d make sure you were okay.”
He smiled, revealing that even he knew this was absurd. Still, no movement. He leaned over her, occasionally throwing his glance in the direction of the hotel.
“I guess we’ll be working together now,” he said.
“I guess so.”
“That’s great.”
Something was going on, but Scarlett had no idea what. Eric blinked a few times, looked around, leaned against the wall. He was close enough that she could smell him—he had the faint odor of the same heavy-duty detergent they used, and a little oil, probably from the scooter.
“I guess…” he said again, “I can see the door from here, so, yeah. Maybe I should get going. I’ll see you around?”
What was this? Offering to walk her a few feet—retracting the offer. If it was anyone else, Scarlett would have been annoyed.
“Guess I’ll go,” Scarlett said.