I watch him drive away in his truck.
Probably just sleeping. I forgot how deep Grace can sleep. She just goes out. Like a light, she always used to say, snapping her fingers. I envy her that. No rest for me these days, not with showtime right around the corner, am I right? But it’s fine. Really it’s a welcome change. A nice break for Grace. And when she wakes, all my gifts will be waiting for her at the door.
You rest for now, Grace, while I get on with the show. Speaking of which, I’d better get a move on, hadn’t I?
* * *
Tech week flies by. And I get caught up. I get lost. I work round the clock, and I don’t even feel the time. Without my stage manager, I need to be in five places at once. And I am, I manage this. For days on end, my feet barely touch the ground. I’m here, I’m there. There, here, here, there. Stage left. Stage right. Lighting and sound booth. In front of the curtain, behind the curtain, watching with my arms folded, my feet rising a little off the floor from time to time. It happens within the blink of an eye, and thankfully, no one notices. I coordinate all the components, like a conductor does their orchestra. I’m with lighting, I’m with sound, I’m in the costume shop with a pincushion between my teeth driving a needle right into a ripped-up seam. I’m crawling around on the stage on my hands and knees, coaxing out the most brilliant performances. I’m inches from their faces, I’m gazing deeply into their eyes. My hands are on their shoulders, which jump only a little at my touch. I’m speaking soft, low words of encouragement, my lips very close to their pierced, fuzzy ears. They hear; they nod; they take direction. They are well-tuned instruments, and I am the player of them all.
I thought you were the conductor, Grace would say if she were here.
I’m both, all right, Grace? I’m both.
“Who are you talking to, Professor?”
“Me? Nothing. No one. Can we take it from the top, please?”
“Professor Fitch,” they say, “it’s one in the morning.”
“Professor Fitch,” they say, “I don’t know, but I think it’s dawn.”
“Professor,” they whisper, “I have an eight thirty class in ten minutes.”
“Let’s run it one more time, shall we?” I say.
In short, it’s going well, Grace. All’s well. Ha.
All right, not all, Grace, not all.
Two hiccups. Minor, I’m sure you would say. We’re working through them, absolutely. The first hiccup is Briana, who is back with us now. Every afternoon she hobbles silently, spectacularly, into the theater, helped by one of her girl underlings or Trevor. Back together with Trevor, I think. I’m not sure, very hard to say. She clutches Ellie’s water bottle, from which she takes slow, performative sips. Ellie has never asked for it back. Instead she just stares at Briana like she’s seen a ghost. And she does look like a ghost, Grace. Pale as anything. Mouth-breathing always.
“Anything I can get you, Briana?” I ask her pleasantly, always pleasantly.
“No,” she whispers, then takes her seat on the lip of the stage, looking on the brink of collapse. Burns a hole in the side of my face with her glare while I lead the rest of them through a vigorous warm-up.
“Let’s really push ourselves today, shall we? Briana, would you care to join us? Or you can sit this one out. Up to you, totally,” I always say. “Listen to your body, of course.”
Briana doesn’t answer me, just sits slumped in the corner staring at me through a veil of hate and pain, her parched lips half-open, her dark hair falling in greasy locks she’s no longer bothering to wash or even brush. Her arms hang lifeless at her sides, palms up.
“Probably best if you just sit there and watch,” I say.
And she does watch, too drugged to disguise her sorrow and her rage at the sight of our bodies stretching and moving before her eyes.
“Really stretch yourselves, that’s it. Feels wonderful, doesn’t it?”
Every rehearsal, I half expect her to point her finger at me and scream. But she doesn’t say anything to me at all. There is no more talk of witch. No more pointing fingers.
On day two of tech week someone asks, “Where’s Grace?” I shrug. I tell them how you’re sick, sadly. And Ellie says, “Oh no, something must be going around.” And I say, “Yes, Ellie, something must be.” And I wait for Briana to say something. To accuse me. But she says nothing. She just sits there quietly in her corner, breathing raspily.
During rehearsal, she learns her blocking with no fuss. She takes direction with a nod, and she needs almost no direction. As the ailing King, she is everything I could have dreamed. Wonderfully wretched and desperate. Believably without hope. She limps regally across the stage, her face beautifully punched in by sorrow, her breath perfectly ragged. Everything about her face says, I was a giant once, I was. Now look. Look at the husk I’ve become.