could get.
The paper fluttered in the breeze, two of the four corners ripped from the tape, and Casey held it down to read it. Open try-outs, it said. Anyone interested was to come by the Albion Theater one of the two nights. Rehearsals would begin the next week. Which would be last week, Casey thought. She found the theater on the map, its address plainly stated on the announcement. She looked at the sky. Wasn’t raining yet. And maybe they were rehearsing. It would give her something to do other than camp out in a hotel room, watching cable and being angry with Death.
It wasn’t hard to find the Albion. In fact, she’d already passed it when she first got to town, only she’d thought it was a movie theater. It probably had been, in its earlier days. Posters covered the front windows, with photos of past productions displayed prominently. The Foreigner, Little Women, Cheaper by the Dozen. Casey swallowed. Looked away. Found the front door, and went in.
The lobby was dark, with only emergency lights illuminating the open space. Benches lined the walls, and a display stand held an unfinished board showing a few of the play’s cast. A stack of loose photos lay on the floor, waiting for positioning on the sign. Community production, Casey thought, the visible headshots just missing the mark of professionals.
Voices seeped through the double doors from what Casey imagined was the theater space. She stood with her ear against the crack, listening for a moment before easing one side open and slipping in.
The musty smell hit her, almost a physical assault, and she closed her eyes, memories cascading through her mind as she stood in the aisle, her hands grasping one of the seats. The voices of the actors drifted over her, underscored by the quiet hum of the house lights, and slowly she regained her equilibrium. Opening her eyes, she slipped into the back row and lowered herself into one of the lumpy seats. Dust motes floated in the light from the instruments hanging on the catwalk, and the distant actors now stood quiet, looking down at the director, a silhouette in the front row.
Casey let the sounds, the smells, and the lights wash over her as she traveled back. Back to life before Omar. Before now. Her muscles tightened in response to her thoughts, remembering the feel of the stage, the thrill of a full house.
The sharp voice of the director snapped her out of her memories, and she broke out in an instant sweat. The director clearly wasn’t happy with what he’d seen. His words, plainly heard from where she sat, were clipped and harsh, and the actors stood hunchbacked as they listened.
“I am at a loss,” the director said. “I know we are without one of our leading ladies. I know Becca here is filling in, but…” He held his hands up, as in supplication. “Is this really the best you can do?”
Casey sat up in her seat, squinting toward the front of the theater. Was someone sitting with the director? Was there a stage manager, taking down blocking, answering the calls for ‘Line’?” Trying to keep the director from actually killing his cast members? No one that she could see. She sank back in her chair to take a closer look at the actors.
And allowed a small smile.
He stood on stage beside the female lead, rubbing a hand through his hair as the director spoke. He looked much younger under the house lights than he had at the soup kitchen, where the pain of his constituents was etched into his face. Now his sandy hair shadowed his eyes, and his face was revealed as a smooth white blur. Casey rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, her hands dangling over her stomach as she watched Eric resume his place by a reclining lawn chair, obviously a rehearsal prop.
“Okay,” the man in the front row said. “Page twenty-three. Viola’s scene with Feste, Toby, and Andrew. See if we can’t generate something interesting. Come on, people. Go.”
Casey winced as the woman began speaking. Not exactly Equity quality. But then, the director had said she was filling in, and Shakespeare wasn’t the easiest for anybody, let alone someone in a tiny Midwestern town who’d probably never seen a union production of anything, let alone Twelfth Night. The other two actors in the scene offered their lines, a duet of not enough inflection and way too much, but they were young, maybe not even out of high school, and actually better than the woman. Soon it was Eric’s turn, and Casey held her breath, wishing she’d left before hearing him, as she’d liked him and wanted to be able to think of him without remembering badly done Shakespeare. But it was too late, and she gritted her teeth, waiting.
As he spoke she sat up straighter. Eric was not only leagues above the others, but equal to the actors she’d worked with in Seattle, Cleveland, and Chicago. She looked around, feeling as if she were on one of those dreadful reality shows, someone waiting in the wings to surprise her with a sudden flash of a camera.
But it was no joke.
Listening with growing surprise and wonder at Eric’s quality of acting, she shook her head. Who would’ve thought, here in…what was the town called? Clymer? And really, what on earth was someone with his talent doing in a community production?
Shocked, Casey remained in her seat, not even minding the slaughtering of the language going on around Eric. It was worth it, just hearing him open his mouth. She wondered what the director was thinking. Was he irritated because the others couldn’t possibly act to Eric’s standard? Was he another talented man, like Eric, who was for some incomprehensible reason here in this tiny town doing community theater? Or was he one of those all- too-common folks who think they know a lot more about theater than they actually do?
The scene played out, and the actors looked toward the director. Casey watched Eric, but his expression revealed nothing. Not anxiety, not hope. Not even much interest. Casey checked out the others, only to see the lack of emotion repeated. The only actor really listening as the director ranted was the younger man playing Sir Toby, his eyes rapt on the director’s face.
“Enough for tonight,” the director said with a jerk of his hand. “Go home. Go over your blocking. Learn your lines, for God’s sake. Do something.” He stood, shoved his notebook into a bag, and before Casey had a chance to react he was striding down the aisle toward her seat. There was nowhere to hide, and the director stopped by her chair, lifting his hands toward the ceiling.
“It’s about time,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here.”
Chapter Five
Casey blinked. “Excuse me?”
The director frowned. “I spoke with you ages ago. You’d think you could show up before we all grew old.”
Casey placed her feet flat on the floor and eased herself up out of her seat to stand in front of the director, aware of her personal space and how close he was to violating it. “I’m not here for you.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, really? Then who, exactly, are you here for? Those people?” He jerked a thumb backward toward the stage. “When I get a commitment from an actress, no matter how good she thinks she is, I expect her to be here for me. I don’t tolerate prima donnas.”
Movement behind the man distracted Casey, and Eric peered around the man’s shoulder, his face flooding with red.
“Thomas,” he said. “She’s not the one.”
The director stared at her for a few more seconds before acknowledging Eric. “Well, then, who is she?”
The rest of the cast was there now, too, and they all watched her, expressions much more animated than five minutes before on the stage. Eric grinned. “Her name’s Casey Smith. She helped out at dinner tonight.”
Thomas looked her up and down. “I should’ve known. I bet you couldn’t act your way out of a paper bag, could you, sweetheart?”
A roar filled Casey’s head. She glanced at Eric’s face, now white, and gave a grim smile. She forced herself to look back at the director. “You don’t think so?” She held out her hand.
He sneered at her outstretched palm. “What?”
“A script, please.”
“But—”
“Or a paper bag.”
