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In the old days, cast lists were hung outside the auditorium at a specific time, usually five p.m. on the evening prior to the first rehearsal. About five years ago, this routine shifted. The cast list was now upgraded to an online version— which, in Cora’s mind, took out a lot of the fun. She had fond memories of jumping into the truck with Victor and driving in silence all the way to the auditorium, both fearful and alive about the results, their stomachs bubbling with expectation. Back then, of course, nobody could have touched their talent with a ten-foot pole. That said, they still celebrated the parts they’d gotten as though they’d won the lottery, usually grabbing a bottle of champagne and dancing all through the night.
That’s how it had been back then.
Now, at three in the afternoon on the day before the first rehearsal, Cora walked into the study wearing her slippers. She sat at the edge of the desk chair and clicked on the email link, which led her to the cast list.
Even still, despite the lack of pomp and circumstance, she yelped with joy when Cora spotted her name — CORA RANDALL — on the cast list as Miss Hannigan. Her arms flung through the air, as though they had minds of their own, and before she knew it, she’d rushed down the hall to find her cell phone, as certainly, she must have someone to call.
But when she lifted the phone, her heart brimming with this news, she could think of absolutely no one on earth she wanted to tell this victory to.
Disheartened yet unwilling to give up, Cora headed to the bathroom, showered, scrubbed herself up, donned makeup and did her hair. Within the hour, she was wearing Victor’s favorite bright red dress and a pair of high heels. She twirled before the floor-length mirror to flourish her skirt around her in a wide, Marilyn Monroe-inspired circle. She then grabbed the only bottle of champagne she had, donned her winter coat and hat and drove out to the graveyard.
Cora had never been particularly fond of the real world. Back in the old days, Victor had called her a dreamer, one apt to reflect on the past and the future as she drove all the way home, forgetting to run all the necessary errands for the day. “Darn it. I forgot to grab milk,” she would say dreamily as she floated through their house, still lost in thought. She supposed this halfhearted feeling she had about the “present” was why she acted so well in the theater. Reality was just as far away from her as fiction. She supposed, also, it was why she felt so at home amongst the dead at the graveyard. But beyond all that, the graveyard was where the love of her life was buried. Why should she feel strange?
Victor was buried ten rows away from the parking lot and thirty stones west of the shed where she frequently spotted graveyard workers hovering together, their shovels positioned against the wooden wall and cigarettes between their fingers. Sometimes, she gave them a wave; they returned with a nod. Probably, they referred to her as something by then— the Randall widow, perhaps, or the crazy loony lady who sat on the ground at her husband’s grave and chatted to him about whatever was on her mind.
Still, due to their sheer proximity to it, their familiarity with loss lent them more empathy than your average Joe. Cora paid them no attention as she dropped to her knees at Victor’s grave stone and outlined his name with her fingers, her heart pulsing quickly as she curved her nail along the sharp edge of the V and then circled the O twice. She and Victor had never discussed the specifics about things like grave stones or burial plots. At the time of his death, she’d been fifty-six years old and he’d been only fifty-nine. They’d thought of themselves as youthful and lucky, their love and passion for one another as bright as the day they’d met. “We’ll have entire days in bed during retirement,” Victor had said numerous times. “Just like our twenties.”
“Hi, Vic,” Cora whispered it, her voice rasping. “I came to celebrate with you, just like the old days.” She then removed the bottle of champagne and carefully uncorked it. Only a smattering of bubbles coursed across her hand. She’d brought a single red plastic cup, like the ones they drank from in college movies and filled it nearly to the brim. She then tipped the edge of the cup against the gravestone as she closed her eyes. In the darkness, she could make out the specifics of his handsome face, could sense the subtle shift of emotion as he took on joy or sadness or fear.
“You did it, Cora. You got the best gosh-darn part in the whole musical. And you’re going to wow them every step of the way.”
The edges of Cora’s heart seemed permanently shattered. She lifted the champagne and took on the sharp flavor as her eyes pooled with tears. It seemed silly to remind him how much she missed him. It almost seemed like nagging. Ultimately, it was unfair to blame him for his untimely demise. Fate had little at all to do with what Victor Randall had wanted.
Cora turned to the smaller, more weathered stone just to the right of Victor’s grave and placed a hand delicately on this other name. Over the years, this name had become like a song for her— a song sung over and over again until it's every syllable ached with nostalgia and sorrow.
MADELINE CORA RANDALL 1991 - 1991
Cora took another sip of her champagne and lifted her eyes toward the brewing late afternoon sky. It looked like the foggy insides of a big boiling pot. Had Madeline lived through those first fateful days of her existence, she would have turned thirty just last year. Nearly thirty at the time of her father’s death.
What might that have looked like?
A thirtieth birthday party; perhaps Madeline’s husband, her children circled around a big table. Cora (a different version who’d gotten a whole lot better at baking) appeared with a beautifully iced birthday cake, on which she’d placed ten flickering candles. Grandchildren. A son-in-law! A big house of laughter and love! Oh, how she would have embraced it with open arms.
It was best not to live in fantastical worlds, though. They reminded you of the greyness of your own. She forced her eyes open to stare yet again at the gravestones that marked both her husband and her infant daughter’s deaths. Her stomach curdled with chill and champagne. Had she eaten anything? A piece of toast? A banana? Probably nothing. She couldn’t remember.
Only once had Victor mentioned just what fun it might have been to have little Madeline in their community theater productions. It was almost a sure thing (in their minds, at least) that she would have been the belle of the ball, the featured little girl in everything from Les Miserables to Annie. She’d have started in tap and ballet at the age of four, on top of acting and dictation lessons from her father and mother. Perhaps she’d have become a beauty queen contestant. “With that face and that talent and the way she carries herself, there’s no doubt in my mind she’ll win the pageant.” Who said this in Cora’s imagination? She wasn’t entirely sure. But it seemed true as anything at that moment.
“Everything Madeline touches turns to gold.” She whispered this as though she spoke to Madeline’s imaginary teachers, imaginary friends, and imaginary enemies. She sipped to the bottom of the red solo cup and reached for another drop of champagne, just as a large raindrop slapped the side of her hand.
Her imagination had gotten the better of her again. And here was reality, in the form of falling thick wet snow, ready to drag her back.
A flurry of wind and wet snowflakes splattered over her. There was a sudden rush to the left when one of the graveyard workers hustled toward her with an umbrella lifted. Cora hardly felt the severity of the weather as her hair started to become damp. She blinked up at the graveyard worker’s tired-looking face as he toiled over her, protecting them both from the cold wetness.
“Oh goodness. Thank you.” Cora swallowed and tried to smile sweetly. “Would you like some champagne?”
“What, lady?”
“Champagne! Do you want some?”
“I’m sober. Ten years.”
“That’s... that’s incredible.” Cora’s eyes filled with tears. She now saw herself through this man’s eyes— a tearful woman on the edge of her own sanity, celebrating her silly part in a community theater musical with the two people she loved the most. Neither of those people existed on this plane any longer. She was completely alone.
Cora stood on shaking legs, gathered her things, and followed the man’s umbrella’s shadow back toward the parking lot. Once she was safely seated in the front of her vehicle, the man raised a sturdy hand and then headed back for the shed, where the other graveyard workers continued to huddle beneath the overhang. The smoke from their cigarettes created a strange haze around the small building.
After another five minutes, Cora turned on her engine and drove the ten minutes back to her house in downtown Oak Bluffs, which she and Victor had purchased when they’d been late-twenty-somethings. Cora had been pregnant. The house had been a necessity for a future they hadn’t been allowed.
But back at the house, Cora heard another ding from her phone, a sign that an email had come through.
It was from Lola, her new theater director.
Hello Miss Hannigan,
Thank you for gifting us with the depth of your talent. We’ll have hard copies of the script for everyone at rehearsal tomorrow, but I wanted to send you a PDF version, just in case you want to get a head start. I’m a newbie at life “behind the scenes,” and I’ll need your help every step of the way. I know you’re much more than a veteran of the stage. You’re a true artist.
Looking forward to getting to know you better,
Lola