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Rehearsals for the community theater production of Annie began on Monday, January 10th. Throughout the hours before the first meeting, which was slated to begin at four p.m. sharp, Lola sat at the kitchen table of the Sheridan House and outlined a specific schedule for the following six weeks of rehearsals. According to Greta, “perfection was out of the question,” given the unprofessional nature of the troupe. That said, Lola felt they could inch toward refinement, as long as they had a specific schedule, memorized their lines and music on time, and kept a general “upbeat” mood. To be a leader, Lola knew that she had to embody the emotion that she wanted her team to feel.
“Lola! Lola!” Wes bustled in from the back porch, the ears of his hat flapping around behind him.
Lola whipped her head around so quickly that, in turn, she cracked her neck. Pain permeated at the base and along her shoulder as she cried out. “Ugh!” Her eyes clamped closed as she waited for the pain to slowly fade away. “Forty is really forty, isn’t it?” she muttered to her father.
“Oh, honey. I hate it when that happens. Are you okay?” Wes sat at the kitchen table with her and removed his winter hat. Beneath, his white-grey hair was damp with sweat. Throughout the previous hour, he’d wandered around the outline of the two Frampton and Sheridan properties, watching for birds. Even now, his binoculars bounced against his chest in a friendly manner, reminding him to head back out.
“I’m fine. What did you want to tell me?” Lola asked. The pain remained a subtle scream in the back of her neck.
“I just saw that cardinal again,” Wes informed her. “I wanted you to take a gander before he flew off.”
“Oh gosh.” Lola blinked down at the calendar she’d built for the next six weeks of rehearsals, which now looked like the savage writings of a mad woman. “Let’s go.” She jumped up, pushed her feet into winter boots, grabbed her coat, and headed out to the driveway. Wes was hot on her heels.
“He’s flown off,” Wes said, his voice heavy with disappointment. He lifted his binoculars and searched the tip-tops of trees for some sign of the bright red bird. “He’s a tricky one.”
Lola pushed her hands deeper into her pockets as she scanned the top of the trees. “He only likes you, Dad. You know that.”
“And Kellan,” Wes affirmed. “I miss that kid when he’s off at school all day.”
Lola dropped her head onto the chill of her father’s shoulder and watched as the winter breeze curved through the tops of the pine trees, whipping them to and fro. There was nothing like the fresh air of a winter afternoon, sharp and simmering with the smell of pine.
“Maybe take a picture of him next time you see him,” Lola suggested.
Wes’s blue eyes glittered with thought. “I don’t know. I get the sense that he wouldn’t like that. He wouldn’t like to be kept so still in a photograph, you know? So permanent.”
A twittering of little birds rushed out from a tree farther out. Wes quickly grabbed his binoculars and put them in position. He then quietly inched his way slowly toward the birds, his footfalls as gentle as a predator’s. Lola’s heart swelled with love for this man, who witnessed such beauty on a day-to-day basis and felt the enormity of a small cardinal’s heart.
**
THE FIRST WEEK OR SO of rehearsals were, in a word, clumsy. Lola found that her best-laid plans were tossed out the window due to the nature of some of the younger children’s talent and lack of experience. Even still, she and her worthy assistant directors flung themselves into their jobs with enthusiasm and optimism and refused to give in.
Naturally, Cora Randall’s Miss Hannigan was a real sight to see. She tore into the role as though she was Al Pacino in The Godfather or Meryl Streep in anything she’d ever done. She mastered her song and dance numbers easily, with the grace of a ballerina, and frequently assisted with the stage direction and line memorization for other cast members.
Lola and Cora built up a wonderful rapport after only a few days of rehearsals. Cora teased her gently, laughed at their joint mistakes, and also seemed to make Jenny, the little girl who’d nabbed the part of Annie, more comfortable on stage, despite her clear nerves.
“You really have to belt this note out, Jenny,” Cora instructed the young girl, sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of her. “This last note is the final word we hear from the first act. We need to use your energy to get into the next act and continue to build the story. We’re all counting on you.”
Jenny puffed out her chest, then tore through her solo of “Tomorrow,” after that, time and again, like her life depended on it. Each time afterward, Cora winked at her, showing her immense approval. After rehearsal, Cora frequently met with Lola, Audrey, and Amanda to discuss the weaknesses in their growing performance and what to attack next.
“She’s the unofficial director of Annie,” Lola informed Amanda and Audrey as Cora collected her coat and gloves.
“We’d be lost without her,” Audrey agreed.
“But Jenny’s a real Annie. That’s for sure. We made the right choice,” Amanda affirmed, referencing the fact that they’d really struggled in deciding who would play the titular character. The conversation about it had toiled long into the night.
“Good night, ladies.” This was Hank, the man who’d nabbed the role of Daddy Warbucks. He marched past them with a big backpack over his shoulders and a thick wool hat over his ears. At sixty-two, he was the oldest person in the theater troupe and a newcomer on the Martha’s Vineyard community theater scene. “See you tomorrow.”
“Night, Hank!” Lola called as Hank disappeared through the back door, immediately after Cora.
“Do you know much about Hank?” Amanda asked as she wrapped a scarf around her neck.
“Not really,” Lola replied. “He doesn’t seem to talk much to the other actors.”
“I think he’s shy,” Audrey added, pulling on her gloves.
“Well, he’s certainly not shy about his performance,” Amanda affirmed. “He gives it all on stage.”
“I think that’s part of being shy,” Audrey pointed out. “In some contexts, you can pretend that’s not who you really are. Like, when you put on different clothes or play a fictional character.”
“I think that’s part of the reason why Cora’s a master at Miss Hannigan,” Lola explained. “It’s the perfect escape from her real life.”
Amanda and Audrey’s faces grew soft and thoughtful as they wandered out toward the dark and chilly night. Lola gathered her elaborate notes from the day’s rehearsal and followed after them. Their drive back to the Sheridan House for dinner was a quiet one. It very much felt as though this production of Annie meant something different to each of them. It was difficult yet essential to imagine each character's complex reasons for taking on their specific roles.
**
ON JANUARY 20th, Jenny’s Annie, orphans Rachel, Gail, Abby, and several other little girls from Oak Bluffs and Edgartown, along with Cora’s Miss Hannigan, performed in the makeshift “orphanage.” It was nearly the end of the scheduled rehearsal, and the little girls were exhausted, dragging themselves through the song and dance and aching to go home for dinner. Rachel, Gail, and Abby, ever the troublemakers, burst into bouts of giggles as Lola attempted to instruct Jenny and Audrey scolded them playfully, saying that she’d tell their Grandpa Trevor what monsters they were. This shut them up for a good while. Trevor Montgomery’s anger was nothing to scoff at.
“Let’s do it one more time,” Lola instructed the actors before her. “And then we can all run on home and rest for the night.”
Rhonda, the pianist, counted off the song. “A one. A two. A one, two, three...”
The little orphan girls and Miss Hannigan burst into song and dance right on time. Lola rapped her foot on the ground to keep time within herself as the girls scuttled across the stage. This time, perhaps because they’d been promised the chance to leave rehearsal, their faces remained bright and performative throughout. Miss Hannigan, naturally, was a burst of light, alternating between what seemed to be twelve different emotions at any given time.
When the song petered out, Lola, Audrey, and Amanda burst to their feet with triumph and clapped their hands wildly with excitement. Audrey placed two fingers in her mouth and whistled like a coach.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lola cried. “Let’s see everyone give a bow.”
Together, the ten orphans and Cora bent halfway toward the ground and then rose up, nearly collapsing with laughter. Cora’s eyes were alight with joy. When the girls headed backstage to collect their things, Cora stepped toward Lola. This time, she hadn’t any instructions or directions or suggestions.
Instead, she looked on the verge of tears.
Cora sat down at the edge of the stage so that her legs dangled out in front of her. “Lola... That was such a wonderful rehearsal. Thank you for your commitment to our little troupe.”
Lola’s throat tightened. She told herself not to cry. “It’s my pleasure,” she told Cora.
“I learned from a bit of gossip that you’re about to be married.” Cora leaned against the stage.
“That’s right.” Lola’s heart lifted. “My fiancé thinks I’m crazy for taking this on along with everything else. But it’s when I feel most alive, I think.”
“He must be a really special man,” Cora returned, smiling.
“He is a very special person and right now, a bit of a brat. He’s texting me, demanding pizza for dinner. He’s been up since three-thirty, working on the freight lines with my brother-in-law, Scott. So I guess it stands to reason that he’s starving.”
Cora laughed good-naturedly. “No matter how good a man is, he can always be brought down by his stomach.”
Lola tilted her head, burning with curiosity about this woman, about all she’d lost. She could practically feel what Cora yearned to say next.
“My husband would have loved this,” Cora breathed finally as her eyes wandered around the room and then landed back on Lola. “He would have loved you as a director and he would have loved to joke with you and the little girls. I could see him playing either my brother or Daddy Warbucks— he would have been a killer Daddy Warbucks. You should have heard that man sing...”
Lola dropped her chin at the intensity of these emotions. “I so wish he was here with us now, Cora.”
Cora drew her sleeve around her hand and wiped the length of it beneath her eye, collecting tears. Slowly, she pushed herself away from the stage, righting herself before adding, “He just loved the theater. It fills me with such regret that we weren’t allowed more time on stage together. But I know that he wouldn’t want me to be anywhere else but right here. Thank you, Lola. Thank you for directing this performance. He thought Annie was a silly little musical, but one with plenty of heart.”
Cora turned and headed back into the darkness behind the stage. Hank was standing in the shadows, dressed in partial Daddy Warbucks’ costuming, watching her. Cora hustled past him as he bowed his head, honoring her sorrow.