Massonville 2006
A stunned silence reigned for several seconds. Katie heard herself break it. “That's our inheritance?” she croaked.
R.B. nodded. “It was built in 1876. What do you think?”
There was no way to answer. For one thing, thinking was beyond her at that point. Also, if she opened her mouth again, she was going to start laughing.
Then from Randa's ladylike lips came the words “Holy shit.” She climbed out of the car and made her way across the front lawn, which looked like a war zone, to the entrance of the theater, where she stopped, looking dazed. After a moment Susie scrambled after her.
Katie stayed in the car and stared at the building that was half hers. The size of it was the first thing that hit her. It was taller than any of the surrounding condos, and it covered an area that would equal almost a city block. At one side of it, there was a gate and an overgrown path that seemed to lead to additional property in the back. A high brick wall enclosed the theater and the surrounding land on three sides—only the front entrance was open to the street.
The theater itself was boxy and square; the sides of it—what Katie could see of them—were brick that had once been painted white. Now there were large bald spots where the paint had worn away. The front of the structure looked like it was made of a different material, and unlike the plain brick side walls, it was ornate, loaded with curlicues, arches, pillars, and lacy balconies. It too had once been white, but now there were streaks of brownish red running down its snowy surface. It didn't take much imagination to think of blood.
“Okay so this is what they mean by Southern Gothic,” Katie said as R.B. came around to the side of the car and leaned in to offer her a hand.
“Well, you are down here in Faulkner country,” he drawled. He'd recognized the quote she'd let slip. For a moment she thought how sad it was that he didn't have a better fashion sense. Then he winked at her again and she figured clothes were just the tip of the iceberg. She climbed out of the car, and she and R.B. began making their way to the others. The hem had ripped out on the back of her skirt, and it swept up a small pile of rubble behind her as she went.
They joined Susie and Randa in front of the opera house. Randa didn't seem to be able to take her eyes off it. “The façade on the building is cast iron,” R.B. informed them. “It was bolted on so the front would look fancy. That was a uniquely American concept back in the 1870s. Sort of like a manufactured home today. This theater is one of the best examples in existence of that kind of work.”
“What the hell are we supposed to do with it?” Randa said to no one in particular.
“It needs work,” R.B. said, “but you have to look at the bones of the structure. Look at the potential.”
“For what?” Randa asked again. She wasn't being sarcastic; she really wanted to know.
“Would you like to go inside?” R.B. changed tactics.
Katie nodded. Her brain still hadn't grasped the fact that she actually owned the old place—she had a feeling that was probably just as well—but she wanted to see it.
“Come on,” R.B. said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. He found a set of keys in a lockbox under a carving of the masks of comedy and tragedy on the side of the front door. “It may be a bit hot inside,” he warned them as he opened the door, “but that's just because the windows have been closed. There's a great breeze off the river when the place is opened up.” Clearly he wanted them to like it.
Actually, it was rather cool inside, but it was too dark to see much. Katie narrowly escaped banging into a huge ottoman that loomed up out of the murkiness in front of her.
“Hang on,” R.B. said. He began pulling at heavy floor-length draperies that covered the Palladian windows at the front of the lobby. Mechanically, Randa went over to help him. She was the kind of person who would lend a hand at her own funeral, Katie decided.
After producing clouds of dust, R.B. and Randa finally tied back a set of draperies. A shaft of light from the window revealed a lobby that had been white before water stains had turned the walls a mottled beige. There was a line of marble arches, held up by a row of pillars that ran across the front of the room. All of them were trimmed with badly chipped gold leaf. The gold and white motif was repeated in the mosaic floor tiles, the wall sconces, and a carved double staircase leading to a mezzanine. The frayed draperies that hung over the windows were a faded crimson, as was the carpet on the stairway.
“At the back, that's the entrance to the auditorium,” R.B. said. They all turned to the back wall of the lobby to look. There was a narrow hallway on the left side of the auditorium. R.B. pointed to the doors on either side of it. “That door leads to the stage,” he said, “and the door across from it leads to the owner's office. So the boss could sneak backstage to spy on his people without them knowing he was coming. The owners lived here on the premises, you see.”
“Who were the owners?” Susie asked.
“A man named Cecil Honeycutt built the opera house—the Honeycutts were movers and shakers here in Massonville before the Civil War. But Cecil's son sold it to the Venables in 1878. They were actors. It was a dynasty, really—like the one Drew Barrymore comes from. They kept the opera house in their family for almost a hundred years.”
“And then they sold it to our unknown benefactor,” said Katie.
“Or it could have changed hands several times,” Randa put in. “We don't know. We don't know anything!” The situation was really getting to her.
R.B. quickly turned to a set of French doors with stained glass windows.
“Over there, to your right, is the restaurant,” he said.
“There's a restaurant?” Randa asked, a little desperately.
“With a full kitchen and a nineteenth-century bar. Across from the restaurant on the other side of the lobby is the elevator leading to the hotel rooms—”
“Hotel rooms? What do you mean, ‘hotel rooms’?” Randa broke in again. Her voice was dangerously high. There was a black smudge across her short skirt, Katie noticed, and her shimmering hair was turning up at the ends.
“This was not only a theater; it was also a hotel. The theater, the restaurant, and the manager's office are all here on the ground floor. The second floor, which is on the mezzanine level, was divided in half. One side of it is the apartment where the owners of the theater lived. On the other side you'll find the dressing rooms for the actors working in the theater and the actors’ lounge, or greenroom. The hotel rooms were on the third and fourth floors.”
“A theater and a hotel all in one. Very Disney,” Katie said.
“This was a happening place back in 1876.” R.B.’s hazel eyes were shining. Katie had been right about him having an obsession. It was obvious that the passion of R.B. Moultire's life was old buildings. “Let's say you were taking a riverboat from south Georgia to Atlanta,” R.B. went on, “and the boat stopped overnight in Massonville. The carriage from the Venable Opera House would pick you up across the road at the dock and bring you here. You'd have dinner, see a play and go upstairs to spend the night on dry land.” He did a slow turn around the dirty lobby, his arms outstretched as if he wanted to hold all of it. “Imagine the way it was back then, when it was all brand-new and state-of-the-art …” He trailed off because he was losing Randa. She was digging angrily at a section of broken floor tiles with the toe of her elegant sandal.
Okay, this has been a shock, I get that, Katie thought, but why is she so pissed off?
“There are about thirty hotel rooms in all, on the third and fourth floors.” R.B. finished quickly, and he crossed the lobby. “If you'd like to come over here and see the elevator?”
Katie, Randa, and Susie trotted over and peered through the dirty stained glass window to see the inside of the elevator cab. It was paneled in some kind of dark wood and there was a wide mirror with a gilt frame on the back wall. The thing was huge.
“I've seen studio apartments smaller than this,” Katie said.
“Legend has it, they had it enlarged when President Grant visited Massonville after the war, because he required an elevator big enough to accommodate his horse,” R.B. said. “Personally, I refuse to believe Northerners slept with their livestock—no matter what anyone says.” He waited for a laugh and reddened when he didn't get one. He was trying to make them love this old place—and he was trying way too hard. “My belief is, they had to make the elevator so large because of the ladies’ hoop skirts,” he said simply.
Suddenly Katie could see a whole scene in front of her. That always happened to her: when she was writing a script, there would be some detail, usually something stupid that no one else even thought about, that would bring the whole thing to life for her. Now it was the oversize elevator that did it. She could see the women in their silk gowns with their skirts swaying over the hoops, the men in black dinner coats with starched white shirts. She saw the rich Victorian colors—deep reds, blues, purples, and greens—she saw the lace ruffles and the fans. “The jewels would pick up the light from the gas lamps,” she said softly. “The girls would be checking themselves out in the mirror in the elevator to make sure they were perfect.”
Somehow, R.B. was at her side. “They had to walk in and out of the elevator single file,” he said. He knelt down on the floor. “If you look down at the threshold, you can see the indentations in the wood from where they all stood before they got off it.”
Katie got down on her knees. A part of her couldn't believe she was on the floor looking at shoe grooves with a man whose people skills gave new meaning to the word “goofy.” Another part of her wanted the name and history of every human who had passed by this spot. Behind them Randa cleared her throat. R.B. quickly helped Katie to her feet.
“Well, shall we start the tour?” he asked brightly. “The opera house has been under lock and key all these years, so I've never seen all of it, myself. I think we should begin with the hotel rooms on the third and fourth floors.”
“How safe is that elevator?” Randa demanded.
“Not to worry. This building has a caretaker. It's been kept up.”
A cobweb had draped itself over Randa's shoulder. She picked it off and glared up at the water-stained walls.
“Of course, there is some work that needs to be done,” R.B. admitted unhappily.
“How much?” Randa asked.
He paused, looking miserable. He wanted so much not to have to say anything negative about the theater. Katie heard herself saying, “Who cares? We're just looking around.”
But R.B. was a mensch; a question had been asked and he was going to answer. “The electrical system isn't good,” he said quietly. “The roof needs to be replaced, the outside brickwork has to be repointed, and the theater area—the auditorium and the stage—hasn't been upgraded in a very long time. But the elevator works and the floors are sound. You don't have to be afraid to walk anywhere.”
He was goofy, but there was something so open and unguarded about the way he loved this old opera house. Once again Katie heard her own voice speaking. “What are we waiting for?” she demanded. “Let's take that tour.”