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Sandra couldn’t believe how hot stage lights were. Underneath her long-sleeved, floor-length dress, and underneath her makeup, she feared she was melting. She was even more worried about her husband, who had been forced to don a stick-on beard. But he wasn’t on stage as often as she was, and so spent less time under the heat lamps.
This was the Friday night show, the second of four, and she wasn’t sure she had the stamina to do two more. This gig was exhausting. She’d had to pass on two indoor women’s soccer games this weekend, and she was sure those would have made her sweat less. She looked down at her hand, where she’d written one of the lines she kept forgetting and then looked up and delivered it to her fake husband on stage. They were in one of the final scenes—the home stretch.
As fake husband delivered his lines to his fake kids, Sandra stared out into the crowd. They’d sold out for all four shows. The place was packed. Not an empty seat in the house. Jan had feared that negative press would ruin them. This was not the case. Business was booming, despite having actors on stage, namely herself, who had no business being there. The eldest Spencer daughter repeated her line while glaring at Sandra. Oops, she’d been woolgathering and had missed her cue. She hurried to deliver her line and, too late, realized she’d delivered the wrong one—a line she’d already said during the first act. Mr. Spencer gave her a broad smile and ad libbed something that sort of smoothed her mistake over, but then no one knew where to go from there. She hurried to sit beside him on the couch, where she was supposed to be for her next line. If no one said anything before then, she would just get things going from that point in the story. But in her haste, she tripped over the hem of the dress that had been altered to fit the much taller Treasure and before she realized what was happening, her face was rapidly heading for the Christmas tree. She reached out to try to stop her fall, but there was nothing to grab, and so her hands raked down through the scratchy branches of the plastic tree that never could have existed during the Great Depression, knocking off each and every Christmas ornament as they went. The plastic red and green ball ornaments rolled toward the edge of the stage and fell off one by one, each hitting the floor with a distinctive plink. Collectively, they sounded like sad wind chimes.
When she finally hit the floor, she considered staying there. The play was almost over: couldn’t they just close the curtain? But they didn’t, and so she started to peel herself off the stage, grateful that at least she hadn’t knocked the tree over. Her fake husband rushed to help her up and in his haste, grabbed her with a little too much familiarity and she instinctively jerked away from him and bumped into the tree—and this time, the tree didn’t stand so firm. It toppled toward the edge of the stage as if it missed its ornaments and was in a hurry to join them. She reached to grab it, trying to save it from pummeling someone in the front row, and in doing so, almost went with it, but Mr. Spencer grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her back.
At first, Sandra didn’t know what the tearing sound was.
A tiny woman in the front row cried out and stuck her cane up into the air to ward off the falling fake fir tree. To Sandra’s surprise, the move worked, and the tree glanced off her cane and crashed to the floor without hitting anyone. Then it rolled down the slanting floor until it rested against the stage, rejoined with its ornaments at last.
Sandra heard Jan swear from backstage. There were a few isolated laughs from the audience, but most people maintained their decorum. Sandra had never been so embarrassed in her life and was on the verge of tears. But at least her back was cooling off. Wait. Why was her back feeling such a draft?
A terrible idea settled into her mind, and she looked over her shoulder at Mr. Spencer, who was staring at what she now understood to be her bare skin and a bra strap. “How bad is it?” she whispered.
“Pretty bad,” he whispered back.
Even though there were several lines still to go, no one was delivering them, so Matthew chose this moment to be a hero. He sauntered out into the middle of their scene and began his monologue that was supposed to close the show. Sandra was so grateful she wanted to kiss him. In this version of the story, his name was Clay Boy, but she still thought of him as John Boy. He ad libbed a little, reminiscing about how embarrassed his mother had been when she’d knocked the tree over on Christmas Eve, and Sandra knew Frank would be furious with him for taking such liberties, but Sandra appreciated his effort.
As he talked, she backed slowly off stage, and managed to make it all the way into the shadows without showing anyone else her bra strap.
Jan appeared out of nowhere and threw a blanket over her shoulders. Oh goodie—it was wool. “You’ll need it for curtain call,” Jan whispered.
They were still going to make her do curtain call? Who were these sadists? “I’m so sorry, Jan.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. You’re being very brave to do this at all, and you’re doing a great job. We’re thankful.”
Sandra couldn’t believe her ears. Jan was being nice to her. Maybe her brief stay in the clink had softened her heart. Rumor had it that the charges against Jan had been dropped, and Sandra hoped that were true. Jan had tried to cover up a crime, but her heart had been in the right place. Sort of.
Jan gave her a quick, sweaty hug. “I’m thankful. Frank’s thankful. The audience is thankful. You’re a hero.”
Sandra certainly didn’t feel like a hero, but she felt less like a dunce after Jan’s kindness. Jan gave her a little push. “Curtain call time. Give ’em a big smile!”
She wobbled out onto the stage and Mr. Spencer grabbed her hand. The crowd roared with applause that she suspected might be motivated by charity. Whatever, she’d take it. As her eyes scanned the audience, they met a familiar pair staring back, and the sight of him cheered her greatly. Perhaps the most enthusiastic applauder of all, Bob sat in the fourth row, beaming at her. Then he stood up, the first to initiate the standing ovation that followed.
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