First we run Summer’s scenes to give her extra practice, and then we take a break and set up to run the entire play from beginning to end. It’s the Final Dress—full props, lights, costumes. In a perfect world, the show would be amazing at this point, 90 percent there with the last 10 percent set to appear on opening night.
Bad news.
We’re not at 90 percent. Not by a long shot.
Good news.
We’re better.
There’s a lot more energy. Summer is more comfortable onstage, and she knows her lines. You can feel the actors pulling for her, banding together to try and make it work.
The trip to the city changed something.
Nobody falls, no one quits. There are no blackouts, freak-outs, or anything else dramatic. The only drama is Shakespeare. Just like it’s supposed to be.
I work the spot like a pro. Warnings come over the headset, and I get ready. My cue is called, and I execute. I set for the next one and wait.
I stay focused.
I keep the light on the actors.
That’s my job, right?
To put light on people and make them look good. Just like Reach said.
The rehearsal ends, and Derek steps forward.
“I told you last night that a day could sink or save a realm …,” he says.
The actors are quiet, waiting.
“I believe this realm has been saved.”
Relief floods the room.
The actors applaud each other, and then they applaud Derek. He applauds them back.
It’s so perfect, it’s sickening.
After things settle down, Derek starts to give notes like a director does.
I see what’s happening. He’s taking credit for the improvement, and all because of a stupid field trip.
I stop listening.
Later Derek calls the techies into the Cave for their own notes session, but I skip it.
I stay up on the catwalk.
I turn off the spot, leave the fan running through its cool-down cycle. I stow the tools, make sure the instruments are ready for the show tomorrow. I run my final checklist, and then I sit down.
The techie meeting breaks up, and they drift off.
The fan blows.
Nobody talks to me.
A few minutes later, Ignacio comes out, pulling the ghost light downstage center.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there,” he says.
At first I think he’s talking to me, but then Mr. Apple says, “I heard there was a rehearsal.”
Ignacio stares at the floor.
“Um … yeah,” he says.
“How did it go?” Mr. Apple says.
“You know …”
“I don’t know. Tell me,” Mr. Apple says.
“It was a lot better,” Ignacio says like he’s expecting to get his head bitten off.
“Excellent,” Mr. Apple says. “You can head out. And Ignacio—you didn’t see me here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ignacio shuffles offstage.
Mr. Apple sits in the special place where he watches the show during performances, two seats that have been removed from the very back corner of the audience and replaced with a small bench.
He sighs. “My, my, my,” he says.
He stares at the empty stage like he sees something there. He even laughs to himself a few times. I’m afraid the actors were right. He had a nervous breakdown, and now he’s pacing and talking to himself like a heavyset Hamlet.
After a while he says: “Are you up there, Mr. Ziegler?”
“I’m up here,” I say. “How did you know?”
“You’re always up there.”
“Not always. But often,” I say.
Mr. Apple chuckles.
“You’re probably wondering if I’m going crazy,” he says.
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“You know that expression—he saw his life flash before his eyes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m watching my career flash before my eyes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s a short flash.”
Mr. Apple takes Carol Channing from his lap and puts her on the ground so she can walk around.
“The associate principal is out for blood. He’s been trying to get rid of me for years, and now he’s got evidence aplenty. I may have lost both my teaching and directing careers. When God cleans house, he doesn’t fool around.”
“What will you do?”
Mr. Apple shrugs.
“Maybe I’ll become a techie,” he says with a laugh.
“I’ll show you the ropes,” I say.
“You’re a good lad,” he says. “I wish I could join you up there, but I haven’t been on a catwalk in more than a decade.”
I try to imagine Mr. Apple climbing a ladder, but I can’t. It would defy the laws of physics.
“It’s not easy being big,” Mr. Apple says. “Sylvester wants me to get lap-band, but I’ve got an unnatural fondness for my stomach. Why would I give a portion of it to science?”
He waves his hand in the air like he’s blowing away smoke.
“Maybe I just love food too much. I love a lot of things too much,” he says.
“But not the theater,” I say.
“The theater most of all.”
“You said you hated it.”
“Hate, love. You’re too young to know how closely related they are.”
“I know a lot more than you think,” I say to Mr. Apple.
“Fair enough,” Mr. Apple says. “Do you know I’ve spent my entire life in the theater? It started when I was ten years old. I did a play in camp, a musical called Pippin. Seldom performed now, but quite famous in its day. It was my first production, and it was extraordinary. Not the show itself. That was decent, nothing more. But the theater. Being onstage. That was extraordinary. I was ten years old, but I knew right away. Theater was the greatest drug in the world.”
I think about how it feels to see my light onstage. The instruments I’ve chosen and the angles where I’ve set them up. Then the actors and costumes are added, and it becomes a dance of light, movement, and color.
Mr. Apple is right. It’s the best feeling in the world.
“I started theater two years ago,” I say. “Reach got me into it.”
“You love being a techie.”
“I used to. It’s a little rough right now. Actually, it’s very rough.”
Mr. Apple sighs.
“It’s sad when you fall out of love,” he says.
“I’m not sure what happened,” I say.
“In or out. They both twist you into a pretzel.”
I shift on the catwalk, lying on my belly so I can look at Mr. Apple through the grating.
“It sounds like rehearsal went well tonight,” Mr. Apple says.
“It went better, but not well.”
“Shakespeare has survived for nearly four hundred years. This production is unlikely to destroy him.”
Mr. Apple puts his hands on his thighs and pushes himself to standing.
“You can’t quit, Mr. Apple. What if something happens? Derek won’t know what to do.”
“The show will go on.”
“You can’t quit!” I say.
I jump to my feet. I run across the catwalk to the ladder.
“Be careful,” Mr. Apple shouts.
“Please, Mr. Apple. We need you.”
I start down, climbing fast, afraid Mr. Apple will leave before I make it to the bottom.
“Lad. Lad.”
I stumble on the last rung and catch myself. I make it to the theater floor and run over to Mr. Apple.
“You can’t go!” I say.
He looks at me, surprised.
“What’s all this about?”
“I care about people, and it doesn’t matter. They break up with me or we have a fight or something bad happens to them.”
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Apple says.
I try to stop myself, but the words keep coming.
“Everyone leaves, Mr. Apple. You can’t leave, too.”
“I’m sorry, lad. I’ve already left. I just came to say good-bye.”
I bite down on my lip.
“I think you have a lot going on right now,” Mr. Apple says.
He uses that quiet voice that people use when they’re worried about you. Or they think you’re going crazy.
“Do you have someone you can talk to?” he says.
I think about Josh. Reach. Mom.
There’s no one really. Nobody who understands.
“Yes,” I say to Mr. Apple.
“Good,” Mr. Apple says. “Then I must bid you adieu.”
He looks around the theater, tips an invisible hat to the air, and says:
“And adieu to you, dear lady.”
He bows deeply and stays there for a long time, his head down, his arm tucked in at his waist.
I want to look away, but I can’t.
He slowly comes back to standing. He gestures to the theater walls.
“I gave her all I had,” he says. “And it wasn’t enough.”
He whistles for Carol Channing. She runs up to him but refuses to jump into his arms. She circles him twice then heads for the door on her own, prancing on tiny paws.
“Women,” he says with a sigh.
“No kidding,” I say.
He tips the invisible hat to me and goes out.
The theater doors click shut behind him.
The ghost light flickers.
I imagine the bulb burning, leaving me alone here in a dark theater.
I start to feel afraid.
I should go home now. I should call someone, like Mr. Apple said.
But I don’t.
I climb.