Sunday: one day to the National Championship

(5, 6, 7, 8)

The hilltop provided a foreboding panorama of the darkness in the west. The stage, however, was still feeling the sun’s temper, and Chase’s armpits were soaked (5, 6, 7, 8).

The carts, cables, fiberglass set pieces, and boxes of merchandise were carried to the stage in an endless series of back-and-forths. Pauline stood center-stage, shouting her commands and demands and outright insults to her minions. 

She had spent the morning inspecting the theater with Mr. Carmel. Chase knew his mother loved the theater, but she still had to assure herself that it was a wise investment. The championship show always drove her a little nuts. When Chase was six, a water pipe broke in a bathroom at the Chicago venue and flooded the merchandise tables with sewage. Dancers and teachers ran in every direction. Chase stood clear of the growing puddle of shit and watched his mother’s eyes from across the lobby. He saw the life within them as if the leaky challenge was not something to fix, but something in which to bathe (5, 6, 7, 8).

Without Janie, every step was centered on a crack. Every song on the radio (in a store, in his mind) started and ended with (5, 6, 7, 8). He felt anger—actual anger—whenever a dancer exited to the opposite wing. He would wonder why they didn’t like him, where he went wrong, why he couldn’t have been a better boyfriend. He counted things. Everything. The holes in his bedroom ceiling, the bumpy pattern of stitched flowers on the airplane seats, the flashing white street lines from the Gerald R. Ford Airport to the Holliday Inn, the steps it took from the loading dock to the podium and back again, and back again, and back again... (5, 6, 7, 8)

The mounting ticks took their toll on his school work. When his grades dropped low enough to keep him from his sophomore year, Pauline signed him up for summer school (5, 6, 7, 8).

His expectations for the week were dismal. Janie made their breakup very clear. She yelled at him. She refused to see him after the day he caught her telling her father about another man’s sins. She rarely responded to texts. She never answered his calls. Chase entered his fifteenth year of life crying on his bed because a birthday wasn’t a birthday without Janie.

(5, 6, 7, 8!)

But all hope wasn’t lost. There was a glimmer of hope in a text he received last night; four words that meant death in a healthy relationship, but provided hope in a relationship that was about to flatline: “We need 2 talk.”

Janie found him at the peak of the afternoon heat. She was glancing down the stage-left stairwell, now blocked with yellow and black caution tape. Her form... her head, hair, hands, feet, fingers, and toes were everything Chase missed, and no other girl—no cheerleader or supermodel or chemistry parter—could ever replace those eyes. He started to speak, but she shushed him, then nodded to the catwalk and sauntered to the ladder.

(5, 6, 7, 8) “We’re supposed to get rain tomorrow,” he said when they were comfortable and secure (forty-three gashes in the safety pole’s black paint).

Janie didn’t respond, but laid her forehead against the pole and sighed.

“Do you think our parents will cancel the show?” he asked.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Chase bounced his leg and the whole catwalk shook. “I thought you said you wanted to talk.”

“I did.”

“I was hoping you missed me.”

Janie touched her cheek. Her nail was a paintless stub, the tip bitten, the last sliver of protein scratching against her scar.

“Janie,” Chase said. “Did something happen?”

“Hmm?” Her finger fell away from her face. “How many teen ballets are there tomorrow?”

“Twelve including you and Tracy. One is a guy from Texas. He’s pretty good.”

“Any insider tips for me?”

He squeezed the metal bar until his hand turned white. “Yeah. The judges score harsh for the championship. No bull.”

“I already knew that.”

“And your dad can’t sweet-talk Pauline into changing your score this time. That shit might fly at regionals, but not here.” Just in case Janie missed the implication, he added, “You thought it was me who fixed your score last year. But it wasn’t.”

Janie didn’t respond. Chase clenched the metal poll and shook it with the strength of a man. The catwalk swung and clattered against the lights. “Tell me what’s going on!” he screamed.

Janie’s body jostled with the platform, but she didn’t attempt to brace herself.

His heart was beating against his eyelids. The tip of a thrashing batten struck a lamp, tore through its red gel, popped the bulb, and showered the floor with glass.

Pauline marched to center-stage below their feet. “Chase Woodstock! Get your butt down here and unload this truck!”

He ignored his mom and turned to Janie. “Look at me,” he said.

She snapped her head and made direct eye contact for the first time today. The wobbling grid framed her face so much like a princess that the juxtaposition was trippy. “I’m going crazy, Janie. I’m afraid for you.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re...”

“What? Say it.”

“Normal.”

“Normal? Do you have any clue what goes on in my head?”

“If you ever knew what I did...” Janie whispered. “What I let happen...”

“What did you do? Janie?” Her gaze drifted away and he grabbed her chin. “Whatever it is, you need to tell me. I can’t forgive you if I don’t even know what happened!”

“Chase!” Pauline shouted again. “Grab that girl and get your asses down here!”

The grid settled into a gentle sway. Chase released Janie’s chin. Her eyes showed no threat of tears.

“Tomorrow night,” she said, “You think I’ll do a good job?”

(5, 6, 7, 8)

*  *  *

Monday: The Sparkle Motion National Championship

The shadow of the storm turned the visible world light-green and William saw his Theater as if he was peering through an emerald pendant. The evening was so peaceful a scream could be heard for miles.

He could smell the approaching rain.

For the last nine hours, The Stage played it safe. Children danced. Judges judged. Parents clapped. By noon the audience had grown from forty to one-hundred-and-fifty, barely filling the first five rows.

It was seven o’clock now, two hours before Janie’s dance. For every person that asked about a rain delay, thirty more arrived with parkas, umbrellas, or trash bags. The spectators trudged single-file up the stairs to The Theater’s front gate, fighting banality-withdrawals from another paper-shredder Monday, knowing, hoping, praying there was something on this hill to disturb the soul.

William sat atop his director’s chair in the bed of Betty’s truck, just outside the perimeter fence. Divorce papers—crisp, clean, stapled in the corner, and hand-delivered that morning by certified mail—were discarded like the Sunday Funnies across Betty’s hood.

Sarah refused to hand them over in person. She thought he would make a scene. Janie told him the rules were the same as last time: stay backstage while Mom’s in the audience.

Mom was in the audience now. She sat beside her brother-in-law in the third row, and Will laughed when he thought of Slick Rick offering Sarah his protection.

The sun found a breach in the darkness and used the opportunity to release a storybook shaft of golden light onto the hill. The audience cheered and opened their palms to catch the rays. William lifted his head. His brow curled over his eyes as he glared at the gap. The cloud understood its mistake, quenched the beam, and submerged the audience back in green-tinted shadow.

William smiled at his accomplishment and ran his tongue along his smooth upper lip, no longer hindered by snarled growth. He shaved that morning. He was new. Open. Ready.

But not quite yet. Pacing is vital to a story and the characters were still falling into place.

He rummaged through his tool kit and found his binoculars, loose sticks of cinnamon gum, and a packet of sunflower seeds. He popped a seed in his mouth, sucked the salt, then shelled it with his teeth and tongue. Through the binoculars he watched a magnified view of the turnstile at the front gate, spinning with every new attendee. The Stage brandished it’s black magic while word of Hyde’s disappearance lured them in. (It was almost as if the town’s collective consciousness knew The Stage and the missing man were linked.)

Thunder erupted in the West, not a crash, but a low rumble like the warning growl of a nervous watchdog. The wind was already there, shivering the blades of grass and upsetting the emerald tranquility.

The tents wouldn’t be filled to full capacity tonight as most of the numbers were solos and duets. Any leftover tents would become general shelter in case of rain, but with the growing audience spilling into the picnic area, tents would be as worthwhile as lifeboats on the Titanic. At least the mob of Good Samaritans foresaw the wind and zip-tied the tents to the fence. The nearest pop-up was only thirty feet from Betty’s hood. Light seeped through the cracks where the tarpaulin walls failed to meet. Inside, a group of children were no-doubt transforming into birds or angels or comic-book heroes.

The Sparkle Motion gift Shop was three tents long. Although Pauline’s company shipped their chintzy toys from Tennessee, William interspersed his own items along the shelves. There were t-shirts, ballerina teddybears, prayer candles with the image of the Virgin Mary, stress balls shaped like pointe shoes, sparkly “diva” pins, resin crosses, rosary-beads, matchbox cars (and other distractions for little brothers), headbands, boob tape, mason jars filled with holy gravel from the stables, bobby pins, hairspray, flowers for the winners, flowers for the losers, and limited edition replicas of William’s original blueprints. After watching the alter grow in the stables, William couldn’t neglect his pious guests who yearned for spilt blood and the occasional relic.

His cell buzzed against the truck’s roof. Pauline again.

The receiver crackled with a barrage of static and Will held the phone an inch from his ear. “We took the cameras down!” she shouted.

“I saw that,” he said.

“What?”

“I said I saw that!” he yelled over the wind.

“Do you know how much I’m losing in DVD sales?”

“Twenty bucks?”

“Thousands! But it’s trivial! If we stop the show now, we’ll need to refund the dances and we’ll lose ten times that!”

“Embrace it, Pauline!”

“Are you kidding me? Is that a joke, Will? I’m having the time of my life!”

“That’s what I like to hear!”

“So you wanna keep ‘er chuggin’?”

“Come rain or hellfire!”

“Then buckle your seatbelt, pardner!”

A stream of girls in silver-sequined dresses charged from the closest tent, hugging their tap shoes with one arm and holding down their hair with the other. They bolted through the picnic-area spectators and fought the wind to The Stage.

William dumped a handful of seeds to his hand and pushed them in his mouth. With every gnashed seed, his mind inched toward that artist utopia where ideas interweave into “the big picture.”

He checked the time. So close.

He stood. He touched his toes. He reached to the sky until his his sternum popped.

The tidy stack of divorce papers ripped easily down the center, then into quarters, then shreds. William sprinkled the flakes of paper over the side of the truck to dissolve with the impending rain. If tonight went as planned, divorce papers wouldn’t be necessary. He had papers of his own to deliver.

The night pulled a wraithlike shroud between the hill and the heavens, sending Cavenaugh and the other guards rushing to the light towers. The minutemen lit each unit manually, splashing white, shadowless light over the spectators.

If the lights had been pointing in William’s direction, he might have recognized Baylee sooner. Instead, he scrutinized the murky apparition that was gliding up the dark side of the hill and wondered if it was a lost child or a Brandywine resident looking for a shortcut. He stood to assert his authority. But when her face distinguished itself from the gloom, his heart leapt and his mind—like Dr. Frankenstein’s buzzing machine with bolts of blue electricity and whistling steam—clamored to sort out the possibilities of her arrival.

As Baylee approached, Will realized she wasn’t gliding; she was stumbling. The wind tugged her jacket and he imagined her tipping and rolling down the hill like a tumbleweed. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Her eyelids were peeled back and clamped as if a single blink would seal them forever.

She was high; something more than weed. Something... pharmaceutical perhaps?

“Are you lost, little-lady?” William asked.

She looked up to the truck. “I’m looking for Hyde Whitaker.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Can you help me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Baylee. I’m Baylee. I’m a friend.” Her voice was lower than Will remembered from the video chats. She spoke with a rasp.

“Hyde’s Baylee?” he asked.

The pretend revelation seemed to surprise the girl. Her eyeballs flicked to the side of their bowls, then snapped back. “He told you about me?”

“I’m William. That’s my house you just passed, and this is my Theater.”

“You’re Will! Hyde said he didn’t tell anybody about me!” Her smile seemed painful but genuine. “I had to come. But I’ve been so afraid.”

Will unlatched the tailgate and slid off the back of his truck. Baylee was no taller than his chest.

She grabbed his lapel. “I couldn’t sit at home anymore. I had to see this wasn’t some horrible joke.” She looked like she was about to cry, but the wind already dried her unblinking eyes.

“You might find what you’re looking for inside,” he suggested.

“I know what that Stage is. I know that she is a teacher here.”

“Who?”

Baylee growled, “Her.”

Thunder. Closer now and the ominous nothing finally revealed itself as black cut-out clouds layered against violet flashes. The lighting stopped and the clouds disappeared, though their presence lingered overhead.

“Can I please go in?” she asked.

William stepped to his secret passage but blocked the gate. “What can you pay me?”

“Pay you? Please Mr. Carmel. I don’t have much money.”

“Surly you have something to offer for my services.”

Baylee patted her shorts and the pockets of her jacket. She studied William—it was the first time she appeared focused—then removed a bottle of Asprin. “I have oxy or valium. There’s pot in the car but please don’t make me go back down.”

The bottle confirmed what he already knew.

He laughed. “It was a joke, dear! Put your medicine away and enjoy the show!”

Baylee nodded and stepped through the open gate. William let it slam behind her. Without another word, she ambled right down the center of the field. Will knew the girl had already forgotten where she was and how she got there, blindly following that whispering name that haunted her mind, Hyde Hyde Hyde Hyde Hyde.

Baylee’s arrival added an unexpected notecard for William’s mental cork board. With a little restructuring of the plot, the card could fit perfectly.

He climbed onto Betty’s tailgate, stepped past his chair, planted one foot on the truck’s ledge, and hoisted himself to the roof of the cab. From here he could see the growing checkerboard of blankets on the grass.

He felt the lightning. He stood straight, raised his arms, and there it was! One string tied to his right hand! A shimmering strand that extended over the fence and across the field to a knot at the top of Baylee’s head.

Will closed his eyes and the thunder collapsed. He could feel the vacuum tugging his collar. 

When he opened his eyes, the single string had become seven. One for each finger; one for each puppet.

This was William’s art. This was the only way left to experience the rush of originality! The night was his canvas. The hill was His Stage! Here, amongst his creation and his story and his will, he was God. The drama behind that gate was a William Carmel Production. 

Setting aside four-thousand dollars of the home-equity loan was creativity. Handing the money to an old Chicago friend with a habit of starting fires... that was drama. Staying on the phone to assure the job was properly executed; passion! Janie’s fake sobs to Tracy (collaboration!), or his anonymous call to the Channel Six News (biographers!); they not only furthered the advertising and amplified the danger, but those cameras would stand witness to his genius.

Sure there were happy accidents along the way. Charlie Arson’s fire was only meant to secure Will’s Theater for the National Championship. He had no previous intention of becoming partners with Pauline! But after this week, that’s exactly what he would be. When Janie “cried” to Tracy about the tents and security guards, he wasn’t expecting It’s a Wonderful Life! But the neighbor’s brought gifts anyway.

Isn’t that where true art lies? Within those happy accidents?

Will sucked in his chest, waved his fingers, and the marionettes performed his bidding. The first drop of rain found the back of his neck and he knew it was time to begin.

*  *  *

(But as William stood tall atop his truck and conducted his play in the rain, he overlooked one silver strand laying limp in the grass... one cord that should have been tied to a missing finger... one person who escaped his control...)