Idea in Stone (17 page)

Stefan backed away. “Uh, hi. Where’s Thom?”

Chris pointed to the counter which was lit by bulbs surrounding a mirror, and covered with makeup sticks, pages of script, and clothing. Stefan looked down and saw Thom under the counter, lying on the floor with his knees splayed to the side, his fingers and thumbs touching. His eyes were closed, and he hummed quietly.

“He’s getting into character. Which is a bit annoying, since ‘Seth’ is a bastard. Either that, or he’s trying to levitate.”

Stefan laughed.

Chris lowered his voice. “No, seriously.”

“Ah,” said Stefan. “Well, could you wake whoever he is up and tell him it’s places in three minutes?”

Chris flipped his hands into the air. “I’m not touching him. That essential oil he wears smells like a hamster cage.”

“Okay.” Stefan knelt carefully next to Thom and poked his knee. “Thom—
Seth
—it’s three minutes to places.” Thom gasped as if coming up from a deep-sea dive and stared at him with a possessed look. Stefan backed out of the dressing room.

“Knock, knock,” said Stefan, then opened the door to Norman’s dressing room. Norman sat in his dressing-gown with paper towel tucked in around the neck. His face was covered in orangey stage makeup, and his script was in his hand. But he was asleep. This happened a lot, offstage, and even onstage during an earlier rehearsal. “Norman,” whispered Stefan. For a moment, he wondered if the man was dead. “Mister Wallace,” he said, louder now. Norman spluttered and came to. “Two minutes to places.” Norman nodded, and gathered himself together. “How are those lines coming?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, son. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, memorisation is a reflex, one of the lesser skills in an actor’s toolbox, really.”

Stefan nodded, as if learning something important. He found that Norman liked that. For all his bluster, though, the man was clearly having trouble, and it made Stefan uneasy.

He walked down the hallway and out a fire escape into the theatre. He sat in a worn plush red seat in the middle of the house and got out his notepad. (The cast moaned now whenever he took it out in front of them.) Charlene poked her head from the wings on the left-hand side of the stage and gave Stefan a thumbs-up sign. He returned it, but whimpered to himself.

The house lights dimmed, and recorded music played—soft violins and a lone accordion. Faint amber light spilled down on the set, lighting up a street. (Though it was suggested with just two doors set in a panel and a backdrop showing a projection of row housing, streetlights, and city beyond, stretching off to a harbour.)

Heck Folward stepped from his parents’ house wearing a cap and an old brown suit. He looked up at the sun, smiled, closed the door behind him, and walked down the street. Morning in the city was busy, and full of sound. Heck walked across town to the factory where he worked. The guard let Heck in when he showed his ID card. He walked through the compound to the main building, where he descended several flights of metal stairs, down to his workshop. Jets of steam made the space uncomfortably hot; he removed his cap and jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. He picked up a set of clunky parts like jumbled metal limbs from his large desk and moved them about, looking for the cause of the trouble with them. His workshop was just one of countless others. The giant machine that stretched across the city provided the citizens with everything they could possibly want, so he felt honoured being employed to help keep it running. He didn’t know how the whole thing worked—no one did—but he was an expert at his small part, and had received several commendations.

Arto Hanstardath, the area leader, walked through the factory in a pinstripe suit, despite the heat. He stopped at Heck’s workshop and examined the young man’s work. He slapped him on the shoulder to show his approval, and moved on.

Heck walked home again, pausing only briefly at a newsagent’s to look over the headlines. They were all variations of the same message: things were fine. There were problems in the world, but they were all elsewhere. Some people complained that things at home could be better, but Heck couldn’t imagine how. He reached his house, looked out at the rosy sun setting over the harbour, took off his cap, and went inside.

The next day at work, Heck stabbed his hand with a tool while trying to fix a particularly difficult piece of equipment. As a valued employee, he was quickly rushed to the company infirmary across town. A beautiful nurse treated him, applying more than usual care. He asked her name. “Truna Instred,” she replied. Although he was a company man, there was something different about him. She knew better, but she trusted him. “I have to show you something,” she said, leading him from the ward.

Stefan watched as his mother led his father by the hand. He’d never seen her so intent on a purpose before. His father looked as if he’d follow her anywhere.

One of the footlights blew. Part of the set went dark, and a puff of smoke curled up toward the proscenium arch. Stefan blinked, and saw Chris and Serena, still hand in hand, standing, waiting to see if he wanted them to continue. Chris put a hand on his hip, and Serena looked at her watch. Stefan shook his head. “Um, take ten,” he said. He left the theatre and stood outside the stage door. Two of the stage technicians were there smoking, but he didn’t talk to them. Instead, he walked around the block, looking up at the monolithic office towers in the night. Streetlights reflected in their shiny black surfaces like stars on a still lake.

His father had given him more than just a play. Something unfinished waited in the lines of the story.

~

After the night’s final dress rehearsal, the cast retired to a bar across the street from the theatre for their nightly notes-session. Stefan flipped through his notepad, trying to decipher what he’d written in the dark, to remember what the note was about, then to explain himself to the actors. Over the weeks of working together, they’d developed a shorthand and a series of in-jokes, so the sessions went quickly now. Stefan had learned how to communicate with each of them, and who—Serena and Norman, namely—needed extra care.

Stefan finished giving his notes, then flipped the small wire-bound book closed. “That’s it,” he said, dropping the book on the table, “we’re ready.” The cast cheered, and Stefan jumped up to order them a round of drinks at the bar. He asked the bartender for more of what they were drinking, and turned to go back to the table. Across the bar, he saw Ming, his ex-boyfriend, sitting at a table with some friends. Stefan didn’t see Michael, his replacement, but somehow knew he and Ming were still a couple. He looked back at the table, where Charlene and the actors waited for him. He smiled, and went to join them.

Nine

Voice Box

Stefan ran toward the bank. The pixelboard at the base of the giant Bay Street banking tower flashed with messages about the stock market, charities the bank supported, and reasons to switch to their services. In one corner, the time flashed, 4:55PM. This was the last business day before his flight left for Scotland. He had yet to close his account. In a world of global telecommunication, he knew he didn’t really need to close the account, but he felt it was an important gesture.

He reached the large glass doors and pulled on one of the handles. He sighed with relief when it gave way. A teller looked up as he ran back and forth through the maze of poles and nylon ribbons. An illuminated arrow pointed him her way, and a small light blinked beside her. She looked unhappily at the blinking light, and moved aside the end-of-day work she’d almost finished. As he stood in front of her, she propped a smile up with her lips and asked, “How may I help you?”

“I’d like to close my account, please,” Stefan replied.

The smile fell down.

“Do you have any identification?”

Stefan knew she was trying to block him, but he was prepared. He reached into his pockets and, alternating with his left and right hand, emptied credit cards, licenses, and identification badges, then finally reached into his back pocket and produced his passport. The teller sighed, and took out several forms, which she handed to him. “Sign here,” she said, writing an X on the page. “And here, and here, and,” she flipped forward a page, “here, here, and here.” Stefan signed his name several times, his signature degrading with each successive use. He hoped she wouldn’t question him about that. It was just something that happened.

“The balance,” she said, “how would you like it?”

“In dimes,” he joked. She didn’t find it funny. “Um, a cashier’s cheque would be fine.” She typed some things into her computer, filed his paperwork, and shuffled some other pieces of paper around, then produced a large blue cheque for Stefan. He was pleasantly surprised about the amount printed on it in pixellated grey numbers. He’d arranged the cast’s accommodations, rented the theatre, and paid the actors and Charlene for the rehearsal period, yet there was still a sizeable amount left. He didn’t expect the show to make money—it was theatre after all—but he hoped that he wouldn’t be completely broke when it ended.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up from the cheque. But the teller was already gone. He walked from the bank out into the hot afternoon. The air was thick with exhaust from the cars and buses. He passed a hot dog vendor, and the smell lured him back to buy a veggie-dog. (Not veggie to comply with his mother’s rules, but because they agreed better with him.) He sat on the edge of a marble plant-box in front of an endlessly tall copper-coloured building and ate his supper. He looked at the cheque again.

What am I going to do when the show’s over?
Thinking about it made him nervous. He didn’t like this about life, the having to constantly think up what to do next. He’d asked his father in his first letter to save him, and the play was his answer. But the show would only run for three weeks.

Stefan finished his hot dog and dropped the tiny napkin that came with it into a nearby trash can. The traffic signals changed in his favour, and the lumbering streetcars parted like a Red Sea. He crossed the wide street, heading toward the towering broadcast building to pay a call he’d been intending to pay for several days, but had been putting off.

He signed in at security and rode the elevator up several floors. “Helen?” he said, knocking at her door. He had a good idea she would be here, as she was prone to finishing late.

“Come in,” she said. “Oh, hello!” She gestured for him to sit at a chair in front of her desk. He plopped himself down. She sat back in her chair and looked at him. “So, you’re leaving tomorrow. I was wondering if I’d see you.”

“Of course. Though it still feels weird to think that I’m going. I find myself feeling kind of—I’m not sure.”

“Nervous?”

“Well, about the show, a bit. I don’t know how I’m going to lead this thing without you. But you’ve given me Charlene, so it’s not really that. I just feel, like—”

“Like leaving is admitting defeat.”

Stefan cocked his head, and tested what she’d said against his feelings. “Yeah. You know, that’s it. How did you know that?”

“Wisdom is just projected experience. I’m not from here. I left someplace else once. But you know what? It worked. I like it here, and things turned out well for me.” She leaned her head on one of her small arms. “Ask yourself, does it feel like you’re quitting?”

“No. I’m following something. My dad, the play—everything’s leading me this way.”

“Well then.”

“Helen, you’ve made such a difference in my life. I don’t know how I would have done any of this without you. I put off coming here because I didn’t want to say goodbye. But I couldn’t very well leave without seeing you.”

“Well I’m happy you didn’t, because I have something I wanted to give you.” She leaned forward in her custom-built executive high-chair and fished through the purse on her desk. She pulled out an envelope and handed it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Open it.”

He tore at the envelope, then examined the slip of paper inside, a cheque. “Oh my God,” he said, “I can’t take this.”

“It’s not for you,” she said. “It’s made out to The Raccoon Players. I’m not being charitable here, Stefan, I’m being subversive. This play is dangerous. I want it out there. I’m too established here; I’m not in a position to start over and try to create something like this. You brought it to me from wherever it came from, and I have to make the most of this opportunity. What do I need the money for? To buy more stuff? I don’t need more stuff. And the things I do want, I can’t buy. Besides, I don’t know how much longer I’m going to—”

“Helen.”

“No, seriously. My doctors... Anyway, my point is that I believe in what you’re doing, and it’s my cause now, too. Art can save the world. If we don’t have art, then the fuckers in the suits win.” She sat back in her chair, wearing a grave expression. Then she croaked to herself, giggling.

“Alright,” said Stefan, “thank you then.”

“As for you, though,” she said, “there’s just one thing I ask of you, and it has nothing to do with the show.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t hurt your mother.”

Stefan squirmed in his chair.

“No, I mean it. I know she drives you crazy, but she and I have worked together for a long time, and she’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve your scorn. Don’t you see that she’s doing all these weird things because she cares about you?”