Little Did I Know: A Novel (44 page)

Barrows was a prick and his actions were inexplicable, but he owned this town and my heroics had not resolved anything. My heartfelt pleadings of contrition and remorse, and my urgings that he remember his youth had fallen on deaf ears. I was Don Quixote and Barrows my windmill. In fact, as reality set in we all realized it was probably only the beginning, the doctor had led me exactly where he wanted: to the precipice, to the arena where I would be devoured by angry lions unleashed—by him and to my end.

I had not said a word for over an hour. I wanted to, in order to break the mounting tension, but as each new thought formed in my head ready to parry our anxiety, they all seemed soft blurred, not fully formed. To say them out loud would only amp up our worries rather than mitigate them. Finally I jumped up. Pacing the empty beach I said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. Watching the sunrise is not going to wash my misstep away with the next wave. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. I need help. Stay here, finish the doughnuts. I’m going to fix this now.”

I sprinted from the beach toward the theater. It seemed to startle the morning quiet. The birds, all of whom were cooing gently to greet the day, took sudden flight. The calm that dawn brings was shattered by my energy and sense of purpose. I slowed my pace as I reached the compound. The place was asleep. There was a bright light in the kitchen where Ma and her crew were readying breakfast. On the deck outside the stage door Louis Rosenberg played Mozart on his French horn, easy and entirely for himself as no one was there to listen. The dichotomy between his simple love of music and my burgeoning concerns as to Barrows’s next move made me smile at the absurdity life offers when the cards are dealt. I listened quietly for a moment and then walked slowly to the office.

The room was cool and dank; it smelled of the hundreds of cigarettes JB had smoked since the summer began. The ashes caught in my throat as I picked up the phone, took a final deep breath, and dialed. And then I saw the Barrows long, stretch black-bullet limo pull into the parking lot. I hung up, closed my eyes and prayed.

I
was up by six every day throughout the summer. But I had usually slept the night before, so as this endless day dragged on I was tired. My mind and body needed rest. Yet now as I waited to see who might emerge from the car sitting menacingly alone in the stillness of morning, that option was somewhere down the road in the ether, a false promise far away, far way.

I stood motionless in the cramped office and waited for my fate to unfold. Just three months ago I had partied with my friends and asked them to join me in this journey, one that had become a living, breathing presence as real and flawed and magical as the individuals making it all happen. On that night I had told JB, “I am going to direct the shows. I am going to learn how to be a man. I am going to give everyone who crosses my path a memory to cherish. Then I am moving to New York to direct and produce plays on Broadway and become famous.”

Big dreams
, I thought.
Their pursuit comes with the risk of crippling disappointment. Swing for the fences with all your might and hope, and perhaps the ball will hit the sweet spot and you’ll see the crowd leap to their feet and roar, showering you with light.
I glanced over at the tall amber grass where I had confronted Officer Richardson just days ago. It could have been a field in Ohio or Iowa a million miles away, simple and serene. But it wasn’t. It was here and it was just me waiting for the act to end and for the curtain to fall. Whether Barrows emerged alone or with a police escort, I knew I had little left in my quiver with which to fight on.

The passenger door to the stretch opened and Barrows appeared. He looked fresh from the shower, rested and dressed for a yacht club brunch. As wired as I was he was the opposite, calm, confident, and stately. As he took a long, purposeful look around the compound, his eyes rested on the marquee Bobby had so meticulously designed and the
SOLD OUT TONIGHT
sign trumpeting our recent successes. He watched and listened to Louis Rosenberg play the horn and he strolled a few short steps to the flower garden that surrounded the parking lot.

We had planted that garden when we arrived and it had thrived under the constant care of the PBT minions. Barrows picked off the top of a tall purple cosmos and after a beat flipped the petals into the street. He then turned his attention to the dining hall and the arrival of some of the company’s early risers, straining to hear the morning banter of youth as they greeted the day.

Barrows’s visage never changed, stoic was his expression, a smile nowhere to be found. He walked across the gravel driveway that was fresh and bright, free of the potholes and decay we had found when we first arrived. He stopped at the redwood table where Trudy and Zach were running lines and drinking steaming hot coffee. Their exchange was friendly, and Barrows shook hands with a slight bow and moved on. He found his way to the box office and stared at the seating chart beside the ticket window. After a long while he walked to the front of the theater and disappeared into the old barn.

I watched this all, alone and silent, in the office. I wanted to scream. I felt nauseous and frightened. None of this made any sense. I half expected to see the theater ablaze and in ruin. I had aged more than a decade by the time he exited the building. His face wore a smile, something I had never seen in the old man. And his eyes his eyes, . . . well, they had light behind them instead of the soulless dark stare I had seen only hours, but seemingly days, earlier.

Ellie Foster was running a dance step on the deck and he stopped to watch her from a distance. She ran the routine several times and then called Janet Kessler over from her breakfast where she sat holding hands with ASK and inquired how it looked. Ellie then taught the step to Janet and they danced it together happily, like puppies rolling through a pile of autumn leaves. They hugged one another when finished. The Cape Cod morning sun cast a halo over their glossy, pretty hair and shone upon their young, flushed faces. They walked over to the redwood table to join their friends.

Kasen walked out from behind the scene shop unshaven, weary, and covered with paint. He asked Barrows if he could help him. Barrows indicated no with a shake of his head, and then Kasen shook his hand and an introduction had been made. They walked over to the breakfast table under the giant maple and Barrows took a seat surrounded by youth. ASK appeared out of nowhere and placed a plate of Ma’s breakfast specialties in front of Barrows. Pleased, the doctor took the offered napkin, placed it over his lap and began to eat breakfast!

What’ll happen next?
I wondered.
Is Barrows going to smoke a joint with James?
Just when you think you know something, you realize you don’t.

Elliot was rehearsing certain members of the band behind the red house and more music found its way into the morning. Soon Mary Holly’s crisp, bight soprano joined the band; breakfast was now accompanied by talent and lyric and joy, a trifecta you couldn’t buy at any price.

Barrows stood and backed away from the group waving friendly goodbyes. He then parked himself in the center of the compound and turned slowly in a circle, taking in the PBT grounds. His focused gaze was steady, as if gathering information. He spotted a small piece of paper that marred the driveway, bent over, picked it up and placed it in his jacket pocket. He noticed a lone flower withering on its stem and broke it off and placed that in his jacket as well. Barrows then turned toward the office window that looked out on the compound and his eyes met mine. He seemed to know I’d been standing there. Time had run out.

I walked toward Barrows and as I closed in he said, “Come with me, Mr. August.” He headed back toward his black limo and I followed. “Mr. August, might you join me for a discussion in my car?” he asked. And then he added, “Please.”

When I didn’t respond he repeated his request, this time making it more of a command.

“Dr. Barrows, after last evening’s events I don’t think it wise that I meet with you without my counsel in attendance,” I replied.

“All right, young man, but counsel is not needed. I heard you last evening. I heard your anger and then your passion. You had valid things to say on both accounts. Your first verse only gave me greater resolve to shut you down. You see, a summer here is much like a long race, a marathon, and I still believe you will run out of air before you reach the finish line.”

“Dr. . . .” I began.

“Shut up, August, and listen. I did so last evening and now it is your turn.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“When you get to be my age you have lived so many lives. I forgot that I was your age once, as it was so long ago. The years have blurred those memories and . . . well, I have come to resent that loss of clarity. You remember every word of our meetings yet so do I.

“My counsel, Miss Golden, told me to ‘give you boys want you want’—that you were not responsible for the world turning. She was right. The world will continue spinning until I am gone and long after. So I have chosen to leave you alone and see if you can finish this race you have so eagerly begun.

“I am not an ally, but until you trip up I will no longer be a foe. I have told you that I thought it took more than charm, good looks, and biceps to be a leader
and
, my young friend, it takes much more than words—which you never seem to be short of.”

“I am now, sir. Are you letting us continue?” I asked, my voice choking with emotion.

“I am offering an uneasy, tenuous truce. You have done well here. Your friends admire you and they work with all their heart. There is something in you, August, that deserves a chance to swing the bat. Finish the job, or I will make sure you end up on the bench where glib, clever references to Fred Lynn won’t save you.”

He gave me a letter on the foundation’s letterhead that backed up his promise, then got in his black limo without another word or an acknowledgment of goodbye. As he drove away I breathed deeply and held back tears. “And good luck to you as well, Dr. Barrows. You unmitigated son of a bitch,” I said. I was grateful of course, but I guess I need the last word.

“The ghosts are singing again, doctor. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. Don’t fuck with the ghosts once they’ve reawakened.” I reread the letter he had given me. Then I folded it and put it in my back pocket

I watched the tail lights of his car disappear down Rocky Hill Road. Looking over at the PBT compound with all its happy and, yes, youthful activity, I noticed that the entire place was bathed in sunlight. It was 8 a.m., so I walked to the dining hall to get some breakfast.

W
e returned to rehearsal promptly at ten that morning. No tardiness, a sense of purpose in the air. The day off had proved valuable. Although short in duration it tossed certain pettiness asunder, and once I was back to work my skirmishes with the town bully, although still rattling inside my, brain did so in a whisper. PBT was reinvigorated for the days ahead.

The company finished its run of
Anything Goes
with panache. Tickets continued to sell. New laughs were discovered and joined the established money moments in the bank of mirth. We rehearsed
Funny Girl
during the day, and sometimes after the curtain had come down we ran a number or two until the clock hit midnight. We did not have a single streaker, naked bouncing breast, or visit from the local extortionist. The police did not summon me for a powwow and no fisticuffs were caused by the women who worked and played under our banner. PBT had settled in the way a good team does during the dog days of August. We played steady and hit in the clutch. We made the big play when necessary and the dead, red punch-outs kept us in every game.

Funny Girl
premiered the following Monday. The show was in terrific shape, as were its stars Fitzgerald and Rush. Lizzy Barrows brought thirty people with her to the opening and mingled with members of the cast long after her guests had gone home. I still didn’t understand, so the blackness in my heart toward the Barrowses remained my secret.

Veronica had no contact with Lizzy that night, part of our uneasy truce. We were a couple, as entwined in one another’s lives as we were when we slept entangled like vines in the jungle. We’d figure out the rest of her story when the time was right.

Johnny Colon had been booked on assault charges for his indiscretions with Ellie Foster.

We ran the table on
Funny Girl
. On its closing weekend we had one expected visiting group, a friendly, loving surprise, and a black limo that arrived with the promise of turmoil and a smoldering simmering scent of trouble.

First the good news. Michael Kasen, who worked tirelessly as our tech director, had his dad visit for the last performance. Mr. Kasen was blown away by what he saw—not just the show itself but the entire gestalt of PBT. Michael’s dad was a powerful attorney who represented transport owners in New York City. He was a tough guy, for sure, but underneath really a gentle giant. Late Saturday night, he approached me.

“Freddy Kasen, Michael’s dad,” he said extending his hand. He had a firm handshake. I’d been taught you could judge a great deal about a person from their handshake.

“Yes, sir, I know that. He looks like you.”

“I’m better looking.” He laughed and his tough-guy demeanor faded away.

“Of course you are, Mr. Kasen. What was I thinking?”