Cue the Dead Guy. H. Mel Malton
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For years, we had assumed that it would crumble into the ground, as it was destined to do. It backed on to a useless piece of swampland (well, useful to frogs and marsh creatures, but no good for farming) and the shack itself was hideous and needed pulling down.
The deed (George checked) was in the name of an old Kuskawa family that no longer lived in the area. George had been keeping tabs on it at the municipal office, preparing to put an offer in when it came up for back-taxes, so he could buy it and ensure his privacy. No such luck. In late April, the Neighbours From Hell had moved in.
We had never been formally introduced and were only vaguely aware of what they looked like, having stolen sly glances sideways when we drove by. Finns and old British stock share this trait. Never stare at people you want to kill. The racket they produced, however, was prodigious. We didn’t need to see them to know they were there.
There were three adults. The older man was Grandpa, or, as he was more frequently called, in voices that were too loud to be real, “You Stupid Old Fuck.” The younger woman, pregnant (this much became obvious during a drive-by) was Stacey. The younger man, according to the Cedar Falls grapevine queen, Donna-Lou Dermott, who knew everything, was an ex-con called Randy.
There were two boys, one, a shrill-voiced toddler called Tyler and the other an older boy called Wade. We knew their names because they were screamed at, frequently. There were several dogs, too. Tied up behind the shack and miserable enough to howl.
It was eight-thirty, and they all seemed to boil out of the house next door at once, shrieking.
“Wade, get your fucking shoes on!”
“Come here right now, you bitch, and help me with this!”
“Maaaa!!!” The dogs began a frenzied barking.
Then the chainsaw started.
George shook his head slowly and sadly.
“I have work to do,” he said and went indoors.
Six
PRINCESS: Without my crown, I’m incomplete.
CAT: You’re still a princess, though, my sweet.
-The Glass Flute, Scene vi
At nine o’clock, I stopped outside Rico’s and honked the horn. He poked his head out the door, waved, then emerged holding two tiny cups. He had, as he promised, dressed “butch,” in a Hydro coat, denim shirt, green work-pants and boots. He looked like a downtown Toronto construction worker. He hadn’t shaved.
“A little pick-me-up,” he said. “Espresso—fresh-made. I bet you didn’t get enough sleep. I didn’t, anyway. The whole thing kept going around and around in my mind like a bad Madonna video.”
“There’s no other kind,” I said and thanked him. I didn’t really need the caffeine jolt, but it was welcome nonetheless.
“Nose looks good,” he said. “Hey. You’re wearing makeup.” I blushed. George’s remark had been meant as a joke, because I never use the stuff normally, but when I was back up at the cabin, I’d accidentally looked in the mirror again. It was too much. I’d given in and searched out a crusty old tube of Max Factor foundation, left over from my fashion-conscious days in the city. I’d started out using only a little bit, just to hide the raccoon eyes, but that had made the rest of my face look pasty, so I’d gone the whole hog, slathering on the foundation, powdering it down, then using blush (sparingly, you understand) and topping the whole mess off with a coat of mascara that made my eyes look like two spiders. Actually, I looked okay. I’d unpacked my nose, and the swelling had gone down enough that I didn’t look like George Chuvalo any more, at any rate. I felt shy about the makeup, but by then it was too late to wash it all off again, so I just thought the hell with it, dressed to match in a decent pair of jeans and a new Mexican vest that Aunt Susan had given me for Christmas, and hit the road.
Rehearsal had been called for ten o’clock, and it’s a theatre rule that even if you’re dying, you get to rehearsal on time.
People trickled into the lobby slowly, and it took a while for me to realize that just about everybody in the cast and crew was wearing makeup that morning, so I didn’t feel so out of place. It wasn’t just the women, either.
Rico usually wore a tiny bit of eyeliner, applied discreetly so you didn’t notice it unless you’d seen him without it. Although he’s dark-complexioned, his eyelashes are sparse and his eyes are blue, so the eyeliner just makes up for what nature forgot. He may have been dressed “butch,” but the eyeliner was in place.
Juliet wore full daytime facial camouflage. She was seriously hung over, and when she came in moments after we did, she brushed past us with a grunt, went into her office and shut the door—very gently.
Kim Lee, the general manager, always wore a bit of makeup and today was no exception. She looked fresh and positively perky (she doesn’t drink). After one look at Rico and me, she steered us over to the coffee-maker in the lobby, handed us both a cup and then took one in to Juliet.
“She’s brave,” Rico muttered. I nodded. Juliet in a bad mood was worse than a pregnant crocodile.
Meredith and Bradley came in together, talking in low voices. Meredith, who had done the show before and knew how physically taxing it was, was wearing sweats. Bradley had on a tight pair of pants that would make him a soprano before the day was out. They said polite good-mornings (not forgetting to ask kindly about my nose), served themselves coffee and retired to a low sofa near the front desk to continue their conversation. At best, they were mildly hung-over, and Bradley had crimson lipstick on his neck, more or less the same colour as the stuff Meredith had on her lips.
Tobin came in next, looking ill. He sat with us, sighing as his large frame settled in the easy chair next to the coffee table. His bunch of keys, the badge of office for every Technical Director in the world, jingled heavily from a loop on his belt.
“Just plug me in,” he said and held out a muscular arm, veins up, in front of the percolator. “I closed up the place last night. This morning, I mean. Can you believe it? Four-thirty. I’m too old for this.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he, too, had not escaped the makeup epidemic. His lips, which had been cartoon-white the night before, still held a ghost of greasepaint. He caught me looking.
“I know,” he said, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “Serves me right for mocking a mockery, I guess. I tried everything. Vaseline. Cold cream. I’m marked for life. Just call me honky-lips. Nice nose, by the way.”
Ruth Glass arrived in a hurry, clutching a folder crammed with sheet music. Her eyebrows were still clogged with green goo from her Martian outfit of the night before. She headed for the stairs which led up to the rehearsal hall.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, and stopped in mid-stride. “Hey. Why isn’t everybody upstairs?”
“Rehearsal doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes, Ruth,” Tobin said. “Our fearless leader is still in her office.” He pointed and we all looked. The door was still ominously shut.
“She’s being nursed into wakefulness by Kim,” I said.
“I’m going up,” Ruth said. “Juliet wants to do a sing-through this morning—told me last night, at two a.m.”
“A sing-through?” I said. “After last night, nobody’s going to be able to sing a note.”
“I know. It’s Jason’s fault,” Tobin said. “Spurned her advances and made her cranky. Then he started fussing around up in the rehearsal room and kept coming down to ask her tech questions in the middle of the party. Pissed her off enough for her to get vindictive.”
“Yay, Jason. Where is he, by the way?”
“Probably up there now, getting ready to take attendance,” Tobin said, gloomily. “He’s a real hard-liner, that one. Don’t know where Juliet found him.”
“He’s