FREE on Amazon Kindle, Oct 6.
One
Jackie Simmer rambled around Fetzle Mansion for ten minutes
before she found Scootie Jones kneeling at the grandfather clock in the
library. Scootie was eyeing the pipe-bells, silver chains and dangling weights
as they rang off ten o’clock.
“Scootie, what the hell are you doin’?”
He held her off with a raised hand, letting the final peal
fade out. “If you could time a performance for precisely twelve o’clock, you
could use padded mallets to play extra notes on the bells. How cool would that
be?”
“Scootie darlin’, you know how fond I am of that fertilized
egg of yours, but we got a meetin’ right now, with an important trustee. So get
off your butt!”
Scootie laughed and bounced form the floor like a Russian
dancer. “I’m all yours.” He followed her down the hall, whispering inquiries at
her shoulder. “So who’s the big shot?”
“Juliana Kross. A rather intimidatin’ figure. Married to the cash-machine honcho
lives up on Blaze Hill.”
“The white adobe?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. So I’m intimidated. What’s she going to talk about?”
Jackie shrugged and opened the door to the conference room.
The staff was pecking away at a cherry ring danish while their guest sat in the
corner, conferring with Garth. Oh yeah,
thought Scootie. No forgetting Mrs. Kross.
She had thick chestnut hair, cut in a short businesswoman’s wedge, and dark
eyes, a shade of coal-pit brown he had seen only in a mirror. She caught
Scootie watching her and glanced sideways with a slow-motion smile, causing him
a tingle of embarrassment plus something that felt like a baker applying lemon
frosting to the back of his neck. He sat down and pretended to read a flyer
from a year-old Beckett Festival.
Although Garth Denstrom was ostensibly the director of the
Fetzle Theater Center, it was Jackie who ran the meetings. She sat down next to
Scootie and slapped the table with her hand. “People, people! Let’s get this
thing started. We’ve got company today, so please, behave yourselves.” The
staff responded with a general snicker. “We will be forestallin’ the usual
boring crap today so that our guest, Miz Juliana Kross, can make a special
announcement. Miz. Kross?”
“Please,” she said. “Juliana. Um... why don’t I stand? I’m
always more comfortable when I can make a quick getaway.”
She wore black dress pants and a pressed white blouse that
lent an air of alarm to her dark features. She stood and whipped out her pirate
sleeves before bracing her hands on the back of Garth’s shoulders.
“In 1956, a senior at Hallis High School decided to put on a
production of King Lear. He asked the
Fetzle trustees for use of the 500-seat Equestrian Theater, and, just to make
sure he filled the place, he hung posters on every storefront from Watsonville
to Pacifica. He also talked a local studio into donating publicity photos, and
hounded every newspaper in the region for coverage.
“Of course, the main job was whipping together a solid cast.
Given the large number of roles in the play, he gave many of them multiple
roles, and drilled them mercilessly. Shakespeare began to spill out into the
halls and courtyards of campus. One student, presented with an unappetizing
tray of food, was heard to respond to the cafeteria ladies, ‘There’s hell,
there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding, stench,
consumption. Fie, fie, fie: pah, pah!’”
The staff remained silent. Juliana went smartly on.
“Well, as you might guess, the production was a smash. They
performed on a set designed to look like the Fetzle Mansion itself. The local
theater critics said it was better than most adult productions. The only flaw
was Mark Zylok’s attacks of spoonerism as the Fool. ‘He that has and a little
tiny wit’ became ‘He that has and a little winy tit.’ ‘Look, here comes a
walking fire’ became ‘Look, here comes a falking wire.’”
The staff, finally convinced that a trustee was actually
being funny, let out a cautious chuckle.
“And the senior boy gave a phenomenal account of the title
character, convincing everybody, as one critic put it, ‘that there, within the
frame of a young man only recently granted his driver’s license, dwelt the soul
of an aging, tormented monarch.
“The show ran for six weeks, continuing for two weeks after
graduation. The director donated the proceeds to the Fetzle Theater Center and
Hallis High, for the development of a summer youth drama workshop that
continues to this day.”
Having paced several times from one end of the table to the
other, Juliana returned to Garth and replaced her hands on his shoulders.
“The name of the senior boy was Stephen Swan – winner, as I
am sure you know, of three Tonys and one Oscar. And why do I tell you this?
Because, on June 26, Mr. Swan is returning to Fetzle to give a gala performance
– at which performance, our Equestrian Theater will be re-christened the Swan
Theater.”
The dozen members of the staff broke into a mix of applause
and excited banter. Garth struggled to think up an appropriate declarative
statement.
“That’s wonderful! That is really... wonderful!”
As usual, Jackie ignored the cheerleading and cut to the
chase. “One thing, Juliana. What exactly will Mr. Swan be doin’ at this gala?”
“That’s a good question, Jackie. He hasn’t worked out the
details yet, but he says it’ll be a kind of ‘greatest hits’ show, a mix of
behind-the-scenes anecdotes and performed excerpts from his plays and films. He
says it’s something he’s been wanting to do for years. And he wants to finish
with Cordelia’s death scene from Lear.”
“Perfect,” said Scootie. “Maybe we can give Mark Zylok
another stab at the Fool.”
“Yes,” said Aggie, the box office manager. “Perhaps this
time he’ll get the falking thing right.”
Now that the staff was more comfortable with Juliana, they
gave Aggie’s joke twice the laughter it deserved. Jackie Simmer let it go for
thirty seconds before she started slapping the table again, wishing for the
umpteenth time that someone would give her a gavel.
“All right, people, that’s enough hee-haw for one Thursday.
Juliana, have you checked with Annie on the catering?”
It was Scootie’s favorite trick, holding the sustain pedal
as he ran up and down the keyboard, piling up notes like atoms in an
accelerator, shooting off overtones. He see-sawed his left hand along the lower
register, building a rumble, then took his right hand to the soprano range,
picking raindrops from the ceiling and dropping them into the soup. He reached
centerward for a devil’s chord, black key-white key, half-step apart, and
struck it repeatedly as his left hand climbed a chromatic scale.
There was something inside this cave of music, and someday
he would open the gates to find haystacks of jewels and ice cream. Somewhere in
there, like... here? He bunched his hands on a seven-note chord, let it rise
like a kite on a string, then played a staccato ping-pong match, a duple meter
against a triple. Then he gave up, slammed the sustain, and played every note
he could get his hands on, a sonic DNA, tones winding around each other like
eels in a barrel. He closed his eyes, letting the sound diminish to a noteless
hum, then opened them to find that he was not alone.
“My, that was invigorating.” Juliana Kross entered the
library in a white tennis outfit. “Who was that by?”
Scootie had to breathe a little to hide his surprise.
“Leonard Jones. An American.”
“Relative?”
“My real name. Long story.”
“Well. I like your music. Do you have it written down?”
“I just make it up, really. I think if I actually knew what
I was doing, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Like John Cage, right? I mean, in theoretical terms.”
He was thrown off by the sound of his hero’s name. “Well...
yes.”
“I’ve always thought that Cage stretched the definition of
music in the same way that Marcel Duchamp stretched art. Very liberating. And
to some, very threatening. What would a graduate of Julliard think if he found
a publicity director making up art music on the fly?”
“I imagine he’d want his tuition back.”
“Yes.” Juliana settled in a burgundy armchair, and crossed
her deer-like legs. “Scootie, Leonard – whatever your name is. Why don’t you
get off that piano bench, and sit over here on the couch. I’d like to chat.”
Scootie had the uneasy feeling he was in for either trouble
or extra work. Why else would Juliana Kross be haunting the Fetzle library in a
tennis skirt at seven in the evening?
“Oh, and I’m sorry about the odd attire,” she said. “I just
finished a match with Mrs. Benedetti up the road and thought I’d drop by to
pick up some letterhead. But I’m glad I ran into you, because I wanted to ask
you a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as... “ She studied the portrait of Harlan Fetzle over
the mantelpiece. “Do you know much about Harlan?”
“I have to.”
“So tell me something.”
“Okay.” Scootie slid his legs beneath him on the couch,
cat-like. “His father was a German lumber baron who exploited the California
coastal forests – some would say savagely – to build his millions. After his
father’s death, Harlan did a good job of managing the business, but worried his
family with his love of opera, theater and poetry.
“Harlan decided a refuge from the San Francisco estate would
be a good idea, so he came here and built a mansion – Richardsonian Romanesque,
inspired by the courtyard at Stanford – with an unexpected side-effect. The
sandstone was the same color as the coastal grasses, so, except for the green
winter months, the place tends to disappear into the hillside. Which is why the
locals call it... “
“Chameleon Manor,” said Juliana. “Okay. I’m impressed. But
what are your feelings on the central question?”
“Why didn’t Harlan ever marry? I think he was so preoccupied
with the arts, and politics, and his mansion, that he didn’t want to bother.”
“But you know what the volunteer ladies say,” said Juliana.
“That Harlan was homosexual. But that’s because the
volunteer ladies are hopelessly conventional.”
“What about the story that Harlan kneeled in a carriage to
propose to a young lady, only to be dumped onto the street below?”
Scootie laughed. “Harlan may have been German, but that one
is pure blarney. He had a reputation for... story-telling.”
They both stopped to study the portrait. Harlan stood with
one hand on his desk, intent, statesmanlike.
“You’ve got a little blarney yourself, Juliana.”
“Pardon?”
“That presentation today. So well-performed. Shakespearean
quotes, no less. You must have been an actress.”
Juliana flushed slightly. “Well. Touche.” She smiled for a
moment, then performed an internal switch back to business.
“I did want to ask you something, Scootie. My husband is
connected with this marketing agency in San Francisco, and he seems to think
they’d be a great help in handling this gala. It seems like a huge project to
dump on a one-man publicity department.”
Scootie answered with barely a hesitation. “Three reasons I
would disagree. One, every performing center has little quirks that take years
to learn. Two, assuming your agency would want to use its own graphics,
printing and shipping people, we might alienate our core constituency by taking
money out of the pockets of local businesspeople. Three, a gala depends more on
personal contacts than a regular show, since it’s a chance to see and be seen –
and to be seen supporting a worthy cause. We’re already ahead on that account,
since you and your husband are possibly the most well-connected couple in
Northern California.”
Juliana gave Scootie an amused, close-mouthed smile. “You’re
an actor yourself.”
“Hmm?”
“Very well-rehearsed. And that little surgical strike of
flattery at the end. Very impressive.”
“Okay, okay,” said Scootie, laughing. “I was forewarned by
Jackie, who – like me – can’t stand the idea of passing every idea we get to a
bunch of cocky, no-neck suits in San Francisco.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But this, too. Assuming these guys are doing this pro-bono,
we will always be on the bottom of the pile when it comes to priorities, and
they will respond with dirty looks and evasions every time we make a
suggestion, or disagree with what they’re doing.”
Juliana nibbled on a broken fingernail, considering his
point.
“Damn! You are good.”
“Tell you what, though. I could use someone to consult with.
Could you set me up with one guy from the agency?”
“I’ve got just the guy,” said Juliana. “Kathleen, their
purchasing manager.”
“Bingo. Let’s set up a lunch.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They reached their agreement with a smile, and a look that
went on a little long. Scootie spotted the brass clock on the coffee table.
“Oh, geez. I’ve got to get going.”
“What’s on the agenda?” Juliana rose with him.
“Cindy,” said Scootie.
“And what do you do with Cindy?”
“Stars. Can I walk you out?”
“No thanks. I’ll stay a minute and chat with Uncle Harlan.”
“Fine. Good night, then.”
“Good night, Scootie.”
A handshake seemed too formal, so they settled for a
waist-high wave. Juliana sat in the burgundy armchair, trying to figure out why
she felt so unsettled. Eyes she had seen only in a mirror. When the grandfather
clock chimed eight, she went to the piano and tried to match the note.
Scootie met Cindy Parker at a group viewing of the Perseid
meteor shower. They share a keen interest in the mythologies behind the
constellations, so they began meeting for viewing sessions at Cindy’s house.
She lived in the mountains above Hallis with her husband
George and teenage son Josh, and had a special viewing spot atop a knoll behind
her house. The knoll afforded a wide view of the ocean horizon, and was high
enough to stay out of night-time fogs.
“Before we start,” said Cindy, “I brought some coffee.”
She filled a cup from her Thermos and handed it to Scootie.
“Thank you! I forget how cold these clear nights are. Say,
that’s good. The new blend at the Bolero?”
“Yes! The new Columbian. How did you know that?”
“I got this town covered like a layer of fog, baby.”
“My. You’re silly. Work going well?”
“Yeah, sure. And... something else. But maybe... not.” He
had no idea what he was talking about.
“Well,” Cindy laughed. “Get back to me when you figure that
out. So! Tonight – the Pleiades.”
“My favorite!”
“Really?”
“Sure,” said Scootie. “What’s not to like about seven sisters?”
“Typical male. Okay, let’s see, also a part of the larger
constellation Taurus the Bull. They’re often confused with the Little Dipper.
In Russia, they’re called the Sitting Hen, and the Greenland eskimoes call them
A Pack of Dogs. Woof woof.”
“Arf arf,” said Scootie.
“In Greek mythology, the Pleiades were the daughters of the
Titan Atlas and the goddess Pleione. Five of them have symbolic meanings:
Alcyone, the winter storm; Celaeno, darkness; Electra, amber; Maia, fertility;
and Merope, mortality. Taygeta was a mountain nymph, and poor Sterope doesn’t
seem to have an identity at all.”
“Goddess of stereos?”
“Hush.”
“Sorry.”
She stopped for a moment, then clapped her hands together.
Scootie knew this meant story-time, so he settled on a concrete bench to
listen.
“One day, mother Pleione and the brood were out gadding
about when the huntsman Orion wandered by and fell in love with the whole pack,
including the mother. Consumed with lust, Orion began a pursuit that lasted
five years! Zeus saw what was going on and changed them all into doves, so they
could get away. When even that failed to shake the horny bastard, Zeus gave up
and changed them into stars. Later, Orion himself was set into the sky, where
he continues his pursuit of the Pleiades to this day.”
At her conclusion, Cindy found Scootie peering into the sky
with a quizzical look on his face.
“Only six, right?”
“Yeah,” said Scootie. “What’s up wid dat?”
“Well. In the high-society pressure-cooker that is Mount
Olympus, six of the Pleiades married gods (and you have to wonder what these
schmucks were doing while their wives were being chased by Orion). The seventh,
Merope, who you’ll recall represents mortality, married a mortal, and was so
traumatized by this drop in social status that she now hides her face in shame.
Imagine dealing with a wife like that.”
Scootie broke into a Jewish rant. “Bad enough my fathah has
to hold up the Northern sky. Now this?”
Cindy laughed. “Of course, the truth is that the star
cluster we call the Seven Sisters is more like Seven Hundred, all of them about
400 light years from Earth and contained within a sphere 30 light years across.
And now, Mr. Jones, please step up to the ‘scope.”
Cindy stopped to reposition her target, then Scootie leaned
down, feet spread apart, and brought his eye to the lens.
“Wow! Look at ‘em all. And so blue!”
“That’s ‘cause they’re young – 50 million years. And they’re
so close together, the light reflects on the interstellar dust and makes it
bluer still.”
“Marvelous,” said Scootie. He spotted Merope, just off the
side of the handle. He straightened up and found he could see her without the
telescope, now that he knew where she was.
“‘Many a night, I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow
shade, Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in a silver braid.’”
“Nice,” said Cindy.
“Memorized it in high school. Lord Tennyson, I think.”
Cindy returned to the scope for more adjustments, then waved
him forward.
“Try this out.”
“Okay.” Scootie rubbed his eyes, then leaned back down. “Ye
gods. She’s bright. And bluer than a prom dress.”
“Alcyone. The winter storm. Crook of the dipper handle.
Two-point-nine magnitude. Nine hundred times brighter than the Sun.”
“How do you say that again?”
“Al-SIGH-oh-knee. The way I remember it is, she’s got a
‘sigh’ in her heart.”
Scootie stood back and gave the big star a bare-faced look.
“Al-SIGH-oh-knee. Wrap her up, Cindy. I’ll take her home.”
Juliana came home to a dark house. Before her tennis date,
she spent the afternoon at a work session for Junior League rummage sale,
calling local merchants for donations and piling through items already brought
in. It was good, busy work, but still she felt like she had not killed off
enough hours. Scott was off to Tokyo this time, and she would open the old
Mexican doors to find the answering machine flashing its single red eye. A
loving message, laced with words like “missing,” “honey” and “darling.” But a
message just the same, launched from some hotel room halfway around the globe,
bounced off a satellite into the rude, open air. You couldn’t embrace a phone
message, couldn’t wind your hands through its hair or play your fingers down
its xylophone ribs. It was only digital,
a blizzard of ones and zeroes coating the coastline in electronic frost.
Wedding photos shadowed her from the walls as she drifted
down the dark hallway to her office. She pulled an appointment book form her
desk, found the skeleton line of seven o’clock Thursday and penciled in the
name Scootie Jones. The book resembled a graffiti-covered subway car, pushing
air through the stations with its hours and people and causes. But she never
actually got anywhere. She just rode.
She returned to the living room and switched on the stereo,
flipping through the cable radio stations till she got to 23 for opera. It was
Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, a scratchy recording from the fifties. The Magic Flute.
The Queen of the Night.
Photo by MJV
