The Play's the Thing
When Raymond Terrell's debut novel skyrocketed to the top of The New York Times Best Seller List and he sold the movie rights to DreamWorks, he quit his high-pressure job on Madison Avenue and bought a home in Puritan Falls, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. For him, it was a dream come true, but for his wife, Irene, who had aspirations of becoming a Broadway star, it was a different story. After giving the matter serious thought, she decided to follow in the footsteps of countless women and sacrifice her own career goals at the altar of a happy marriage.
"You won't have to give up acting altogether," Raymond assured her, endeavoring to be as supportive of his wife as she was of him. "There must be a local theater group in the area."
"If not," Irene added hopefully, "I might be able to start one. I read that UMass has a campus in Essex Green, just north of Puritan Falls. College kids usually go in for local theater productions."
"That's an excellent idea! I'd be willing to invest money in such a venture," her husband exclaimed, hoping he wasn't going just a bit too far in the support department.
"It would give me something to do until ...."
Her voice trailed off, but there was no need for her to finish her sentence. Raymond knew that his wife's passion for acting was a substitute for the child she had failed to conceive during nine years of marriage. Although fertility experts had assured them both that there was no medical condition that would prevent conception, they had yet to be blessed with a child.
Raymond put his arm around his wife and affectionately kissed her on the forehead.
"Yes," he agreed, "it is best you get this acting bug out of your system now before the kids start coming. When you become a mother, you'll be too busy changing diapers and washing bottles."
* * *
Once he and his wife were settled into their new home, Raymond immediately began working on his second novel. Meanwhile, Irene looked into acting opportunities in the vicinity of Puritan Falls.
"Any luck yet?" her husband asked one Sunday afternoon as they were enjoying brunch at the Sons of Liberty Tavern.
"I haven't found anything this side of Boston," she admitted.
"What about that college in Essex Green? Have you given any thought to applying for a job in their drama department?"
"No. What I'd really like to do is start my own theater group and put on my own productions."
Raymond whistled.
"That's quite an undertaking. Are you sure you have the time to take on all that work?"
"It's not the amount of work or the time needed that bothers me," she admitted sheepishly. "It's the cost."
"How much money are we talking here?"
"I'm not sure. There's an old, abandoned theater on Naumkeag Road that once catered to the tourists who flocked to the resorts that dotted the Naumkeag Hills before World War II. After the U.S. became involved in the war, the resort industry in the entire area declined, and the theater closed. From time to time, there have been a number of halfhearted efforts to reopen it, but none of them ever panned out."
"It seems you did your homework. What condition is the building in?"
"It looks like it's in good shape, from the outside anyway, but I'm not a contractor. I don't know if it's structurally sound or not."
"Well, there's only one way to find out," Raymond said, squeezing her hand in his.
The following day, the author took time from his writing to drive to the Naumkeag Hills with his wife.
"This must have been a beautiful building once," he conceded when he got out of his car and had his first glimpse of the old theater.
Irene bubbled over with enthusiasm.
"Wouldn't it be fun to restore it to its former glory?"
"Let's take a look inside before we make up our minds."
"Isn't that called trespassing?"
"I don't see any signs, do you?"
The two pairs of double doors in the front of the theater were padlocked and the windows boarded up, but surprisingly the back stage door was unlocked and opened easily when Raymond pulled on the handle.
"Kids," he immediately assumed when he saw beer bottles and cigarette butts littering the floor.
His assumption was soon confirmed when he found graffiti scrawled on the walls and discarded drug paraphernalia and condom wrappers beside a ripped couch in one of the old dressing rooms.
As he made his way deeper into the heart of the theater, Raymond turned on the flashlight he had taken out of his glove compartment. Despite the cobwebs, dust and litter, the building itself seemed surprisingly sound.
"Most of the seats—what's left of them—will have to be ripped out and new ones installed, and these curtains are shot, but the stage is solid and there's no evidence that the roof leaks," he concluded after a cursory examination.
"So, what are you saying?" Irene gushed. "Are we going to give it a try?"
"Let me talk to a few people and see if I can stir up some interest in establishing a community theater."
Irene threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.
"You're the most wonderful husband in the world."
"Don't get your hopes up yet," he cautioned. "We still haven't had a contractor look at this place, not to mention the fact that we don't know who the owner is and whether he's willing to sell."
His warning fell on deaf ears, however. Irene was already running through a list of plays in her mind, wondering which one her troupe (as yet nonexistent) should perform first.
* * *
Raymond's years on Madison Avenue had taught him many invaluable lessons. Thanks to the highly competitive nature of advertising, he became a man who knew how to circumnavigate obstacles and get things done quickly. The normally laidback residents of the sleepy Massachusetts community did not know what to make of the former high-powered ad executive when he steamrolled through their town like the Allied Forces storming the beaches at Normandy, trying to elicit support for his wife's theater project.
"A theater?" the mayor asked, wondering what the writer was getting so worked up over. "We've got AMC Loews over at the mall. Why do we need another movie theater?"
"I'm not talking about movies," Raymond explained to the mayor at the regularly scheduled town council meeting. "I'm talking about a theater where people can see plays performed by live actors. I'm talking about an institution of art and culture, not a place where teenagers go to watch horror movies or make out with their dates."
The mayor was not impressed by Raymond's impassioned speech or his proposal. Furthermore, he did not appreciate people moving up from New York and trying to change his town. Change, he knew from experience, usually bore a high price tag, and he was not thinking only about a financial one.
"If it's art and culture you want, young man, why don't you go to Rockport, or better yet, Boston?" one of the councilman suggested. "You've got the Boston Opera House, the Cutler Majestic Theater and the Citi Performing Arts Center, not to mention the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge."
"And don't forget the Boston Pops or the Red Sox at Fenway Park." the mayor added.
"No thanks," Raymond laughed. "I'm from New York, remember? I'm a Yankee fan."
That explains it! the mayor thought but kept the comment to himself.
The writer was, after all, a resident of the community, a taxpayer and a registered voter.
"People shouldn't have to go all the way to Boston to see a play," Raymond persisted. "And if we put an effort into renovating the old theater on Naumkeag Road, they won't have to. They can stay right here in Puritan Falls and watch the best of Neil Simon, Andrew Lloyd Webber or Arthur Miller."
"We'll take your proposal under consideration and get back to you," the mayor declared, hoping that would be the end of the matter.
But the Puritan Falls native had underestimated the tenacity of New Yorkers. When Raymond Terrell received no satisfaction at the local level, he went to the county and then the commonwealth. With a little perseverance, he managed to have the theater registered as a historic building. Once that was accomplished, he and Irene formed the Naumkeag Road Theater Historic Preservation Association, a nonprofit organization for the purpose of restoring and maintaining the theater.
"That was the easy part," the writer told his wife once the necessary paperwork was signed. "I'll let you worry about raising the money to pay for all the repairs."
With the help of the members of the drama club from the University of Massachusetts' Essex Green campus, Irene held a number of highly profitable fundraisers including a tricky tray auction, a pancake breakfast, a car raffle, a bake sale and a rummage sale. These events netted enough money to hire a contractor and pay for a good portion the work. To make up the balance, she appealed directly to the more wealthy residents for contributions.
* * *
The day the contractor was to begin work on the theater Irene received a call from the foreman.
"What is it?" she asked apprehensively. "Please tell me nothing is seriously wrong."
"No. I just phoned to find out what you wanted us to do with all the stuff in the basement."
"What stuff is that?"
Irene had not even realized the theater had a basement.
"Looks like scenery, costumes, props—the usual things theaters accumulate. Did you want to look through it or would you prefer my crew just toss it all into the dumpster?"
"Oh, no. Don't throw it away. I'd like to see what's there."
"Then why don't I have a couple of my men bring the stuff up and put it in the lobby for you?"
"Won't it be in your way?"
"No. My men will be repairing the plumbing first. Since the renovations to the lobby are primarily cosmetic in nature, we'll do those near the end of the project."
Irene enlisted the aid of Pearl Neville, the college's drama club advisor, to go through the crates and trunks that were found in the theater basement.
"What a magnificent dress!" Pearl exclaimed, holding up an antebellum gown made from yards of rich purple satin and trimmed with lavender lace. "It looks like something Scarlett O'Hara would have worn."
Irene, meanwhile, made an exciting discovery of her own.
"Look at this," she called to the professor. "It's a box full of scripts. I'm going to put them in my car and go through them at home tonight."
Despite the length of time the theater had stood vacant, most of the items in the basement were in surprisingly good shape. Only a handful of costumes were moth-eaten, and a few props were broken beyond repair. All in all, with some gentle cleaning, the items could be put to good use once the theater reopened.
When Irene got home later that afternoon, she took a long, hot bath, poured herself a cup of chamomile tea and then curled up on her sofa and began thumbing through the scripts.
"Find anything interesting?" Raymond asked from the doorway.
"Just the typical small theater group repertoire: Shakespeare, O'Neill, Shaw."
"Well, have fun," he laughed and went back to his den and his novel.
Irene was just about to abandon the task when she came across a typed script near the bottom of the pile that bore a name unfamiliar to the former theater major and aspiring actress.
"The Second Daughter by Lucille Clay," she read, her interest piqued.
The setting was Boston in the early 1920s, and the cast featured a female in the lead role. Intrigued, Irene swallowed the last of her tea and started reading. Two hours later, when Raymond came out of his sanctuary to inquire about dinner, his wife was still engrossed in the script.
"This is exceptionally good!" she exclaimed. "In fact, it's one of the best plays I've ever read. I can't imagine why I've never heard of it or the playwright before. It must be because it was written by a woman about a strong-willed, intelligent and free-spirited female having to cope in a male-dominated society."
It always amused Raymond when his wife launched into her Susan B. Anthony diatribe.
"I suppose that means this dominating male has to get his own dinner," he remarked good-naturedly.
"Au contraire, my dear husband, protector and breadwinner. That is your humble and subservient wife's duty," she replied facetiously and then took out her cell phone and called the Copperwell Pizza Hut.
By the time the delivery boy's rusted Subaru pulled into their driveway, Irene had completed the first reading of The Second Daughter.
"I'm going to do it!" she announced triumphantly.
"Do what?" Raymond asked as he put two slices of pepperoni pizza on his plate.
"I'm going to produce Lucille Clay's play and perform the lead role."
* * *
While the contractor was completing the last of the renovations to the building, Irene cast the play, after holding auditions at the college. Pearl Neville agreed to direct, and students from both the college and local high school pitched in by sewing costumes and painting sets. By the time the construction work was done, the actors had learned their lines and were ready to hold dress rehearsals.
From the first day the group moved into the old theater, a series of mishaps arose. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt, but the bizarre accidents caused several of the college students to speculate on whether the building might be haunted.
"A number of theaters are reported to have ghosts," one of the English majors declared. "Ford's Theater in Washington, D.C.; the State Theater in Easton, Pennsylvania; the Winter Garden ...."
"Who could be haunting this place?" Irene asked.
"I don't know, but why don't we try to find out. My grandmother worked for the Gazette for over forty years. If someone died here, she would most likely know about it."
The following afternoon Irene and the college girl went to visit Opal Garnet, a former reporter for The Puritan Falls Gazette.
"I'm glad to meet you, Mrs. Terrell," the retired journalist greeted her guest. "I was delighted to hear that you opened the old theater."
"Thank you. That's why your granddaughter and I wanted to talk to you," Irene admitted. "We've been experiencing some odd mishaps during rehearsals, and a few of us were wondering ...."
She paused, fearful that Opal would think she was over-imaginative at best—at worst, completely insane.
"We think the place is haunted," the young student jumped in impatiently. "I told Irene that if anyone knew of any murders or mysterious deaths that occurred at the theater it would be you."
"I'm not aware of anything of that nature ever happening near the vicinity of the theater, but I'll be happy to check the Gazette's archives," the former reporter offered. "This may be a small town, but we have an extensive database of articles dating back to the first issue—thanks mainly to the hard work of our summer interns from the college."
As Mrs. Garnet booted up her Dell laptop, her granddaughter described some of the inexplicable events they had recently experienced, including mysterious cold spots, ominous shadows, inexplicable power outages and a window that was in the habit of suddenly slamming shut of its own accord.
"So you can understand why we think the place is haunted," the girl concluded.
"I admit that does sound strange," her grandmother concurred and then went to the Gazette's website and logged on to a database available only to the paper's current and former employees.
"Here we are," she announced after searching for all available information on the theater. "There are thirty-four articles dating from 1903 through 1942. I'll print them out."
The three women quickly read through the printouts and learned with disappointment that there had never been a suicide, a murder or even a serious accident either inside the theater or on the grounds, nor was there ever a word in print about the possibility of the building being haunted.
* * *
As opening night approached, the members of the young, inexperienced cast suffered from various degrees of stage fright. Ironically, it was Irene, the only one of the troupe who ever appeared on stage professionally—albeit in a minor supporting role in an off-Broadway flop—who fared the worst.
"Maybe you should see a doctor," her husband suggested when he noticed she looked decidedly thinner.
"I'll be fine after the play opens," she insisted. "Once I can keep my meals down, I'll get back to my normal weight."
Raymond was not the only person concerned about Irene's health.
"Are you sure this is just a case of stage fright?" Pearl asked. "One of the kids told me you passed out this morning. Maybe you should listen to your husband and see a doctor."
"If I'm still not feeling well after opening night, I'll go and have a complete physical. I promise."
The final rehearsal was held the day before the theater was to open. Thankfully, Irene managed to get through her performance without vomiting.
"All right, everyone," Pearl shouted from the last row of seats. "We're as ready as we'll ever be. Go home and get a good night's sleep, and I'll see you all back here at six tomorrow evening."
While Irene was walking off the stage, she noticed Opal Garnet waiting in the wings.
"Do you have a minute to talk?" the retired reporter asked.
"Yes. I'm done for the day."
Opal followed the young actress back to her dressing room.
"Have there been any more disturbing occurrences here?" she asked.
"No, just the usual things: scripts being misplaced and actors forgetting their lines. Why?"
"I was intrigued by my granddaughter's ghost theory, so I did some additional research."
"And what did you discover about the theater?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. It's not the theater that concerns me. To quote Hamlet, 'The play's the thing.' Do you know anything about Lucille Clay, the woman who wrote it?"
"No," Irene confessed. "My husband's agent checked to see if the play was ever copyrighted, and it wasn't. He did make an attempt to locate the playwright's heirs, but he was unsuccessful. I naturally assumed Ms. Clay was dead, given that the play was written in 1926."
"You're right; she is dead, and she didn't die recently. Lucille Clay died in 1927, at the age of twenty-nine."
Irene shivered.
"That's how old I am."
"The Second Daughter was Lucille's first—and only—play. It was to be performed in a little theater in Boston, and she was going to play the lead role. Unfortunately, she was struck by a streetcar and killed on the way to the theater on opening night. Rather than recast her role, the producers closed the show before the first performance. There were several subsequent attempts to bring the play to the stage, but none of them was successful. Eventually, no one would touch it."
"Why not?"
"It seems that a number of Bostonians of the day believed Miss Clay's play was cursed—just like the old rumors of Macbeth being a cursed play, except on a much smaller scale."
"And you think Lucille Clay's ghost is haunting the theater, trying to prevent us from performing her play?"
"It's a possibility. If there is a ghost here, she's the most likely candidate."
* * *
Pearl Neville looked at her watch. It was 6:30. The college students had arrived on time and were either getting into their costumes or having their makeup applied, but there was no sign of the leading lady. The director took her cell phone out of her purse and was about to call the Terrell home, when Irene finally showed up.
"You look terrible!" Pearl exclaimed. "Are you feeling okay?"
"No, but I'll get through the performance. You know the old saying: the show must go on."
"Don't be a martyr. This is Puritan Falls, not New York. People will understand if you have to postpone the opening because of illness."
"I'm not going to let an upset stomach spoil the evening for everyone. Those kids worked hard and have been looking forward to this night."
"But ...."
Irene was adamant.
"I'm going on!" she announced firmly as she made her way toward her dressing room.
Once the makeup artist and hair stylist worked their magic, the wardrobe mistress brought in Irene's costume for the first act.
"Five minutes, everyone," the volunteer stage manager shouted.
The college students who were to open the first act raced to their positions and waited for the curtain to rise. Irene, who would not make her entrance until the second scene, took a deep breath and a few sips of water.
This is it, she thought as she peered into her dressing room mirror to make sure her hair was in place.
Then she stood and turned toward the door. Suddenly, the room seemed to spin around her.
"Pearl," she called, her voice hardly more than a whisper, and then she fainted on the dressing room floor.
* * *
Raymond Terrell sat in the front row center, next to Pearl Neville, anticipating his wife's appearance on stage. After the cue was spoken, there was a delay. The young actors nervously glanced at each other when the leading lady missed her entrance. Just as the supporting actor was about to repeat his line, however, the main character appeared on stage. It was not, however, Irene Terrell in the high-necked blouse and the long, cinched-waist skirt.
Raymond turned toward the director and said, "I didn't know my wife's stand-in was going to be in tonight's performance."
Pearl's knees began to shake.
"I've never seen that young woman before," she replied. "She's not one of our theater group!"
* * *
When the play came to an end and the curtain fell, the audience jumped to its feet in a rousing standing ovation, and the cast members assembled on stage to take their bows—all except the leading lady. The mysterious young woman who had filled in for the incapacitated star was nowhere to be found once the curtain came down.
None of the cast members voiced the opinion that it had to have been the ghost of Lucille Clay, finally enjoying her long-awaited opening night. Strangely enough, those associated with the production preferred to remain silent and file the incident away in their subconscious minds in a folder marked BIZARRE, INEXPLICABLE EVENTS.
Apparently, the hand of fate was working overtime that night. One of the viewers in the audience was the brother of a successful Broadway producer, who, when the curtain went down, immediately took out his cell phone.
"You've got to come up here and see this play," he notified his sibling. "It's good enough to win a Tony in my opinion."
The producer agreed once he had the chance to see The Second Daughter for himself. Afterward, he announced his intention of presenting the play to New York audiences with a cast of experienced actors. Although he had wanted a recognized name to star in his production, he did offer a supporting role to the woman who had brought Lucille Clay's script to life after it had been discarded for close to a century.
Ironically, when Irene Terrell was finally given the opportunity to act on Broadway, she turned down the offer. Taking her husband's advice and seeing a doctor, she learned that her fainting spells and nausea were not the result of stage fright but were brought on by pregnancy. After finishing the twelve-week run of The Second Daughter, she turned over responsibility for the Naumkeag Road Theater to the college drama department and happily retired from the stage to await the birth of her first child.
As was the case with Lucille Clay, Irene's dream had finally come true.
It looks like Salem is ready for his close-up, Mr. DeMille.
