(no subject)
Her hands cued the lights, her voice led the orchestra. Ema Tate was a mainstay at the Amherst St. Theater. 25 years ago she supervised the stage renovation, 15 ago she gave three months to re-upholstering the seats. She’d painted herself onto the walls of the theater; she’d sewn herself into the linings of her wardrobe. 5 ft 6 and a southern Italian frame, she was typecast the sister, the friend, or the mother. Always at a quickened pace she flowed from stage hand to costume, a 1979 production of Hamlet, a 1985 retelling of The Magic Flute, forever in character, distantly counting the stage steps to Broadway.
Ema adored the experiences. Hackneyed directors gave way to vacant-eyed starlets. Zealous producers searched phone booths for change. Once or twice she lost herself in His eyes, or His eyes, and forgot to make sure to look where she followed. Ema’s mind formed a tapestry of empty seats and trite performances, a quilt that never could seem to cover her. For years she’d pick up the dropped lines and comfort the understudies, was the last one to leave and the first one to clap. It wasn’t success that she sought but approval, and whether it came from the Theater critics or her doting mother mattered little to her.
She’d taken a lit class around 1982, dropped out midway and embarked on her own screenplay. “An opera for a true operatic” she’d say as she’d fill in the paragraphs with beauty she’d learned from the pen strokes of others. When it was done she stood 6 years older, glowing toward her finished work, cast in the brilliance of a lead she was finally born-to-play.
The theater was in a bind. 30 years of lackluster performances had dried out the flux of credible scripts. Crooked directors had squeezed 10 years of funds from the stage curtains and whatever brilliance once stood had packed up and moved west. Ema cleaned her station and the adjacent ones, peering over substitute shoulders, singing a show tune to block out the slamming doors. When her hands finally plunged into her purse to pull out her magnum opus it was solely to cause a reaction. To break the assumption that age and surprise grew to be mutually exclusive. She wrapped it in surplus linens and left it on the stage steps for anyone to stumble over. She left off her name for fear of artistic reprisal, intending to come forward as its true conceiver if she ever happened to see the title in lights.
A week past before Ema heard the news. The acting director and finance manager had come across a fantastic new script, one that no doubt "had fallen from a stack the director was reviewing 2 days prior." Ema absorbed the shine from her vanity and took to planning the auditions that were to be held later that week. She began assembling her “supporting cast” by calling upon former starlets that had been running the b-movie circuits since their last starring roles. One of these former leading ladies, Elizabeth Soren, happened to be in town.
Elizabeth was cast at Amherst St. as Holly Golightly in a 1992 Washington Art School revision of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She was a young, amber-haired beauty with pristine skin whose figure made Ema’s seam work look runway-worthy. Ema had never spoken to Elizabeth directly, but had once or twice fed her a line from her side stage role as a New York City extra. It was by pure chance Elizabeth heard Ema’s meek voice on her answering machine.
The doors shut promptly at 8pm against the crumbled façade of Amherst St. Theater. The auditions were over; the lights had hummed to a stop. Ema nailed the audition for the starring role. She didn’t ask for her “motivation,” she never bothered to look down at the script. The room bowed to her theatrical mastery of a role so exacting to play. When it was done she huddled with the rest of the hopefuls outside, keeping her secret, enlivened by the fact it would finally be Her turn to be the smile amongst a wash of disappointment.
The list was held by 2 pins loosely pressed by the producer onto the outside door. Ema attempted to hold back from looking at first as she gauged the bruised egos spreading among the crowd. When it grew to be too much she lunged at the list, reading from the bottom up, constructing a visual image of her play.
Ema still stood in front of the list as the snow began hitting the theater without remorse. Her eyes never made it past ¾ of the way up before she froze in place.
Sister # 2 - Ema Tate.
Sister # 1 - Julie Westwood.
Starring Role - Elizabeth Soren.
She stared through blurry vision, she breathed through a lumpy throat. When the crowd had dispersed she took a minute to herself. She looked at the empty marquee, noticing some bulbs that need replacing, looked down the street and saw Elizabeth going into the producer’s apartment. Ema smiled openly and completely while pulling the pins from the door, after all, someone needed to keep the place going.