Read Online The World is a Stage by Tamara Morgan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tamara Morgan
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asked. “I saw some couches in the back that look pretty comfortable.”
Oh, for crying out loud. “It’s a line, Boy Genius. Your cue.”
“Is it?” He flipped through the pages, taking his time scrutinizing each line. “Oh, yeah. There she is.” He cleared his throat loudly and took a bow. A debacle. That was what he was turning this into. Not so much rubbing salt onto the wound as shoving the whole salt lick in there.
“I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—” He read, clearly and with a surprising attention to the metrical beat.
For a few moments, the entire room was suspended on a breath that swelled achingly inside Rachel’s lungs. She felt herself swaying to the words, entranced by the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d fallen asleep to that sound—to tape recordings of Indira’s past shows. It had been a poor substitute for a bedtime story, but it was all she’d ever had.
And that was when it became clear: her mother and Michael might actually pull this off. They continued through the lines, Indira faltering over only a few of the trickiest passages, Michael actually nailing most of them.
But something—the heat of the stage, the intensity of the moment, or the weariness of a body that had been abused with alcohol for too many years—caused her mother to start sweating heavily, the words no longer light on her lips.
She couldn’t do it.
At that moment, when Rachel felt the last of her hope ebb away, Michael lost his place on the page. His pronunciation took a dramatic turn for the worse, to the point where every other word out of his mouth somehow rhymed with “penis”.
By the time he started reading Cleopatra’s lines, “Oh, never was there a queen so mightily betray’d,” the cast was in an uproar. He paused, as if just realizing his folly, and began mincing about the stage—as much as a man his size could mince, tiptoes and all.
If she hadn’t been so mortified, Rachel might have been inclined to crack a smile. There was something about a dodderdly behemoth of a man so light on his feet that was irresistible.
But resist it she did. While Michael struck up an impromptu waltz with Doris, the owlish technical director, Rachel got her arm around her mother and moved her toward the emergency exit.
The fresh air and bright lights of the noonday sun caused both of them to blink.
“That went well, didn’t it?” her mother asked, letting out a contented sigh. “It’s been ages since I’ve auditioned for anything. You know, I almost miss those years of paying my dues. What fun we used to have—and how hard we had to work for every single role. Not like you girls. Sometimes I’m not sure you realize how lucky you are to be able to capitalize on my name.”
And there it was, the reason Rachel had moved away so many years ago, why it was so painful to continue being home now. Her mother existed in some alternate reality where she was the magic wand that made everything easy, when the truth was she and Molly couldn’t get far enough away from her toxic grasp.
Rachel had run to the traveling stage. Molly had run to any man who would take her.
And now they were both paying the price.
As Rachel led her mother away from the theater, she realized there was another cost to pay too. She owed Michael O’Leary, Mule Extraordinaire and Comedic Distraction Number One, her gratitude.
She sighed and got her mother buckled into the back seat of her sensible and understated Honda Accord. She would have rather owed him anything else. Money. A pound of flesh. Her spleen.
Just not gratitude.
Chapter Six
Of a Conquest
When Rachel returned to the theater, Michael took one look at her face and got to work. Her expression bounced between a heavy-browed, murderous gleam and the wobbly smile women always got when they were trying hard not to cry.
He wasn’t sure which one was worse.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” he called, drawing Rachel’s attention before she could run over
Oh, for crying out loud. “It’s a line, Boy Genius. Your cue.”
“Is it?” He flipped through the pages, taking his time scrutinizing each line. “Oh, yeah. There she is.” He cleared his throat loudly and took a bow. A debacle. That was what he was turning this into. Not so much rubbing salt onto the wound as shoving the whole salt lick in there.
“I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—” He read, clearly and with a surprising attention to the metrical beat.
For a few moments, the entire room was suspended on a breath that swelled achingly inside Rachel’s lungs. She felt herself swaying to the words, entranced by the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d fallen asleep to that sound—to tape recordings of Indira’s past shows. It had been a poor substitute for a bedtime story, but it was all she’d ever had.
And that was when it became clear: her mother and Michael might actually pull this off. They continued through the lines, Indira faltering over only a few of the trickiest passages, Michael actually nailing most of them.
But something—the heat of the stage, the intensity of the moment, or the weariness of a body that had been abused with alcohol for too many years—caused her mother to start sweating heavily, the words no longer light on her lips.
She couldn’t do it.
At that moment, when Rachel felt the last of her hope ebb away, Michael lost his place on the page. His pronunciation took a dramatic turn for the worse, to the point where every other word out of his mouth somehow rhymed with “penis”.
By the time he started reading Cleopatra’s lines, “Oh, never was there a queen so mightily betray’d,” the cast was in an uproar. He paused, as if just realizing his folly, and began mincing about the stage—as much as a man his size could mince, tiptoes and all.
If she hadn’t been so mortified, Rachel might have been inclined to crack a smile. There was something about a dodderdly behemoth of a man so light on his feet that was irresistible.
But resist it she did. While Michael struck up an impromptu waltz with Doris, the owlish technical director, Rachel got her arm around her mother and moved her toward the emergency exit.
The fresh air and bright lights of the noonday sun caused both of them to blink.
“That went well, didn’t it?” her mother asked, letting out a contented sigh. “It’s been ages since I’ve auditioned for anything. You know, I almost miss those years of paying my dues. What fun we used to have—and how hard we had to work for every single role. Not like you girls. Sometimes I’m not sure you realize how lucky you are to be able to capitalize on my name.”
And there it was, the reason Rachel had moved away so many years ago, why it was so painful to continue being home now. Her mother existed in some alternate reality where she was the magic wand that made everything easy, when the truth was she and Molly couldn’t get far enough away from her toxic grasp.
Rachel had run to the traveling stage. Molly had run to any man who would take her.
And now they were both paying the price.
As Rachel led her mother away from the theater, she realized there was another cost to pay too. She owed Michael O’Leary, Mule Extraordinaire and Comedic Distraction Number One, her gratitude.
She sighed and got her mother buckled into the back seat of her sensible and understated Honda Accord. She would have rather owed him anything else. Money. A pound of flesh. Her spleen.
Just not gratitude.
Chapter Six
Of a Conquest
When Rachel returned to the theater, Michael took one look at her face and got to work. Her expression bounced between a heavy-browed, murderous gleam and the wobbly smile women always got when they were trying hard not to cry.
He wasn’t sure which one was worse.
“Oh, good. You’re back,” he called, drawing Rachel’s attention before she could run over
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