Six

“No!” shouted Alison, sternly, and much louder than she had expected. “I have already told you no. And stop looking at me like that! Every time we come to this juncture, you give me that look. It was no before and it’s still no. Give it up, already.”

Alison’s one pair of yoga pants offered no reply. She was preparing for a run, to get out some nervous energy. It was getting colder. October offered no solace to Providence. She would have to be cold: her prejudice against this garment was too strong. “It’s not you, it’s me.” She settled on a pair of burgundy shorts with an understated university seal and small lettering that read “Women’s Crew.” Alison did not know this, but the Brown University Women’s Crew Team exclusively wore yoga pants. This mystery would be kept from her for her entire tenure at Brown, for there are some things that each person simply must not know.

She had about an hour to kill before Peters posted the Hamlet cast list on the interior double-doors of the Lyman Hall Great Room. Running for an hour was, of course, a hard no– but she could drag it out. Make it a whole production. A nice armament scene. The camera could zoom in on her electric blue Asics as she pulled closed the laces. One of those showers where you lean an arm against the opposing wall and just stand there, hunched over like a maniac. Even if it were January, this would be time for a run. Unable to cast Hamlet herself, Alison had no control over the outcome. No control meant severe discomfort, and typically some externalization. Running was all hers. She chose the pace, she chose the route. She could even dishonor gods by making no offering to the temple of Lululemon.

The cold hit her like a sack of Siberian potatoes, and she immediately went to her phone to arrange some intrinsic motivation with Silversun Pickups. There was no internal struggle on this one. She went straight for the hard stuff: Bloody Mary. The effervescent guitars and pulsing breakbeat sent a jolt of electricity through Alison, and she settled into a long gait. The sweet, harmonic drones lulled her into a hypnotic state as she flew down Court towards the main drag. The rising chorus exploded into a fireball, starting from the base of her spine, delivering warm fireflies all the way to her fingertips.

If we can stay long enough
We can play with Bloody Mary
She’ll chase us through the dark
Activate our nerve endings

The opening lyric to the next track, Busy Bees, always provoked a wry laugh from Alison. Today, it snapped her out of a dreary trance. Wait. Did I just listen to that whole album twice? A pool of sweat at the base of her neck confirmed her suspicion. A quick u-turn, and she was back on Meeting Street to prepare for her day and the inevitable divining of her fate. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar figure tucking itself out of sight behind the marble facade of the Emery Building. She was overtaken by a strong sense of déjà vu as she looped around West House and headed home. She shook it off for the moment, as more pressing matters awaited, but placed a tiny fold in the corner of the page in her memory where long, brown coats resided.

She had had the good sense to turn her ringer off, and a quick glance at the screen revealed two new voicemails and three texts. She didn’t need to look to be certain that the list was up, and dear Paige had comments. She in fact made a point of not looking. She’d like to see the list in person, thanks very much. Ignoring the blinking green light of the world, Alison took her time getting to that godforsaken cast list. She imagined Paige trying to read it out to her as she drowned out all sound with the blow dryer. She even took her breakfast seated at the dining room table for the first time this year, foregoing her typical walk-and-eat methodology.

But the time did finally arrive when Alison would burst dramatically into the Great Hall and see the extent of the damage. As soon as she was close enough to read the names, she closed her eyes instinctively, like she was staring down a barreling semi truck and bracing for impact. Maybe she could just stop time right now. Or slow it to a crawl. Live an entire lifetime in her mind’s eye before facing what reality lay behind the protective curtain of her eyelids. She could be a modest cabbage farmer. Take a simple husband named Jeremy Wallace. Have two sons. Paul and Davey. Oh, Davey. Always getting into the peanut butter jar. You’ll spoil your supper, Davey!

“How ‘bout that!” sang a honey baritone behind her. Dang. She thought she’d at least get to see her first grandchild before shuffling off her mortal coil. Ah, well. There’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life.

“How ‘bout that,” she repeated, opening her eyes and trying to play catch-up on what that was and what she might make of it. She placed the voice before her eyes could focus on the list in front of her. It was Casey Harrington.

Casey was the poster-boy for every manifestation of privilege that New England society had laid out on its showroom floor. The first son of a powerful shipping mogul with ties to James Fisk himself, Casey attended Brown on a sailing scholarship. Notwithstanding the rather essential intelligence that none of his contemporaries in the theatre department had ever seen him so much as lower a jib, he integrated the seafaring motif deeply into his persona. He wore slacks, and possessed more garments featuring anchors than a Delta Gamma sister– though, admittedly, his were more subtle. He even had a blue jacket with brass buttons. If he were wearing it today, Alison would not have been able to resist the urge to rip off a handful of brass buttons and force-feed them to him. It should also be mentioned that in addition to his wealth and easy charm, Casey Harrington was classically handsome. Square-jawed and dusted with a sweeping, golden mantle, he could wear a snowsuit and still look like a shirtless Abercrombie model.

Alison’s eyes came into focus and immediately noticed his name at the top of the list, adjacent to the name Hamlet. The Balkan potato sack returned, this time as an anchor tied in a perfect clove hitch to the mainsail of her sinking heart. She stood in silence, a clock ticking in the back of her head to remind her of her basic social obligations. Soon, she’d have to congratulate this thieving magpie who had just made off with her prize-winning pig. That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, and put it in his pocket. A king of shreds and patches! But now, for the life of her, Alison couldn’t even find her own name.

Another run from top to bottom revealed that Paige Hall would be playing the role of Horatio. Good for her! Now where the blazes is Alison Ashe? An eternity later, or after at least enough time to see young Davey drive off to his first prom, she found it. It was at the very bottom of the page. “Understudy for Ophelia: Alison Ashe.” And then, in pencil, “See me.” Her brain rattled off a thousand voracious curses, but her mouth could only produce a single “Fff,” which Casey mistook for exhaling anyway.

“Looks like we’ll be spending some time together,” he said, the essence of middle-school-boy bleeding out of him like a can of Axe body spray with a severed cap. Alison was aware that there was a wellspring of theatre majors who would relish the opportunity to practice kissing Casey Harrington. To Alison, the prospect offered only sea-sickness. Maybe if she could actually play Ophelia, this shipwreck would be salvageable. But as a just-in-case Ophelia, the Casey factor only added insult to injury.

Again, Alison came to the realization that it was her turn to talk. She was working on a nautical pun warning him not to do anything that would provoke her to kick him in the dinghy, but all that came out was “Uh huh.” To send the point home, she followed up with a long silence, somewhere in the middle of which she realized her jaw had been wide open for enough time to co-sign Davey’s first mortgage.

“Good talk,” he said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder and escaping stage left.

“Now I am alone,” she said quietly to the cast list when Casey had cleared the starboard end of the hall. “O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I.”

***

Alison didn’t like to hold onto melancholy for very long. She much preferred the proactive approach of pounding on doors and demanding answers. To her chagrin, Peters’s door was already wide open when she finished her grimacing death march and approached his office. She briefly considered slamming it shut so she could blast it open again with a battering ram, but lacked both the proper inclination and equipment. The small office was flooded with well-loved books, keepsakes, and posters from old horror films. Two chairs faced his modest teak desk. By the time Alison had barged in and plopped luxuriously into the first, she noticed that the far chair was occupied as well. She kicked both feet onto the professor’s desk before looking over to find Annie Watts, whom she recalled would be playing the real Ophelia.

“Two Ophelias diverged in a yellow wood,” Alison exclaimed as she settled in.

“Alison, welcome,” replied Peters.

Annie offered a little wave. “Hey, Aly! I was just asking Professor Peters about the production design.”

“And I was just telling her that we’ll have to negotiate that with the Technical Theatre majors. They’re the ones who really get to see their visions through. I’m just the old fussbudget who says when to stop and go.”

“Old fussbudget?” Annie interjected, incredulous.

“Now, now, Annie,” Alison chimed. “We mustn’t placate him. He wants you to tell him that thirty-nine isn’t old. Resist the low-hanging fruit. Peters, you’re as old as you feel. If you feel like an old fussbudget, then you be the best old fussbudget you can be!”

“Okay, dear,” returned Annie. “Can I still give him shade for using the word fussbudget?”

“You can. He may not even catch your shade, though. The man’s a grade-A fussbudget, after all.”

Peters threw up his arms in defeat. “These words like daggers enter into mine ears.”

Annie stood and started gathering her coat and backpack, a smile still lingering from Alison’s infectious charm. “Think I’ll be off, then. Thanks for the talk, prof.”

Alison scrunched her legs into her chest to give clearance for Annie’s exit. Still in egg-form, she gave Annie a little kick. “Do me a favor and don’t get the plague. I don’t wanna have Cap’n Crunch trying to plunder my treasures in front of a live audience.”

“Ew!” she replied. “Girl, get thee to a nunnery!”

When Annie was long gone, Alison snapped into a serious expression, folded her fingers, and leaned forward menacingly. “Okay, bud. Spill.”

Peters shifted. “We both know you’re a fine actor, Alison.”

“Well, I’m no Annie Watts, but–”

“Apples and oranges, kid. Not even relevant to your paradigm. But, I get it. In this business, we’re always comparing ourselves to our contemporaries.”

Alison gave this some thought. “Yeah, it’s not healthy. We’re like moths to a self-loathing flame.”

“Quite,” noted Peters, regaining his train of thought. “Alison, I believe you have untapped potential that transcends stagecraft.”

Alison nodded, growing tired of the vague preamble. “What is it?”

“I want you to take on the role of Fight Director for Hamlet.”

“Hm,” she mused. “Okay, yeah, I get that I have a proclivity for stage combat.”

“Alison, it’s more than that. You’re a prodigy.”

Alison felt awkward accepting compliments, especially from credible sources. She tucked a sneaker under a spare leg and considered. “But, I won’t get practicum credit.”

“Well, not for the Repertory Program–” countered Peters.

“You want me to change majors?” Alison exclaimed, raising her voice in shock.

Professor Peters removed a file from his desk drawer and opened it. It was Alison’s transcript. She had never actually seen it in person. Courses on the left, a web of numbered cells on the right, filled exclusively with fours. Alison wouldn’t risk a B in college. It felt like a wasted investment. Besides, she was fully aware that someday she’d be on the hook to support her mother. This visual representation of her excellence thus far was heartening.

“You’ve actually taken a fair share of the requisite Theatre Tech classes. I know you were planning on a low-impact senior year. But if you take a full course load, you should still be able to graduate on schedule.”

Alison was puzzled. “It seems wasteful. I mean– It’s still a BFA in Theatre Arts, just a different specialization. Why would I do all that extra work?”

“You’re already registered as a Combatant with the Society of American Fight Directors. If you complete this practicum, and pass the SAFD Fight Director Test, I can offer you a fellowship in our MFA program.”

“You can what?”

“I can offer you an MFA fellowship in Technical Theatre, with a specialization in Fight Directing. That means we pay you to continue your studies here. And you’ll teach Stage Combat One. Dr. Foster is running out of steam.”

Alison suddenly felt the room’s gravity triple. “That’s a three-year commitment! I was just getting used to the idea of graduating. This is– this is a lot to take in.”

“I understand,” said Peters. “Give it some thought. I can’t re-cast Hamlet, but you’ve paid your dues. If you want to stay in-company, you’ll probably get a lead next season. But keep in mind, the industry isn’t kind to actors. Even the good ones. An MFA in Theatre Tech from Brown is a skeleton key to Broadway, if you don’t mind being out of the spotlight. You pass the test for Fight Master, and you’ll be a heck of a commodity.”

“Okay, okay,” she volleyed, overwhelmed. “This is too much to process right now. Let me get back to you– next week?”

“Take your time, Alison.”

“Okay,” she replied, compressing her coat into a little ball in her arms. “I’ll let you know when I make a decision– you fussbudget.”

***

All three texts and one of the voicemails were from Paige, who was ready to tear down Lyman Hall brick by brick to protest the travesty of casting Aly as an understudy. The other voicemail was from her mother. Though they were quite close, Alison’s mom gave her a lot of space, especially in college. She only texted sporadically, and Alison couldn’t recall a single phone call they had shared while classes were in session. Standing in the lower stairwell, she immediately pulled up the message.

“Hey, Aly. It’s mom. Just checking in. How are you? Did you try out for Hamlet? You’d make such a beautiful Ophelia. Anyway, I miss you. Oh, my– um, Humana isn’t covering my brand of insulin anymore, and I’m allergic to one of the ingredients in the one they do cover. So, I’m going to see if I can get more hours at work. If not, I think I can get by. Just– just letting you know I won’t be as available. Anyway, if you want to come down one weekend, I’d love to have lunch with you. Love you, sweetie. Bye.”

Irene Ashe was a pharmacy tech at her neighborhood CVS. Having spent her whole life managing her own life-threatening illness, her overwhelming optimism blinded her to the irony of spending long hours handling and processing this life-saving drug for others, when its availability to herself was under threat. She was also fairly obstinate when it came to accepting help, especially from her daughter. Alison would have to find a way to covertly transfer some extra funds to her mother, and that also probably meant a few more hours a month slinging artisanal gin to mustachioed man-children.

The gravity-well of the day’s events sent her into a macabre waltz as she struggled to walk home against its crippling weight. She dragged her feet uneasily past the dreary, leafless cottonwoods of West Court, entranced by the soothing haze of a thick, rolling fog.

Only then, when her eyelids were in deep, sullen descent, and the halcyon mists of sleep had begun washing over her weary frame, did she catch a second glimpse of a long, brown coat.