Chapter 53: The Show Must Go On
Those in show business are a curious breed, and it is one of the oldest and truest traditions of the stage that—regardless of whatever else might be happening—the show takes precedence.
As Floyd had observed, bad news seemed to travel fast, so even as the good news about the interviews with Ms. Starr was permeating back-stage, a wave of dismayed and furtive whispering was sweeping through the tightly-knit band of performers. At least two members—well, three, counting Robin—were unaware of the news, and one member wished that he wasn’t. Janice and Clifford did not know themselves to be the object of discussion and would have been horrified to know it, and Floyd did his best to project a veneer of hip dignity that made the chorus girls to a member let out a wail of compassion once he had passed.
“I don’t believe it,” Gloria Jean insisted, hands on hips and brow furrowed in consternation, but Rizzo, who had heard it from Gonzo, had only seconded the evidence of her own eyes. Still, she thrust her jaw out stubbornly and did not want to believe.
What Kermit and Piggy knew or believed was a little less clear. By unspoken agreement, there had been a buffering hedge erected around the The Frogs since the trouble had begun a few months ago, and since Piggy usually had her own dressing room she was often excluded—not quite intentionally—from the usual parlay of information that occurs when lots of bodies are in close contact backstage. With the show looming, and with Floyd’s dignity at stake, the rush of gossip slowed to a trickle once Kermit and his missus had arrived backstage. Several things might have happened differently, and several miserable hours might have been spared more than one member of the cast if the flow of information had gone unabated. In one way, at least, Scribbler had been far more effective than he knew, sowing the seeds of secrecy and worry among the anxious cast.
Another reason for nervousness, if not anxiousness, was the presence of guests backstage. Guests might be too strong a word in the case of Foo Foo, who was greeted politely but then quickly ascended (or descended) into whatever relationship plateau had existed previously. Mostly it was friendly, but Foo Foo made a point to trade insults as usual with Floyd while Rowlf stared on horror. To Rowlf’s astonishment and relief, Floyd rose to the occasion admirably—the interchange actually seemed to put a little more pep in his step. Rowlf realized belatedly that any overt show of niceness or sympathy from his old sparring buddy would have hurt Floyd’s pride, and he patted Foo Foo fondly on the back of her curly head to show his approval.
Dr. Honeydew’s friend had showed up as well, and Shantilla had dressed for the occasion. Her little black dress (emphasis on little) set off the coffee-with-cream hue of her skin to nice affect. Bunsen Honeydew beamed up at her while he gave her the backstage tour, not troubled at all by the fact that her three-inch heels and impressive mounds of upswept curls made her tower above him. She oohed and ahhed with enthusiasm over the sets, presented a well-tended but un-manicured hand to everyone she was introduced to and, when the tour was over, scrunched with good humor into the little sound booth so Bunsen could show her how and where he’d be working backstage. Although crowded, the mood in the sound booth seemed to expand under Shantilla’s presence.
Thoreau had been a bubbling source of information about the Kermit and Piggy interview and had, as a result, missed much of the newer gossip in the flurry of costume emergencies that seemed to inevitably precede any stage show. Later, it would be hard to say if he was more aghast at the news received, or at being on the tail end of receiving it. By the time that happened however, there were bigger issues to deal with.
But the show was looming, and everyone began to clothe themselves in professionalism and glitz. It was time to put on a good show.
Sara dodged a piece of moving scenery and held the little cell phone closer to her ear. “I’m fine, Mom. Yes, I’m getting plenty of, um—look, how’s Dad?”
There was some animated talking on the other end of the phone. Sara twirled her hair and nodded even though her mother couldn’t see her.
“Yes, the show is very exciting,” she said. “The new number is so cool. I’m one of the three featured dancers and—um, I mean, er, the featured dancers are so, um—what? Oh, well, Miss Piggy is one of them and, uh, Janice and, um, the costumes are really great. Miss Piggy’s friend Mr. Thoreau came down from New York and…what? The third, um, dancer?” More hair twirling v and Sara looked around desperately for some inspiration. “Um, a new girl,” she said vaguely. Beaker trotted by with a potted plant. “Um, Flora—Flora Somethingorother I-think-it’s-a-foreign-name-look, Mom! I wanted to tell you that I'm okay and Scooter and I are having a nice time. But I miss you guys! Thank you for letting me come!”
More animated talking from the phone. Sara tried to concentrate but Scooter came by shouting instructions.
“Oh! Scooter’s calling everybody so I have to get onto the stage to—to, um, to help him round everybody else up. Yeah, that’s—that’s, yes, I love you too, Mom! Love to Dad, okay? Look, I need to go. Bye! Love you!”
Sara closed the little phone and stared at it for a moment. Her brow wrinkled in consternation and she stood lost in her own thoughts for a moment. Scooter was passing by again, but this time he snagged her around the waist and pulled her after him.
“Did you tell them?” he asked sternly.
Sara took a deep breath. “Um….” she began.
Scooter laughed, and his voice was wry. “That’s what I thought.”
There might not have been an over-abundance of happy couples in the Palace theater that evening, but there was a least one ecstatic trio. They had all but stampeded the theater when the doors had first opened (despite there being assigned seating only) and now sat happily ensconced in their seats talking in fervent whispers and waiting for the show to start.
“Look! Look!” the young man cried. “They fixed the program!”
“What do you mean?” asked his companion. There was an accent, elusive at times, that announced “O! Canada” as the current residence.
“Last time, they didn’t have the new song—the one with Pepe as—“ He broke off suddenly and stopped, looking beyond the young woman next to him to the woman on her left. “Um…” he said.
“What? The one with Pepe as what?”
But the other young lady was shaking her head vigorously. “Don’t!” she agreed. “You’ll spoil the surprise.”
“What surprise?” demanded their seatmate, but two sets of lips snapped shut primly.
“You’ll see,” said the young man.
“You’ll love,” said the young woman.
Their friend in the middle let out a sigh. “Oh, honestly,” she said, and sat back to wait..
The ebony cane scanned the ground almost automatically as the young man approached the ticket counter. He was impeccably dressed in evening clothes, his French cuffs glittering with cufflinks in the shape of bats. Each intricately carved bat had two glittering ruby eyes, and as the girl behind the counter watched, one long-fingered hand slipped beneath the opposite cuff and confirmed the time. The young man smiled in what might have been anticipation, and closed the distance to the counter, stopping just shy of the polished wood desk with the help of the questing walking stick. The cane set off the formal attire, but was itself notable, with a grip in the shape of a bat. The bat was amazingly lifelike, and seemed carved to fit perfectly into his hand, giving it the look of a small but watchful pet under the fond hand of its master.
The man smiled, revealing a row of neat white teeth against his darker skin. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. Nimble fingers exposed his identification, and he flashed it at the young woman behind the counter.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. A Miss Transylvania—Autumn Transylvania.”
“Oh yes!” the young woman said immediately. “We’ve been expecting you, Sir.”
Ed sighed with relief and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He had been worried that something would come up, as it so often did, and prevent Autumn from making this much-anticipated assignation. But the clerk’s next words made his heart plummet in his chest.
“Ms. Transylvania left your ticket here for you, and said to tell you that she’ll join you as soon as she’s able.” Her voice was sympathetic as she saw the disappointment that the gentleman’s polite countenance couldn’t quite hide. She held up his ticket and watch with some surprise as his hands met hers expertly in the air, closing over the little ticket easily. “Do you need any, um, help finding your seat?” she asked politely.
Ed shook his head. “No thank you,” he said, flashing a smile. “I’ll yell if I get lost.”
They both laughed a little, then Ed turned toward the door and made his way toward the auditorium. He tried to quell his worry and make light of his disappointment, wondering if the demands of Autumn’s work had once more conspired against them. Once through the door, an usher guided him to his seat well down front, and his mood began to lighten.
Ruefully, Ed smiled and took his seat. He was here wasn’t he? Here at the Muppet’s much-vaunted Christmas revue, with every expectation that Autumn would join him. Soon, he hoped. Sooner was better than later.
If Scribbler had had trouble blending the night before, he was having no less a time of it tonight. He had dressed with more care than usual, with his trench coat folded over his arm, but he felt more conspicuous than he could account for.
Maybe it’s the cloud of doom that’s following me, he thought sourly, but the grim humor did cheer him just a little. He was just beginning to feel a little more human when he caught sight of Brenda Starr’s coppery head of hair and it was all he could do not to throw himself under the seats out of sight. As if, he thought miserably, she’d even remember me now.
He sidled toward the wall and buried his face in the program until she was seated well ahead of him. If Piggy had looked amazing the previous evening, Brenda Starr was not suffering by comparison. But then, Piggy’s allure had always been unique, even when she’d just be starting out and they had been—
Scribbler cut the thought off angrily and moved, trying not to jump out of his skin. The past was past, he reminded himself. But the future—the future remained to be written. Involuntarily, his hand closed over the little notebook in his pocket, and he felt a small tight smile spread over his face. If all went well, he might just be the man writing it.
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