Part 3

In the booth, Aunt Hetty had turned beet red and looked as though she might explode. Chris’s mouth tightened and Peggy found that she was becoming angrier by the moment. Of all the dirty tricks—John Hamilton asking them here to “plug” their theater, and then bringing out this issue! But Peggy had had enough experience with her father’s newspaper to know how newsmen operated—and she knew how to counter. Before Chris had a chance to reply, and in the face of Aunt Hetty gesturing frantically from the booth to say nothing, Peggy lashed back.

“Oh, yes,” she said quite calmly. “We saw that little piece in the paper. Rather childish, wasn’t it? Do you know that if we weren’t renting the auditorium the high school wouldn’t make a penny this summer? I’m sure you’ve heard of the great need for a new science lab. By the way,” she went on in a new vein, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could help raise funds for the school, too—with your radio program. I’m sure people would be glad to donate to a cause like that!”

It was John Hamilton’s turn to flush, which he did, as they looked at each other like two sparring partners in a contest. Ignoring Peggy’s thrust, he came back firmly to the question. “Is it true that the theater may not open at all?”

In the booth, Peggy could see the engineer signaling thirty seconds to go. If she hesitated, a lot of potential theatergoers might tune out this program thinking of the Kenabeek Summer Theater as a myth, as a good idea that failed. She couldn’t lie, but perhaps there was another way. She thought quickly, and her pretty voice sounded young and gay as it traveled through the microphone.

“The theater is scheduled to open this Thursday night, curtain at eight-forty, for _Dear Ruth_. We’ll be looking forward to seeing you, Mr. Hamilton, and we hope your listening audience will be there, too.”

Peggy had timed her speech carefully, and Mr. Hamilton had barely time to say, “This is John Hamilton, good day.” The red light blinked off, and they were off the air!

John Hamilton took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. Then he looked at Peggy, laughed good-naturedly, and shook her hand. “You were a charming guest! And a tough opponent! But you win, I won’t say another word about your theater until you do open—and then I’d like to have you both back.” He shook Chris’s hand. “I know you were angry, but that’s the news business. Sorry. I’ll be there for your opening if I can make it.”

Aunt Hetty looked grimly at Peggy as they walked out the studio door. “I hope you knew what you were doing, young lady,” she said under her breath. “You shouldn’t have said a thing! If we don’t open, you’ll have made a laughingstock of my nephew’s name and mine—to say nothing of the theater!”

Aunt Hetty drove back in a silence so thick that Peggy and Chris didn’t have the courage to break it. Peggy felt acutely miserable. Had she done wrong? She leaned over to Chris and whispered, “What else could I do? But maybe she’s right. Maybe I should have let you speak instead. Now I’ve probably messed everything up!”

“But I would have said the same thing!” Chris whispered back. “I was _mad_!” He nodded at Peggy warmly, and she smiled back. She liked Chris Hill, there was no question about that. He was impulsive, but wonderfully kind and engaging.

Aunt Hetty dropped them off in front of the high school and was about to drive away when Danny Dunn came racing out of the stage door.

“Wait a minute!” he yelled, tearing over to the car and waving a piece of paper in the air. “We opened it,” he panted, handing Aunt Hetty the telegram. “It’s to you and all of us, but we couldn’t wait. Where’s that _brilliant_ girl!” He gave Peggy a tremendous pat on the back. “We listened to you—and we nearly had heart failure when he pinned you down. There wasn’t time to call you at the studio, but—”

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” Aunt Hetty interrupted, handing the telegram to Peggy, “but I still think you were taking a terrible chance. Terrible,” she repeated, but her eyes were twinkling.

EVERYTHING OK STOP COMMISSIONER GIVES GO AHEAD STOP DETAILS ON RETURN TOMORROW STOP HALLELUJAH RICHARD

“Oh, thank goodness!” Peggy cried. She could have almost wept with relief, but Danny’s excitement affected them all, and instead of tears there were hugs and handshakes and Danny pulling Peggy back to the theater to display “the most intelligent girl who ever graced a stock company!”

“Intelligent!” Peggy laughed. “Oh, Danny, just lucky!”

“Mental telepathy,” Danny insisted, “and that takes intelligence!”

“Have everybody come to my house after rehearsal,” Aunt Hetty called. “We’ll celebrate the good news. That’s a nice girl,” she remarked to Chris, who was still standing by the car. “Even if she is a little hasty. Not that you wouldn’t have said the same thing.”

Startled, Chris stared at Aunt Hetty, who gave him an understanding smile. Even in a whisper, it seemed, there was very little that Aunt Hetty missed.

IV A Favorable Decision

When Richard returned from Albany the next day he couldn’t find enough words to praise Peggy for what she had said on the radio.

“But your aunt _was_ upset,” Peggy exclaimed, “and she might have been right! Just suppose we couldn’t have opened—”

“It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference,” Richard said. “But if you had said we might not open, think of all the audience we would have lost!”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking of,” Peggy declared happily. “That’s why I went ahead.”

Richard called the cast together on stage to tell them what had happened in Albany. “I got panicky when I heard that the commissioner was out of town—almost decided to hire a guide and try to trail him in the woods! But then he sent a wire from some little town saying he’d return Monday, so I decided to wait.”

“By the way,” Chuck interrupted, “you know we have dress rehearsal tomorrow night, and the next night we open! Have you sent anything to the papers yet? Does the town know we’re going to open?”

Richard gave Chuck an amused “where-do-you-think-I’ve-been” look. “Mr. Crosby, I sent out at least six press releases Monday afternoon from Albany. Not only to Lake Kenabeek, but to the New York papers, too. The Albany paper is running a long article on this—it’s an interesting issue, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a good press all around. The Slade brothers may have actually helped this theater!”

Chris laughed out loud. “I’ll bet they love that idea!”

“Oh, certainly! They’ll be here with bells on Thursday night,” Alison drawled.

Michael Miller was listening, too, covered with scene paint as usual, and wearing his carpenter’s apron stuffed with tools. “I’ll bet anything that when they hear about this, we’ll be hearing from them again! Those boys don’t give up so easily!”

“Oh, now, Michael,” his father remonstrated, “they’re not as bad as all that—”

“I want to hear what happened!” Rita urged Richard. “We don’t know how you wangled this or what the commissioner said—”

“Well, I explained our problem to him,” Richard began. “That someone had questioned the legality of operating a profit-making business in a school, and that we were threatened with court proceedings if we continued. I told him who was behind it and why—the brothers Slade and their movie house—and I also explained that we were helping the school by our rent. Of course, he couldn’t have agreed more with that, knowing as much as he does about educational funds! And I ranted—really ranted—about what the Kenabeek Summer Theater could do for this town—and the whole area—and the school.” Richard was declaiming now as he walked back and forth in front of the stage, and the cast was highly amused.

“So, the commissioner promised to look into the matter some time soon.” Richard stopped dramatically. “Some time soon,” he repeated, obviously enjoying the effect on the cast.

“Why, he’s a regular ham!” Peggy thought, grinning.

“Well, you should have seen me,” Richard continued, laughing himself. “I got up from my seat, leaned over the desk, stared him straight in the eye, and said, as if this was the biggest thing since the end of the Ice Age, ‘The Kenabeek Summer Theater opens on Thursday. _This_ Thursday!’”

“What did he do? What happened?” Mary Hopkins asked breathlessly.

“He decided that he’d better do something about it!” Richard laughed. “He was galvanized! He told his secretary to drop everything, and together we went through a list of all the companies operating in the state. We found that two other companies were playing in high schools! If we couldn’t go ahead here, those theaters would have to fold, too!

“Well, it didn’t seem fair, and yet, since no one had ever before questioned the legality of playing in a school, there was no precedent to go by. And no time to get a court decision!” Richard was very serious now, and the cast listened interestedly, hanging on every word. “So, the commissioner decided that the only thing he could do legally was to _postpone a decision_ until Labor Day! If anyone raises the question again, they will be informed that nothing can be done about it until after Labor Day—and by that time, of course, all the theaters will have finished their seasons!”

“Very clever!” Mr. Miller nodded thoughtfully. “Very clever indeed!”

“Yes, but there’s one other little thing,” Richard added. “It was also decided, in order to squelch any rumors or new questions, that this theater will operate on a non-profit basis.”

“We are now a non-profit organization?” Chuck asked slowly.

“We are indeed,” Richard replied. “Any money left over at the end of the season, after expenses, goes to the Kenabeek High School toward their new science lab.”

“Well!” Chuck exclaimed, looking perfectly blank.

“Oh, what a pity!” Rita cried. “Then you two won’t make any money this summer!” She knew that Chuck and Richard were working for nothing beyond their living expenses. They weren’t even on regular salaries like the rest of the company. Every penny would be poured back into the theater to pay back the Chamber of Commerce and the individual investors.

Chuck laughed. “I had hoped to have something left over at the end of the season, but I can’t imagine that we need the profits as much as the school does. Actually, I’m glad about this arrangement!”

“There probably won’t be too much left over, anyway,” Richard added. “Did you ever hear of a summer theater making a real profit on a first season? I agree with Chuck. We just want to have a season successful enough to warrant a return next year.”

“We won’t have a season _this_ year if we don’t get back to work!” Chuck declared. “We have a lot to clean up today. Places for the second act, everybody, Scene Two.”

“Congratulations, Richard,” Peggy said as she took a seat in the auditorium. She had some time before she was due on stage, and she wanted to watch the other actors. “I think you did a wonderful job!”

“The Chamber of Commerce is going to be awfully pleased with the way this turned out,” Mr. Miller said, shaking Richard’s hand. “And the School Board will be delighted.”

“Thanks, Mr. Miller,” Richard said. “I hope Max Slade will change his mind about us now, too.”

“He might,” Mr. Miller agreed. “He just might. If I have an opportunity, I’ll try to speak with him about it. Well, back to work, now. Congratulations again, Richard.”

Watching him go, Peggy was struck again by the company’s good fortune in having Howard Miller. He was such a finished actor and lent dignity to the theater by his position with the Chamber of Commerce and the School Board. “Mr. Miller did a lot in the theater in his time, didn’t he?” Peggy whispered to Richard as the act began.

“He certainly did. His background’s very impressive!”

“Do you think he might be able to work something out with Max Slade?” Peggy asked.

“It’s possible, but if he can’t,” Richard whispered with a twinkle, “maybe I’ll sic you on the job! You did just fine with John Hamilton.”

Peggy laughed. “Oh, Richard! All I said was that _Dear Ruth_ would open Thursday. What on earth would I say to Max Slade?”

“I would leave that entirely up to you!” Richard teased. “I’m sure you’d think of something!”

“But not until after Thursday,” Peggy said with mock seriousness.

“No, no, certainly not until after Thursday!” Richard agreed, chuckling. “We couldn’t take a chance on losing you opening night! He might lock you up in the movies!”

“And I’d have to look at one of those awful pictures twelve times.” They both laughed. “But isn’t it exciting, really?” Peggy said. “I mean the opening—only two more days! It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Two more days,” Richard echoed thoughtfully, “and there’s such a lot to do.”

“NO!” Chuck suddenly shouted from the orchestra, and Peggy and Richard both jumped. “No! How many times do I have to tell you—you cannot throw that line away!”

He ran up on stage and motioned Danny out of the way, saying, “Now watch this! I hate to show you how to do your part, but we can’t get hung up on this every time we play the scene!”

Peggy’s eyes opened wide. She had never seen Chuck Crosby like this before.

“You _pause_ after you say, ‘I got to the turnstile,’ etc. _Then_ you say, ‘I didn’t have a nickel’—and you _don’t_ throw it away! You’ll kill your next line if it isn’t just right. Now watch.”

“I see,” Danny said when Chuck had finished. “Thanks, Chuck.”

“This is not Chekhov we’re playing, it’s a Norman Krasna _comedy_!” Chuck said, speaking to everybody. “Now suppose we get to work! And stop playing Alison Lord and Chris Hill and Danny Dunn—_and_ Peggy Lane, radio heroine.” He pointed straight at her. “Let’s play _Dear Ruth_!”

He jumped off the stage and resumed his place down front. “Take it again,” he called, “from the beginning!”

And he was right. Watching him, Peggy knew that it was time to get down to serious work. In two days they had to have a play ready. Really ready, not half-way. And Chuck, like all good directors, was giving them the impetus and the drive to do it.

V Opening Night

Thursday! Peggy woke up with a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach and for a moment wondered why. Then she remembered—opening night!

“Oh!” she groaned and turned over, feeling the butterflies come and go somewhere in the region of her chest. “Oh,” she moaned again and turned over on her back.

“Good morning!” There was a knock at her door, and Rita entered bearing a steaming cup of coffee. The cup rattled a bit in the saucer as she put it down, spilling coffee over the sides.

“You, too?” Peggy asked, sitting upright.

“Naturally!” Rita held her arm out, showing Peggy her trembling hand.

“That’s nothing!” Peggy scoffed. “Look at this!” They compared hands, and indeed, Peggy’s was much the shakier.

“Well, you haven’t been up as long as I have,” Rita said. “Wait awhile.”

“I know. It’ll get better, and by noon I’ll feel fine, and by dinnertime I’ll wish I’d never thought of being an actress in the first place. Oh dear!” Peggy steadied herself with a sip of coffee. “I wonder how Alison feels.”

“I’d better wake her up, too,” Rita said and went out for more coffee. In a moment she was back, and Alison, beautifully sleepy-eyed, joined them in Peggy’s room.

“Why, oh, why did I ever decide to be an actress in the first place?” Alison muttered over her coffee.

Peggy and Rita went off into gales of laughter while Alison looked at them indignantly. “It isn’t funny,” she said. “I don’t feel funny in the least.”

“We know!” Peggy laughed. “It’s just exactly what I said a minute ago—I mean what I said I would be saying about eight o’clock tonight!”

“Well, but you don’t have to carry the show,” Alison said, still glum. “I’ll blow up, I know I will—or I’ll trip over the stairs coming down—I’ll probably fall flat on my face on my first entrance. Oh, I wish it were over! Heavens, my hair! I’ve got to wash and set my hair!” She gulped down the last of her coffee and fled to the shower.

Peggy and Rita watched her go with real compassion—they knew exactly how she felt!

Chuck Crosby knew what he was about when he called the cast together for a morning reading of next week’s play, _Angel Street_. By the time the cast had finished, they had forgotten their anxiety about opening night. It helped to be reminded that _Dear Ruth_ was not the only play of the season. There would be other opening nights, too. But this was the big one—everyone felt that as the day wore on and nervousness slowly returned.

The company gathered together at a large table for an early dinner at Mrs. Brady’s. They seldom ate _en masse_ like this, but tonight they did, almost huddled together for support.

“It feels like the last meal!” Danny mourned as he stirred his soup listlessly.

“I can’t even stand the thought of food!” Alison declared, looking at her bowl with distaste.

Even Chris was nervous. Peggy couldn’t help giggling as she watched him break cracker after cracker into his soup until it looked like a snowbank. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing. Rita plowed into her food, grimly determined to put something into her stomach, and urged Peggy to do the same.

“Never mind how you feel about it—you’ll have more energy.”

“I can’t,” Peggy said, still giggling. “I just can’t. There’s something absolutely ridiculous about food at a time like this! Imagine—tomato soup and _Dear Ruth_—they just don’t mix!” She started laughing again, and everyone looked at her accusingly. “I can’t help it.” She giggled helplessly. “I always do this—it’s just nerves. It’ll stop in a while!” She took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but then another thought sent her off again. “What do you imagine your husband is having for dinner tonight?” she asked Rita. “I can just see him up at the theater, decorating the set and eating lilacs dipped in crackerjack!”

“Oh, Peggy, please stop!” Danny protested as he choked on a mouthful of soup. “Stop talking and eat.”

“Please!” everyone echoed, and Peggy subsided, trying to force down some food. It was worse, though, than nervous giggles. The palms of her hands were first icy and then hot, her stomach felt as if a thousand birds were migrating through, and the very thought of walking on stage gave her a shiver from head to toe.

“Well, the worst is over!” Rita said with relief as they finished dinner and left, with Mrs. Brady’s good wishes following them.

And she was right. Somehow the food, the sparkling night air, the familiar feeling of the auditorium, and the good smell of grease paint in their dressing rooms relaxed everyone. This was their job—it was opening night. In half an hour when they walked on stage, they would be fine—and everybody knew it.

“It’s funny how the anticipation is always worse than the fact,” Rita mused as she started to put on her make-up. “And that dinner is the most dreadful thing of all. It’ll never be that bad again.”

“Aren’t you nervous?” Mary Hopkins asked innocently from her table. The girls all shared one large dressing room, and the men another.

“What a question!” Peggy laughed. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, a little,” Mary replied. “Not much.”

“That’s because you’re not a professional,” Alison said. “If you ever become one—just watch. You’re not nervous at first, but the more you work, the more nervous you get.”

“I think that’s because in the beginning we all think we’re just wonderful,” Peggy said, “but after a while, we realize how much we have still to learn.”

“Zip me up, please?” Alison asked Peggy. She looked perfectly beautiful, Peggy thought, in her pretty two-piece dress, and marvelous make-up. Alison sat down again and took a little black candle out of her make-up kit. She lit it and tilted it over a small tin cup.

“Is that some kind of a ritual?” Peggy asked in amazement. “What on earth are you doing, Alison?”

“Eyelashes,” Alison replied, dipping a brush in the cup and carefully lifting it to her eyes. “I always do this last.”

“Eyelashes!” Peggy exclaimed—and looked into the little cup. It held black wax melted by the flame, which thickened when Alison applied it, making her lashes look thick and long.

“I don’t like to wear false lashes,” Alison explained, “and this works just as well if not better.”

“If you’ll put a little white at the outer corner of your eyelid, Peggy,” Rita offered, “it will give you a young effect—and a dot of red in the inner corner helps, too.”

Peggy tried it and it worked.

“No line under your eyes,” Rita said. “That makes you look older, and you have to shave off about five years since Miriam is supposed to be about fourteen. Now, bring your rouge up a little closer to your eyes and not so far out on your cheek—you want to have a round effect. There!” Rita looked at Peggy appraisingly. “What do you think?”

Peggy looked at herself and was pleased. She would appear about fourteen on stage, she thought. She hadn’t been quite satisfied with her make-up at dress rehearsal. She put on her little navy-blue jumper and white blouse, brushed on her powder and was done.

“Telegrams!” a voice outside the door announced. “Are you decent?”

“We are, come in,” Rita said, and Richard came through with a stack of yellow envelopes, handing them to the girls.

“I have to get out front,” Richard said, “but I know you’ll be terrific. Break a leg!”

“Break a leg!” Mary gasped as he left. “Why—what a thing to say!”

“It means good luck,” Peggy explained as she put her telegrams in front of her mirror. “Theater people always say that, or something like it—it’s an old superstition.”

“I see. Why don’t you open your telegrams?” Mary asked.

“Oh, we never do,” Alison answered. “Not until after the show.”

“That’s in case any of them are bad news,” Rita explained.

“But they’re just good-luck wires, aren’t they?”

“Of course,” Peggy laughed, “but it’s another old superstition—like whistling in the dressing room!”

“Fifteen minutes!” Gus called, rapping a tattoo on the door.

“Where’s the music?” Chuck asked, coming by. “Get that turntable going, Gus—and better check the door buzzer again.” He came into the room. “Alison, don’t worry about the orange juice—if you’re shaky about drinking it tonight, let it go. Peggy, let’s see your make-up. Good! That’s much better! Now listen—I know it’s opening night and I know it means a lot—to all of us. And I know we’re all excited and nervous—but I know you’re going to be just fine!

“Remember—pace it! Keep it moving! It’s a terrific comedy and it ought to carry you along. It will, if you just keep it moving. I’ll be watching, but I don’t think you’ll see me until after the show unless there’s someone I can’t hear. Mary, watch that. I couldn’t hear you in the last row last night.” He paused a moment. “What else? Guess that’s it. Break a leg, everyone!”

As Chuck left, the girls heard the music begin, and Gus came by, calling, “Five minutes!”

There was a sudden silence in the dressing room as everyone felt the mounting tension. It was a different excitement, though, from their morning nerves. Peggy began to yawn while Rita took very deep breaths and Alison did a bending exercise. All these things helped their systems adjust to the impending effort.

Peggy felt that she had to move. Movement always helped and it was time, anyway. She walked backstage and took her place in the wings.

“Peggy,” a voice whispered behind her, “have a lot of fun.”

“Thanks, Michael,” Peggy replied shakily. “Do you know what kind of a house we have?”

“I think it’s pretty good—there’s a peephole in the curtain if you want to look.”

“No, not tonight—”

“Have fun, Dad,” Michael said to his father as Howard Miller took his place beside Peggy.

“How do you feel, Peggy?” Mr. Miller asked.

“Nervous!” Peggy smiled. “Break a leg, Dad.”

“House lights!” they heard Gus call to Michael, who was at the lightboard. “Music! Spots!”