Page 85 of Not Home Alone

“Except I’m not calling from his office, I’m calling from the Holly Grove High School auditorium. We have kind of an emergency situation.”

My stomach drops and my adrenaline skyrockets. I’m mentally trying to figure out the fastest way to get to the hospital from here. “What happened? Is it Merrily?”

“No! Wait, kind of—she’s fine. She’s just panicking, and she doesn’t want to call you. But we have a cast emergency, and I think you’re the only person who can help her. You know how you played the Nutcracker Prince ten years ago?”

I am so relieved that Merrily is okay that I say yes, and I keep saying yes, even though I’m not completely processing what Joy is asking of me…

TWENTY-NINE

MERRILY

It is entirely possible that tonight will be a shitshow, but this is still my favorite part of live theater productions. When the house lights go down and the audience goes silent. That moment between the hush of the theater goers and the stage lights turning on, that’s where the magic lives. Even for an audience that has seen the same show every year for decades. Even though I don’t see Grant out there in the seats.

It’s the promise of wonder that I love. I can’t mess up my makeup, but I’m tearing up. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve worked in live theater.

A spotlight comes up on April, who’s standing downstage left, arms at her side. She refused to wear a costume for this, but I consider it more than a small victory to have gotten her to recite some lines on stage. It will be either a monumental victory or a hilarious disaster when she reluctantly comes back on stage as the Nutcracker Prince. Without the mask so she can read the script. Either way, it will be memorable. And she’s part of The Christmas Barn family, whether she likes it or not, so in some way it will make sense.

“A note from the playwright, M.E. Blossom,” she says, in her usual monotone voice, which is perfect for this part. “‘This play is dedicated to my grandmother, who said I was very mature for my age. And to Mr. E.T.A. Hoffmann, who unfortunately is dead. I have tried to be faithful to his original public domain story, while also making it accessible to modern audiences. Some parts are scary. Parents must use their own judgment in regard to their children, if in attendance. The running time of this play is approximately forty-five minutes. There will be a reception in the lobby following the performance. Please do not take more than two cookies.’”

There’s polite applause from most of the audience, and hooting and hollering from everyone April is related to.

The running time of this play is between twenty-five minutes and an hour and twenty minutes, depending on the director, the cast, the weather, and who’s in the audience. Fortunately, the chaotic Stapler kids are home with colds, and Mr. and Mrs. Hagen—who are both hard of hearing and refuse to wear hearing aids—are visiting relatives in Cleveland. So it should be smooth sailing.

Aside from the whole flakey co-star fiasco. I can’t believe Harold called in sick one hour before curtain. Freaking Harold! Joy wanted me to call Grant, but I just couldn’t. We said our goodbyes. He’s got enough to deal with.

But the show must go on. And it’s going on. I’m going on. Right now.

I walk out onto the dimly lit stage, to the Stahlbaum parlor set, and assemble myself cross-legged in front of the Christmas tree. Daniel, who’s playing Fritz, takes a seat in a nearby chair, slouching with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

There’s an audible gasp when the Christmas lights turn on, and it’s glorious.

Diane, our narrator, stands at the wooden podium downstage right and says, “It was Christmas Eve. The year was eighteen hundred and something. The Stahlbaum family was rich, but not in a bad way.”

I stare into the middle distance, dreamily. “Brother. Do you ever wonder what lies beyond the veil of our comfortable existence?”

“No,” he huffs. “I want cake.”

“I too want cake,” I say. “And yet…” I pause. For a long time, as per the stage directions, before continuing. “And yet, something in my soul hungers for more than cake.”

“More than cake?” Fritz says, aghast.

Nodding gravely, as per the stage directions, I reply. “Yes. More than cake.”

Suddenly, the booming sound of knocking startles everyone, and it’s wonderful.

There’s a knock at the door. Three knocks, actually. Then two more. Then one.

From the podium, the Narrator says, “The knock at the door was unusual in its pattern, which was intentional, because the person knocking was unusual in his pattern, which was also intentional. Then Godfather Drosselmeyer entered. He was mysterious and also very old. He had one eye that was normal and one eye that was covered by a patch. Sometimes he uses a walking cane if the costume or prop department can find one.”

Timmy Hutchens enters, wearing a cape, a silver wig and fake mustache, and an eye patch. He carries a small vintage suitcase, which a previous director got at Rust in Peace on Main Street for three dollars, and a walking cane, which he holds up triumphantly, to show the audience. The audience cheers. Some years Drosselmeyer doesn’t get a cane, and the crowd boos good-naturedly. God, I love this show.

Also, Timmy Hutchens is eight. But he’s very mature for his age.

“Good evening, my dear ones. I come bearing gifts from the realm of imagination, and also from my workshop, which is in the basement.” Drosselmeyer places the suitcase on the floor and fumbles with the brass latches, which are sometimes loose, causing the trunk to spill open, and sometimes they’re sticky. Like tonight. After about thirty or forty seconds of trying to pry the hardware open, Timmy looks out at the audience and grimaces, as I directed him to in case of this scenario. It’s an easy laugh, and this is why we love live theater. Finally, he opens the luggage. He says to Fritz, “Friedrich Stahlbaum. Thou art a boy of energy. Of appetite. Of volume. A boy who runs when walking is available, who shouts when speaking would suffice. And so I bring thee”—he pulls out a fancy black box with a gold bow—“toy soldiers.”

Fritz jumps up and opens the box. “Oh, golly gee, wow! These are the cat’s pajamas!” He pulls out a small wooden toy. “I’m gonna call this one Gerald! And this one’s named Gerald! And this one… Gerald.”

Drosselmeyer sighs and says, “Yes. Well.” Then he reaches into the trunk and pulls out a plain wooden box, this time slower and more deliberate, as indicated in the stage directions. “Clara Stahlbaum. Thou art a different kind of child. Thou readeth books that are too long for thee and understandeth them anyway. Thou asketh questions adults find inconvenient. Thou sayest good night to things that cannot hear thee—or so we think…” He holds out the box to me, and I take it, with great reverence. “I… made this myself. In the basement. Over a considerable period of time. Not exactly with my hands, but… I made him. He is not beautiful, exactly. But beauty, as the poets say—and I have known several poets, most of them difficult—beauty, like love, and sometimes noses, is a thing that grows.”