Page 4 of Welcome to Gothic
“Can you go on? Because when Brenda broke her arm, we thought we had to lose our most impressive stunt, and the audience is expecting it.”
“Er... what? What do you mean?”
He got hostile and forbidding. “Don’t think by stalling I’m going to pay you more. I already doubled the amount I was paying Brenda to get you down here.”
Wendy was in the theater, obviously, the old Gothic Palace theater. But instead of the dim and dust she’d seen moments ago, the place was bright and clean, bustling with people backstage carrying costumes and props, wearing leopard print wraps, coconut shell bras and leafy, leg-baring skirts and lining up for the dance number. Onstage, Wendy could see a set, complete with painted tree trunks and potted ferns, and just offstage in the wings, stagehands stood waving palm fronds to simulate a breeze.
A jungle?
“I could use a Motrin.” Like a pain reliever would cure a hallucination.
“Awhat?”
“Nothing.”
“You know what you’re supposed to do, right? Sure, but let me walk you through it one more time.” He pointed up the flimsy ladder. “You’re going up. Stay out of sight until Miss Lindholm says—” he switched to a high, girly voice, “—‘Oh, Tarzan, I can’t!’”
Wendy nodded. Whatever had hit her must have knocked her silly. Now she was hallucinating she was a stuntwoman in aTarzanplay back when... “Wait. This is Angelica Lindholm we’re talking about?”
Percy viewed her oddly. “No, Maeve Lindholm. You know, the movie star? The lady who founded this town and owns every last stick of it? The ballbuster?”
“Oh. Right.” Maeve Lindholm, the actress from Sweden who became a star on the basis of her beautiful and expressive face, who made the transition from silent movies to the talkies, who constructed the town of Gothic... the woman who had been dead for more than seventy years, now took a starring part in Wendy’s delusion.
“Miss Lindholm will step back out of sight of the audience. Tarzan calls, ‘Jane, Tarzan catch. Trust Tarzan.’”
Wendy had put on that costume, thought about Tarzan and now here she was, in aTarzanplay back in the—she eyed Percy’s suit—in the late thirties?Makes total sense.
Percy continued, “That’s when you step onto the platform.”
“Won’t the audience know it’s not Miss... Miss Lindholm?”
“Naw. Remember to keep your hair pulled close around your face so they can’t get a good look at you, and don’t stare at them straight on. The wig and your shape will fool them. It’s stage magic.”
“Uh-huh. There is an audience, right?”
He shoved her toward the curtains. “There’s your official peephole. Take a look.”
Wendy strode over, lifted the flap and peered through the carefully placed gap. The ceiling and the columns were decorated exactly as they were in the twenty-first century, with gleaming gold paint and silver stars and richly colored Egyptian motifs, but it all looked brighter, newer. Red velvet chairs stood in rows with an aisle on either side, and the floor rose toward the back of the theater to afford every audience member a view. Every seat was full: women in dresses with fur stoles tossed around their shoulders, men in suits and ties, Navy men in dress whites, Army men in dress greens, shined shoes, lots of starch, lots of ironing.
Full kudos to Wendy’s hallucination for authenticity. She returned to Percy.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“Full house!” she said brightly.
“It’s Maeve Lindholm and Hugh Capel. Of course it’s a full house.”
“Okay. The stunt.” She took a breath. “I’ll bet I’m going to take the rope and swing over to Tarzan.”
“Right. Don’t worry, Hugh’s good at this physical stuff. He does his own movie stunts and he’ll grab you. He’ll put one arm around your waist and pull you close. What you want to do is keep your back to the audience, wrap your arms around him, get a good grip on his shoulders and a good grip on the rope so when he swings to the other platform—” Percy pointed to a lower platform built into a clump of trees at the back of the stage “—he’s not supporting your whole weight. He kisses you, the lights go out, you trade back with Miss Lindholm, you pick up your check, change into your street clothes and you’re done. Simple?”
Wendy nodded.
“Not much of a talker. Don’t meet women like you very often.” He chortled and slapped her butt.
Without a thought, she grabbed his tie, tightened it around his neck, looked into his face and said, “Don’teverdo that again.”
Percy’s eyes were round, startled and confused. “Tell you that you don’t talk much?”
