In the early morning, Erik walked a slow circuit around the theater, holding his coffee cup in both hands to ward away the damp chill. It was the third Sunday of the month, and he liked to check in and survey the damage from the previous night's show. If it wasn't such a solid moneymaker, he'd have more misgivings about it.
That wasn't fair. The regular show was a revolving door for young and local performers and he gave them as close to free reign as he could afford. They got to build resumes and he got first crack at new talent for his troupe. It was worth it, even if he had to pay for extra janitorial service.
The dumpsters out back were full; a few overstuffed trash bags leaned against them. One was disemboweled, spilling loops of snowy-white toilet paper guts onto the wet asphalt. No doubt the birds and raccoons had torn into the bag for the toast.
He drew the line at the confetti. The stuff was like herpes.
As much as Erik would have liked to have another Saturday night free for quartets, or the university players, the fact was people liked these shows. While he'd probably never admit it out loud, it was still live performance, and he loved that. To the marrow of his bones, he still loved it, despite the strange hours dull repetition, tight budgets and general insanity. He loved the chaos and energy of creation.
It's also what he missed the most.
He unlocked the side door, climbed to the stage, and paced around. All was well here, as it was backstage, so he trudged to his office and looked over the notes from the night before. Satisfied that nothing was tragically amiss, nothing he hadn't already known about, he made his way back to the pit and drew the heavy, waterproof cover from the big Steinway.
Yes, he missed this the most. His regular pianist adored the thing and never neglected to cover it before these shows. Good thing, too, or Erik would have the man's fingers. Even used, he'd blown much of his budget for the down payment for this beauty the first year. He was still paying on it, and it was worth every penny.
But what to play? It wasn't like he had to hold back- no one was going to file a noise complaint if he crashed through a real knuckle buster. There was nothing better than the acoustics in this decrepit, wonderful, awful, glorious space when you really opened up.
Erik folded back the first lid.
And his diva… maybe he could convince her to come sing on that stage sometime. Some Sunday morning when the place was deserted and it was just them. When she was ready, maybe she could even try one of the small weekday shows. The Monday crowd was small and incredibly supportive. They'd love her.
With a bit of affection and effort, Erik lifted the top board and reached for the prop.
God damn it.
Oh, he was going to kill them. He would strangle all the little water gun toting, toast chucking little bastards with their own bustiers.
This was the last time he'd tolerate finding fishnets strewn across his strings.
...
After their third session, Christine stopped pretending to slip notes under his door.
After the fourth she'd text him when she was on her way.
"Good evening, Christine." Of course he hadn't been waiting by the door. It was just where he'd moved the table and that was where his drink was. He also hadn't rushed through his shower and face care. At all.
"Good evening, Maestro! How do you feel about Patsy Cline?"
"She was a contralto. You're a soprano."
Christine set down her things and unscrewed her water bottle. "Well, that's just a matter of key, right? What key did she sing Crazy in? F?"
"F major," He closed the door and sipped his bourbon. "You have the range. You could just go up an octave."
With a shudder, Christine set down her water. "You want me to shriek it? It's a lament, Erik. A lacrimosa of the South!" Before he could even react, she had taken his drink and downed a finger's worth of Kentucky's finest.
"Did you just-" Of her actions or words, he was not sure which had rendered him stupid.
"Now," she said with a wheeze, handing back the drink. "What about A minor?"
Erik drained the glass as he raised the fallboard. A quick glance at the keys, some mental gymnastics.
"Bring the pain, my dear."
...
After the sixth session, he simply left the door cracked open.
…
One night, after their second song, Erik shook his head. "Did you talk a lot today? You're fraying already."
Christine swallowed and nodded. "Yes. I started a new job and did a lot of phone consulting. Then Mr. Satis needed a home, so I had to coordinate that, too.
"Whatever that means, you're not singing any more today," Erik said, rising from the bench seat. He refreshed his drink, rattling his ice. "Make you one, since you're off duty now?"
"What are we having, Maestro?"
"I had planned for some jazz standards, so it was either a martini or vodka tonic. I'm all out of olives, so-"
"Extra lime, please," Christine grinned.
As he squeezed lime into the glass, Erik's mind rewound the evening a bit. "Tell me about this Mr. Satis. Are you a housing expert? Leasing agent?"
"Oh no. I do design work from home on a big, fancy computer. Since I'm home so much, I foster rescue dogs when I can. Mr. Satis is my latest." Christine pulled out her phone while Erik topped off her drink with tonic. "Here, look!" she said brightly, and handed him her phone.
He nearly dropped the drink. It was the absolute ugliest dog he'd ever seen. It was a half hairless rat with a pitifully hideous case of eczema.
"Isn't he just wild?" Christine laughed and reached for her drink.
Erik drained his glass. "Wild is one word. So what happens with Mr.- what was it again?"
"Satis. It's Latin for 'pretty'. The great news is, he's a hurricane dog and he's chipped, so someone out there probably wants him back."
How in heaven anyone wanted it in the first place was beyond him. Erik sucked on his ice to avoid speaking.
"Most dogs they send me aren't from really bad situations, so most the time they just need some love and attention and they're great pet material."
God, this was getting a little too close to home. "You said you do design work?"
She took a sturdy swallow, as if bracing herself. "Yeah, I minored in design, and I freelance a little of everything. Room and office design, some logo design, general layout work. Got a nice start early on and managed to bring some business with me when I moved."
"Where did you move from?" He probably shouldn't have had that second one so fast.
"New York." She drained her glass and Erik took it back to refill without questions. "I majored in music and planned a career in the arts. By my senior year I was pretty serious with this guy and we got engaged. For a few extra classes, I had a minor in design." She tossed her hair back, out of her face. "He thought it would dovetail well with his career."
"What did he do?" And he probably shouldn't be halfway through his third, but here he was.
Christine set her drink down and slapped her palm lightly on the counter. "You know, I haven't the foggiest. He had the same name as the company, and I guess that's what he did."
Erik shrugged. "For some, it's enough."
"Not for me," she said with little smile. That smile had seen a lot. He really liked that smile. And the voice that came out of those lips. The person was not so bad either. A little funny, with her orphan dogs, but then he'd bought a battered theater.
So, not bad.
He raised his glass to toast that smile. "I'm glad."
It widened as Christine tapped her glass to his. "Me, too."
...
Tonight her hair was piled up and escaped curls played and caught around her ears and neck. Vines climbing a marble column.
Erik shook his head and played scales as Christine warmed up. It took less time every session and it was clear that while she hadn't sung much lately, she clearly had in the past. She was stronger every day.
Her neck was so fine and strong, the veins prominent as she powered up her higher registers, and she grinned at him as she completed the top of the scale with ease.
Days at the theater were long, but unwinding like this… Erik eased her into a bit of Gershwin and felt his back release some of the day's tension. So strange, how she never looked away as he played, but kept her eyes on him. Intently. Watching for the cues, reading his shoulders.
His mask gave away nothing, so he had to give elsewhere. With Christine, he wanted to give everything, but she was just a little too… unattainable.
He would take what he could get.
As Christine caught her breath, Erik stood for a refill. "One more after this?"
"Absolutely," she said, glowing pink. "Erik, do you sing? I mean, you must, right?"
He paused mid-pour and wished he was drinking something stiffer than red wine, for here be dragons. He took down a second wineglass. "Only if you join me."
...
Years ago, when he was more prone to the sorts of moods befitting the mystique that came with wearing a mask, he used to compose. He'd written a few pieces that ended up in video games, a commercial or two, and helped local musicians like a kind of consultant. It paid the bills at a time when he was exploring options.
A few absolute truths became evident: first, no matter how refined people pretended to be, you can never fail with a live Saturday night production of Rocky Horror.
The second truth was that you cannot reconstruct what is not there. He learned that he was allergic to latex and most metals. When his options turned out to be as limited as the workable flesh on most of his face, he invested in custom leather-lined porcelain and a theater. While one worked out better than the other some days, the day to day grind of running a functional venue and troupe siphoned his energy. You can't compose on fumes.
But now, after eight sessions with Christine, he could feel the strings of notes tickling the edges of his mind again like the ringlets that dangled by her ears. At work, he left his desk and wandered to the recital room piano, his fingers tapping at air along the way. A few notes, followed by a duplet. Nothing more. But it was enough.
They'd sang a duet. It was just a sappy torch song, but how wide her eyes opened when he'd joined her! The way she'd swayed with the music, singing with every sinew, had filled him with something new, warm and liquid. By the time they'd finished singing, his neck was tingling and her eyes were wet.
Who were those tears for, he'd wondered? They're called torch songs for a reason, and perhaps she still carried one.
His fingertips twitched on the keys. A few notes, then a duplet. Repeat. Then what?
Erik wandered back to his office. That was the question, wasn't it? Now what?