Central Exposure — an excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The Sound of Distant Thunder

The last note of ’Day by Day’ hung in the humid air of Our Lady of Divine Truth’s Hartwig Theatre. Rose held the final pose perfectly — she always did — while Corey and Nellie flanked her in counterpoint. From my position downstage left, I could feel the audience holding their breath. Spring 1973, and we’d nailed it.

The applause started slow and built, like distant thunder rolling in. That’s what everything felt like that spring — thunder getting closer. But on stage, we were safely cocooned in our bubble of greasepaint and Gospel.

“Hank!” Rose twirled past me as we headed backstage, still high from the show. “Did you see that couple in the front row? The ones in the grey suits? They didn’t clap once!”

“Probably Baptist,” Corey said, dabbing his face with a towel. “Or CIA.” He affected a severe face and spoke into his wrist. “Subject demonstrates dangerous levels of jazz hands, over.”

Nellie shot him a look as she whooshed past. “Don’t joke about that stuff.” She was always reading the newspaper, and she was always worried about something. The rest of us were too busy perfecting our triple pirouettes to care about Senate hearings, peace talks, or whatever else was falling apart outside our theatre walls.

The television in the green room was showing the news again. It was always showing the news these days. Walter Cronkite’s grave face competed with the sound of our post-show chatter - another night of counting casualties in Vietnam while Central America simmered beneath the headlines.

“ … Secretary of State Rogers today denied allegations of U.S. involvement in Central America … ”

“Hank.” Nellie touched my arm. “Those people are still out there.”

She was right. Through the window I could see the grey suits standing unnaturally still in the parking lot. Not talking to each other. Just waiting.

“Probably talent scouts,” Rose said, pressing her nose against the glass. “Maybe Broadway!”

“Because Broadway producers always travel in pairs and shop at some no-name department store?” Corey was brushing out his wig, but I caught his eye in the mirror. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

The theater manager stuck his head in. “Father Gilbert wants to see you all in his office. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp. Be there!”

“See?” Rose bounced on her toes. “Broadway!”

But it wasn’t Broadway. It wasn’t even Off-Broadway. It was something else entirely, though we didn’t know it then. Couldn’t have known it would lead to earthquakes and revolutions, to midnight escapes and missing persons, to bananas and blood and …

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In the hallway, Walter Cronkite was still talking through someone’s open door: “ … while fighting continues in Vietnam, tensions are mounting closer to home as reports surface of Soviet influence in Central … ”

“Coming, Hank?” Nellie held the door, concern creasing her forehead.

I nodded, shaking off the strange feeling in my stomach. We were just a college theatre quartet. Four kids who’d been singing together since sophomore year. What could possibly happen to us?

When we walked past, the grey suits were gone from the parking lot, but they weren’t gone at all. They were just getting into position for Act One.

And none of us had learned our lines.

CHAPTER TWO

The Audition

Father Gilbert’s office always smelled like old books and dusty crucifixes. But that morning, there was something else — cologne, expensive and out of place. The grey suits had beaten us there, looking precisely as they had the day before.

“Ah, our stars!” Father Gilbert beamed from behind his desk. He had that look — the one he got when he’d convinced the board to fund another musical. But the suits weren’t Broadway producers. Broadway producers smiled. These men had faces like closed doors.

“Please, sit,” the taller suit said. His tie was regulation width, and his shoes were regulation shined. Everything about him was standard issue except his eyes, which didn’t match his bureaucratic smile. “We’ve been watching your performances.”

“All of them?” Rose perched on the edge of her chair like an eager sparrow. “Even the midnight Mass where Hank fell off the — ”

“Many of them,” the other suit interrupted. He placed a folder on Father Gilbert’s desk. “Your Godspell production is exactly what we’re looking for.”

“Looking for?” Nellie’s voice had that careful tone she used when reading stage directions.

“The State Department — ” Father Gilbert began.

“The United States Information Service,” the first suit corrected, “in cooperation with the State Department, is launching a cultural outreach program. Selected performers bringing American theater to our friends in Central America.”

Corey caught my eye. His left eyebrow twitched — the same twitch he got when a dance sequence wasn’t right.

“Five countries. Ten weeks. All expenses paid.” The second suit smiled without moving his mouth. “A unique opportunity to serve your country while pursuing your art.”

“And you want … us?” I heard myself ask.

“Young, talented, adaptable.” The first suit checked items off on his fingers. “No political affiliations. No radical associations. Clean records. Perfect Spanish — ”

“Oh, we don’t speak Spanish,” Nellie said.

The suits exchanged a look I couldn’t read. “That can be arranged.”

Father Gilbert cleared his throat. “This is a tremendous honor. The committee specifically requested — ”

“Committee?” Nellie again.

“The selection committee,” the first suit said smoothly. “Very thorough process. Very … selective.”

A truck backfired outside, making Rose jump. Or maybe it wasn’t a truck. In 1973, you could never be quite sure what was backfiring and what was falling apart.

“When would this tour begin?” I asked, thinking about summer stock auditions, my mother’s garden party plans, and ordinary things that suddenly felt very far away.

“Three weeks,” the second suit said. “After an intensive orientation, of course. Nothing too demanding. Cultural sensitivity. Basic language. Security protocols — ”

“Security?” Corey’s eyebrow twitched again.

“Standard procedures,” the first suit said quickly. “Nothing to concern yourselves with. You’ll have a liaison. A guide. Everything will be … carefully managed.”

Father Gilbert was still beaming, but something else was in his face. Relief? Worry?

“Do we have to decide now?” Nellie asked.

“Of course not,” the second suit stood. “You have twenty-four hours.”

They left their card. Department of State, Office of Cultural Affairs. The phone number had more digits than it should have.

“This is incredible,” Rose whispered after they left. “Think of the costumes!”

“Think of the timing,” Nellie said. “With everything that’s happening down there — ”

“Everything happening is exactly why they need this,” Father Gilbert interrupted. “Music. Joy. Hope. You four could make a real difference.”

“Plus, it beats summer stock in Ohio,” Corey added, but he was trying too hard to sound casual.

I picked up the card from Father Gilbert’s desk. The eagle in the State Department seal looked more predatory than patriotic.

“Hank?” Nellie touched my arm. “What do you think?”

What did I think? I thought about the way the suits had watched us. About that extra phone number. About Walter Cronkite’s worried face on the television.

“I think,” I said slowly, “we should vote.”

But even as we raised our hands — four up, none down — I had the strange feeling we weren’t voting at all. We were auditioning. And somewhere, behind a curtain we couldn’t see, we’d already been cast.

The sound of distant thunder rolled again. Or maybe it was applause. In 1973, it was getting harder to tell the difference.