Marcia Talley: This Enemy Town

“‘Too salty,’” Dorothy chirped, not appearing to mind in the least. “‘I prefer general.’”

I couldn’t resist. “‘With or without his privates?’”

And we fell about laughing, as if we’d been best friends since junior high. Lord knows, we were certainly acting like eighth graders. I was glad Dorothy felt good. Endorphins are good medicine.

When we’d recovered sufficiently to rediscover the bar and order a couple of sensible club sodas with lime, I studied Dorothy’s pale blue eyes blinking away tears of laughter behind her rimless eyeglasses and thought it might be fun to help out with Sweeney Todd . I visualized driving midshipmen up to A.T. Jones in Baltimore and watching while George Goebel and his pros fitted the cast with elaborate nineteenth-century costumes designed especially for the show. I thought about makeup: painting Mrs. Lovett’s cherry-red cheeks, making Sweeney’s eyes look dead and sunken, and about how much fun it would be to create the zombielike faces of Sweeney’s victims. I grew excited about prowling the antique shops of West Annapolis in search of Victorian-era props to furnish Sweeney’s barbershop or Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop.

“Sure,” I agreed with new enthusiasm. “How can I help?”

Dorothy grabbed my hands in both of hers and squeezed her appreciation. “Oh, Hannah, would you? You’ve saved my life.” Then she said the words that made my heart drop to my shoes, as if she’d explained it all to me before. As if I had known from the very first moment we met. As if I had always known.

Dorothy was building the sets.

My mental gears ground violently as they shifted from romantic visions of frock coats and tea trays and wing-back chairs with antimacassars to images of a bleak industrial cityscape where soot-stained brick walls stretched out of sight into the fly gallery. I visualized a huge, elaborate set featuring barred windows and fuming chimneys, a complicated revolving structure of stairways and platforms, with Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop (downstairs) and Sweeney Todd’s tonsorial parlor (upstairs), all connected by bridges, trapdoors, and hidden chutes, set pieces that moved in and out of the wings with the smooth silent menace of icebergs.

I thought about Mrs. Lovett’s belching oven and Sweeney Todd’s deadly barber chair.

I thought about saws and hammers and screwdrivers and drills.

“Wonderful!” I lied brightly. “When do we start?”

Dorothy and I arranged to meet at Mahan Hallthe following Tuesday, where I would have my first opportunity to visit the auditorium, check out the sets, and see exactly what I’d gotten myself into.

Just before three o’clock, I bundled myself into a coat and scarf, pulled on a pair of boots-it had snowed overnight and the brick sidewalks were treacherous with slush-thrust my hands into my pockets and trudged down Maryland Avenue toward Gate 3, one of three heavily guarded entrances to the Naval Academy, and the one closest to my house.

After threading my way around the security barriers-none-too-subtly disguised as humongous planters-I produced my civilian ID for the earnest young Marine at the gate, who scrutinized it closely, his brown eyes flitting up and down between my face and the one pictured on the ID in his hand. His caution didn’t surprise me. I had shoulder-length hair in that prehistoric picture, and pink, chipmunk cheeks, but I must have passed muster because he returned my ID with a cheerful, “Have a nice evening, ma’am,” and glanced only briefly at my backpack before smiling and waving me through.

The Yard-what any other college would call its campus-is 330 acres of dormitories, offices, classroom buildings, state-of-the art sports facilities, officer housing, parade grounds, memorial parks, and playing fields that roll gently down to the seawall that during high water holds back the Severn River. To my right, opposite the guardhouse, was the Administration Building, where the superintendent had his offices; behind that rose the majestic dome of the Naval Academy Chapel.

Avoiding the icy patches, I hustled down the walk, passing Preble Hall, the building that housed the Naval Academy Museum and one of the finest collections of ship models to be found anywhere, until I stood within the welcoming arms of Mahan Hall, a national Historic Landmark, and, like the Officers and Faculty Club and the other buildings in the immediate vicinity, a turn-of-the-nineteenth-century Beaux Arts treasure.

Named for Rear Admiral Alfred Thayer Mahan, Naval Academy Class of 1859, author of the definitive book on sea power, Mahan (the building, not the man) sits at the center of the Yard, across a grassy square from Bancroft Hall, the colossal, eight-wing dormitory, constructed in a double H, that houses and feeds all 4,200 midshipmen.

Mahan itself has only two wings-Maury and Sampson, home to the Engineering and Humanities departments respectively-and rising from the center, a monumental four-faced clock tower. As I approached, the bell in the tower tolled six. Six bells in shipspeak; 1500 military time, 3:00 P.M. for landlubbers. From behind me came the answering bells of the chapel carillon, playing the Westminster chimes-the long version. I stood quietly, breathing slowly, my breath condensing like smoke before my face, enjoying the moment, waiting until the last bong had faded into the crisp late afternoon air before moving on.

I climbed the steps of Mahan and pushed through the bronze-studded oak doors that led into the lobby, which, in spite of their enormous size, opened silently and effortlessly on massive, perfectly balanced hinges.

No matter how many times I visit, it always takes my breath away to step into that magnificent foyer, with its wide expanses of black and white marble and its pair of grand interior staircases. The architect had built clerestory windows at each landing so that whatever the weather, the interior spaces would be flooded with light.

I paused in the lobby, trying to decide whether to go left or right, figured it didn’t matter-the wings were identical-and walked around to my left, up a couple of steps, and through a glass door that led to a long hallway with windows on one side and carved wooden doors leading to the auditorium where I had agreed to meet Dorothy. I opened the door nearest the stage end, slowly, so as not to disturb any rehearsal that might have been in progress, and slipped in.

As I eased along an aisle between two rows of seats, moving toward the center of the auditorium, I glanced at the stage and was relieved to see that set construction was well under way. A wooden superstructure was already in place-the bleak windows of Fogg’s Asylum stared at me blankly from the left, and to the right, a skeleton of two-by-fours outlined what was soon to be Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop with Sweeney’s tonsorial parlor just above.

The air was heavy with sound: the hum of voices punctuated by occasional shouts, the pounding of hammers, the screech and whine of a power saw emanating from somewhere nearby.

Midshipmen were scattered about the hall-singly and in groups-dressed in a variety of uniforms, depending upon where they’d just come from-class or athletic practice. Off in one corner, a trio dressed in WUBAs-working uniform blue alpha: black trousers and black, long-sleeve shirts-appeared to be practicing lines, holding their scripts behind their backs and glancing at them from time to time as if to jog their memories.

Other midshipmen in bright blue and gold track suits were sprawled in seats about the auditorium, their feet propped up on the backs of the seats in front of them, books open on their knees, studying.

I didn’t see Dorothy, so I sat down to wait.

A midshipman in gray sweats wandered onstage, carrying a hammer. He gazed upward, pointed the hammer at the lights, gestured with it to someone behind me-in the light booth, I presumed-then wandered off, stage right. What was that all about? Nothing changed about the lights-they remained a bright pinkish hue-so I figured no one in the light booth had been paying attention.