T. Bunn - Winner Take All

To Dale’s mind, Lincoln Center represented the nadir of postmodern architecture-designed with too much flair, refashioned by committee, underfinanced with city money. In the daylight the resulting structural breaches and architectural mistakes were all too evident. At night, however, the tall glass walls gave off their magnetic glow. The chandeliers radiated like giant diamond pendants. A train of limos pulled into the long drive off Broadway and emitted a constant stream of fine garb and gab. The central fountain splashed a rainbow, the jewels glinted and shone, the excitement was a feast shared by all. Everything worked to extend the performance’s magic beyond the stage.

Dale debated momentarily whether to try the stage entrance. Security at Lincoln Center was notoriously tight. Even in their best times Erin had regularly forgotten to leave his name with the guard. But if possible he would prefer not to have any public discussion with Erin. She played to whichever audience was around. It was in her genes.

Dale paused long enough for a glance at the Met, his favorite opera house in all the world. Through the front wall of pillared glass he could make out the two Chagall hangings and the starburst chandeliers of Bohemian crystal. For months after Erin ran away to Paris, he had tried to convince himself that things would have been different had she only received the invitation she deserved. But the afternoon light was too great, the summer heat too oppressive, and his interior baggage too heavy to cart around such lies any longer.

He walked parallel to where Columbus and Broadway joined just north of the center, then turned left and descended 65th Street’s gentle slope. He recognized the huge black guard doing sentry duty outside the stage entrance, but could not remember his name. There was clearly some recognition on the guard’s part, for he nodded a greeting and held open the door.

The white guard stationed behind the security desk looked planted permanently in his seat, there so long his entire body had been pulled down by gravity to puddle around his chair. “Help you?”

“I’m here to see Erin Brandt. But I don’t know if she’s signed for me.”

“Name?”

“Dale Steadman.”

“Steadman. Sure, you’re down. Ms. Brandt must’ve had them call you in from upstairs.” He ticked the name off the sheet. “I have to have somebody show you up.”

“No problem.” Dale pointed to the loudspeaker from which he could hear his former wife singing. “Are they running late?”

“By almost two hours.”

“Makes for a long day.”

The guard shrugged. “We go time-and-a-half in exactly eleven minutes.”

Dale waited while the guard signaled for an escort, then followed a harried young woman through the backstage maze. Formerly known as Philharmonic Hall, Avery Fisher Hall had been the first building to open and was by far the coldest and least imposing of the Lincoln Center structures. Low ceilings and massive pillars transformed the lobbies into a series of tight marble-lined cages. The foyer’s soundburst sculpture had no real space from which it could be appreciated, and so looked more like bronze blades threatening to plummet at any moment.

The hall itself was functionally excellent yet aesthetically horrendous. The four levels and twenty-eight hundred seats had originally been decked out in royal blue plush, which looked fabulous but held the acoustic quality of a sealed coffin. Avery Fisher, the founder of Fisher Electronics, had redesigned the hall and paid for it himself. Like his world-famous speaker systems, the result was a minimum of fancy and a maximum of functionality.

Not even the New York Philharmonic, the oldest symphony orchestra in the United States, nor its roster of famous conductors which included Zubin Mehta, Kurt Masur, and Leonard Bernstein, could overcome the fact that Avery Fisher Hall resembled nothing so much as the interior of a kettledrum.

The backstage was a tangle of settings and wires and lighting. Entrance stage right was made between the chief pulley system for the fire curtain and the principal video monitors. As soon as he heard the first note, Dale understood how Erin could never have refused this chance to return. They were performing Puccini’s La Bohème , a vastly popular work that had become Erin’s signature piece since the pregnancy. The stage of Avery Fisher Hall was definitely not the Met. But it was still a vital part of Lincoln Center. She was coming in to save a gala charity event. The publicity would be enormous. It was one giant step closer to her goal.

The hall contained no orchestra pit, which meant she would be giving a concert performance-no theatrical backdrop, the singers and orchestra onstage together, the crowd there for the music alone. Dale arrived stage right just as Erin concluded the Abandonment aria in the third act. Her back was to him, and she sang to an almost empty hall. A group of children were assembled stage left. Most were in wheelchairs. Many bore the shaved heads and haunted features of recent chemo. Still more children filled the auditorium’s first few rows. The aria was a tragic crescendo of potent sentimentality, and Erin sang with the alluring force that was all her own. Several of the children’s faces were stained with tears. A pair of photographers moved about the aisles. It was a traumatic blow for Dale, seeing these hollow-faced children captivated by her spell.

At the aria’s conclusion, the children broke into spontaneous applause. The conductor waited them out, then began reviewing last-minute changes with Erin and the musicians. Erin smiled for the children before turning toward the conductor. And spotted Dale.

She showed a bewilderment that under different circumstances would have been truly comic. “What are you doing here?”

“You called me.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“Your assistant, then.”

Her incredulity gradually became a flush of genuine anger. “That is ridiculous.”

“Then how do you explain my having a backstage pass waiting for me?”

“I don’t need to explain anything!” All eyes were upon her as she crossed the stage toward him. “I told you I would come down Monday.”

“And I was waiting at home for you to get there. Until your staffer called and said it was urgent I drop everything and fly up.”

“This is absurd!”

“Oh, wait, let me guess.” He knew his voice was rising, but no longer cared. “This is just another of your classic maneuvers.”

Fire flashed within those dark eyes. She hissed at him, “Stop making a scene!”

“It won’t work this time. I’ve spent years enduring your tantrums and your tactics. But not now. Not over Celeste.” He jabbed his finger at her, wishing with all his might for the freedom to drive it right through the place where, in any normal person, a heart would be beating. “You’ve lied every step of the way. Everything I’ve done has been for the sake of Celeste. But you’ve done nothing except use our baby girl like a pawn. It’s enough, Erin. It’s too much. It’s over.”

“This isn’t the time or the place!”

“Yes it is! You’re going to answer me now!”

“Answer you? You want me to answer you?” Her control slipped away. The observers no longer mattered, the fury would not be denied. In the space of two heartbeats she aged twenty years. “You want the world to hear how you’re the one responsible for all this?”

“Forget what I told Reiner. The deal is off. My lawyer is going to have you arrested.”

“Arrest me? ” Her shrieking laughter filled the entire stage. “Am I the one who got so blind drunk he set his own house on fire and almost murdered his own wife and child?”

“That’s not true and you know it.”