Page Title

CURTAIN CALL
by Ann Durand
copyright TRI Studio LLC 2005

END OF PART ONE

PART TWO CURTAIN CALL

BIO - Ann Durand has written three books: A Promise to Keep, a romantic suspense, was
released from Double Dragon Publishing in February, 2005. The other, TATO, is a fantasy
adventure for middle grade readers, and is available from Wings Press under her real name,
Kathe Gogolewski. She also wrote a sci fi with romantic elements due from Double Dragon
Publishing in December, 2006. Ann is also the Romance Editor for the ezine for writers, The
Muse Marquee, and heads up the column, Heart Beat.

Writing under her name, Kathe Gogolewski, Ann has won contests for her short stories with
Storyteller Magazine and The Writer’s Journal, The Complete Writer’s Magazine. She has also
won awards from Preditors and Editors for her children's story, Tato, and her adult fiction, A
Promise to Keep. Her short stories and poems have been published by Penwomanship,
JacoByte Books, and Long Story Short.
.
She has contributed to two anthologies: One, The Muse on Writing, is due for release from
Double Dragon Publishing in 2006. She wrote the chapter Finding and Writing in Your Own
Voice. She also wrote a chapter for the anthology Spiritual Visitations due from Zumaya
Publications in 2008.

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The Muse On Writing, Edited by Lea Schizas
Kathe Gogolewski wrote the chapter on
Finding Your Voice in Writing
CLICK ON COVER TO ORDER

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BACK TO SHORT STORY MENU

Mari felt herself waking, lifting toward consciousness as she jockeyed for better footing. The
ground broke into a hundred pieces, and the chunk beneath her feet dipped and swayed, as if it
were perched on an ocean wave.

It’s just a dream, she told herself, but her psyche argued the reality of her emotions. You really
feel this way. Dream or no dream, in your real life, you’re losing ground.

She opened her eyes and blinked into the morning bright room. A full night’s sleep had not
driven off the demons. As always, the Promise lurked just behind them, mocking her. You want
what I can give you. You know you do.

Though the Promise rarely released her from its grip, she would fly unshackled into bouts of free
thinking whenever it did. Don’t need that Promise, her heart would sing. Got my own.

Invariably however, the Promise would resurrect like a perennial weed, despite the happy
season that should have killed it. Always, it returned to her awareness, cautious and soft, easing
the entry.

Come, Mari. You can have it. Mother Promised it to you. And you want it, more than anything.

Did she? She knew Mother had wanted it for her. Mother had invented The Promise,
undoubtedly in response to her own ambitions--ambitions that she’d attempted to pass on to
Mari, fueling her daughter with her own desires. The words had been whispered to Mari with
passionate shakes of the head...and now, years after Mother's death, the words still haunted her
with a life of their own:

You are a star. You can do anything, anything at all. You can do it! You are better than
everyone else, Mari. You will be great! They’ll make you famous!

It had thrilled her to be considered so special. Surely Mother had not told the others, her
brothers, Mark and Roland, and her sister, Janie. And Mother knew. Mother knew everything. It
had felt so good to be loved that way, above everyone else.

Mari moved out of bed in slow motion, shuffling one foot in front of the other until she reached the
bathroom and the shower. She opened the door to the aluminum trimmed glass booth and
pulled the knob toward hot. Water sputtered then gushed from the head, a torrent of clear pellets
inviting her into its stream of activity, pledging to drive the demons back underground. She shed
her nightgown in one smooth motion, letting it slip from
her shoulders onto the tiled floor. In the shower, she bowed her head low and allowed the warm
jet to massage the back of her neck. pt pt pt pt pt pt . Ahhhh.

“Mari!” Her husband’s voice shouted from downstairs, just over the rush of water. “Telephone!”

“I’m in the shower!”

“What?”

Mari turned off the water, shook the excess, and stepped out. Draping herself in a towel, she
dashed for the phone downstairs. “Coming!” she called. She sprinted into the living room and
past her husband, Jack, who had already deserted the phone and was immersing himself in a
newspaper. In the kitchen, she plucked the receiver off the counter, gripping the front of her towel
as the water from her hair dripped onto the floor, forming tiny puddles around her feet.

“Yes, hello?”

“Mari, we need you downtown at Triple Light Theater for an audition in one hour. They want an
understudy for one of the leads in the new play, ‘The King and Ellora.’ Then, you’ll want to high
tail it over to Torko’s to audition for a Saturday night spot singing in their bar. They have a
pianist and I hear it’s a real nice piano.”

Inwardly, Mari groaned. Nice piano meant not-so-nice pianist. It was the language of her agent,
Tom Martinique. Though he worked hard for her, which she appreciated, she’d been to twenty-
nine auditions in two weeks and was growing weary. None of them had amounted to anything. In
fact, the last three years had been largely fruitless, save for those bit parts in local theaters and
the singing gigs in bars.

“Uh, actually Tom, I thought I ‘d take the day off.”

Silence on the other end, and then, “Mari, we don’t have room for loafers in this business.”

“But I haven’t been loafing, Tom, I’ve…”

”You’ve been everywhere with these auditions, Mari, I know. And that’s what it takes. You gotta
be in the right place at the right time, and the only way of increasing the odds are to hit the
streets constantly until something happens. You know that.”

Mari sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

“Hey!” Tom’s voice acquired a sudden lilt. “You’re gonna be famous some day; you know that,
don’t you? It just takes time. Be patient. When it breaks, it’s gonna break big! There’ll be press
conferences, autographs, and you’ll have to move into Beverly Hills with the other stars just to
get some privacy!”

Mari laughed. “Yeah, sure. I’ll have to hire a guard for each gate.”

“Probably.” Tom sounded serious. “It’s gonna happen because you've got it all, Mari: a
phenomenal presence on stage, an incredible soprano, you dance like Isadora Duncan, and you’
re better looking than Catherine Zeta-Jones and Elizabeth Hurley put together! Baby, you’re a
quadruple threat!”

Something inside Mari opened an eye and peered around. Are you calling me, Mari?

No, she thought desperately. Get back in your bottle.

“You know I have faith in you, Mari,” Tom continued. “You’re the best.”

Yessss, the best. You’re the best.

“Uh, gee, thanks, Tom.”

“I mean it. Your mother would be so proud if she could see how hard you worked to make
something of yourself.”

So proud. It was fully awake, now, and pulsating. Mother loved you best. And she promised—
you’ll be a star! Make her proud!"

“Okay, Tom. I’ll get dressed and head for the Triple Light.”

“Wear something sexy; the character’s a prostitute.”

“Tom…”

“A ravishing courtesan,” Tom said quickly. “And the favorite of the King himself.”

Ravishing, you can be ravishing. Yesssss.

“I hear the lead in this one has been ill lately. You’re bound to get a show. This could be it, Mari.”

Thisss is it! Thisss’ll be the one! Yessssss.

Mari said good-bye and dashed back to the bedroom, where she rifled through her sexiest
dresses, finally choosing the strapless satin green one that hugged her midriff, squeezing
upward into a forced cleavage. She aimed a dryer at her long dark hair, then fluffed the curls into
shape. She slipped into a pair of matching green heels and applied a thick layer of makeup
around her hazel eyes, waved to Jack and headed out the door.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled up in front of the Triple Light Theater, its façade lined with ionic
columns stretching skyward in marbled majesty for several stories. She parked in the back, and
darted around to the front, drawing several stares from a group of passing women. Should have
worn a sweater, she reprimanded herself. Even if it is a hot day.

No, we like staressss. Staresss are good, said the other voice.

She charged up the front steps of the building and entered through the tall double doors. A sign
directed her backstage to the auditions. A long line, maybe forty-five strong, snaked around
from stage right to the dressing rooms. Sighing, she pulled up to the rear and glanced at her
watch. She was exactly on time. She heard a shrill voice belt out the first lines on stage as the
auditions got underway.

“My King, as it pleases you,” the voice called. “I shall sing the song of the lost gypsy as she
dances into the fire, her heart forever scourged!” The high notes of a strained soprano rang out
in grating yet mercifully muffled tones to the captive audience backstage. Several actresses in
front of Mari grimaced before returning to their scripts.

Scripts? Mari didn’t have one.

Practice! You must practice so you can sing like a nightingale! Get your script! Oh, Mari, you’
re so much better than any of these women. Listen to that frog on stage!.

“Excuse me,” she said, tapping on the shoulder of a tall blonde in front of her. The woman's neck
and head were bent in concentration. She glanced around at Mari, irritation in her eyes. “Where
did you get that?” Mari asked, pointing at the crumpled script in the blonde's hand.

“In the front lobby, under the sign that points you backstage,” the woman said, as if she couldn’t
believe Mari had missed it.

“Would you mind saving my place for me while I go get one?” Mari asked.

The woman shook her head. “I’m not going to babysit your spot, honey. If you want it, you gotta
keep a foot in it.” And she turned back to her script.

Fool! I’ll be done with the likes of you when I’m famous!

Mari stuck her tongue out at the woman’s back and made her way to the lobby. When she
returned, a new voice was squealing out the notes of the gypsy song, and four more women had
arrived through a side door and supplanted her position in line.

“Excuse me,” she whispered to the first one, a woman with short and pointy auburn hair. “But I
was standing there. I had to leave for just a moment.” The woman looked at her, blinking
stupidly, as the three behind her pressed in closer.

“I didn’t see your place marker,” she said blandly.

“But I was just here.”

The woman with the auburn hair tapped the shoulder of the tall blonde in front of her, who turned
around. “Was she just here?” the auburn-haired one asked, thumbing Mari. The blonde gave
Mari a brief I-warned-you look, shrugged and turned back to her script. Wordlessly, the other
woman followed suit. Fuming, Mari retreated to the end of the line.

You don’t deserve this kind of treatment! They ought to be scrubbing the ground in front of
you! Fool women!

Shut-up, Mari told the voice.

Two hours later, Mari’s turn finally came up. Dripping with sweat from nerves and a stuffy
backstage, Mari headed for center stage. Before her, empty theater seats marched in perfect
order into the darkness under the mezzanine. Dwarfed by the expansive theater, three small
heads, all of them bald or nearly so, were huddled together in the front row.

“Begin,” one of the heads commanded before returning to the huddle.

My God, they’re not even watching you, Mari! Who do they think they are? Do they understand
what they’re about to hear? Evidently not! Fools!

Shut up! Mari told the voice. She bellowed out the first line, the spoken one. Two notes into the
gypsy song, another head in the front row popped up like a rising pink balloon and brought a
waving hand with it. Her throat slammed shut in surprise, her mouth poised like a Cheerio for the
next note.

“What?”

“Thank you,” cooed the head. “We’ll be in touch.”

“But…”

“Thank you!” the head said, louder this time.

Don’t take this treatment! Sing anyway! Make them listen!

No, Mari pleaded. It’s no use.

Sing! The Promise commanded her.

Mari squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a deep breath.

Sing! Sing! Loud and proud! Show them who you are! Now, Mari, now.

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