Redolent

Angie curls her nose at the smell of old velvet and dust. Perhaps, also, the faint scent of cigarettes. She doesn’t think she saw anyone smoke at the show, but no one had to. The cigarette scent isn’t truly a smell—just the ghost of a bygone era when seeing the newest show at the small-town theatre was the next best thing to do. When the poorer families dressed up in their Sunday best and the wealthier boosted their prestige by proving their love of the arts. From an era before the internet and public health concerns. Where everyone from town would fill the seats from the balcony to the floor and watch a blonde beauty whisk them through a story.

Angie blinks away the image of an elegant woman performing in a faux sotto voce and raises a hand to wipe at her wrinkled nose. She hates the smell of the theatre. It tickles a part of her brain she’d rather go untouched. She sneezes and packs away the camera by placing on the lens cap and desperately shoving the device into the padded bag. Busy collapsing that Stupid Fucking Old Ass Tripod, she doesn't hear the owner approaching from the upper entrance. 

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

Angie jerks and the collapsing tripod pinches her finger. She hisses in place of swearing in front of the old woman and sucks on her finger. She waves off Margret. 

“It’s-” she flinches and shakes her hand, “It’s honestly nothing. No work at all for me really.”

It really wasn’t. No camera work or cinematography. Angie just sat here and made sure the audio worked and the camera was in focus.

Margaret grins, “I should pay you for your boredom then?”

Angie chuckles, “Well you could.”

She becomes serious again and shakes her injured finger.

“But you can’t. ‘cause if you did, I’d also have to sue you for workers comp. I’m injured on the job.”

Marget laughs and grabs Angie’s wrist, inspecting the pinch that’s bleeding a little.

“Run it under cold water and put a band-aid on it. Good as new. That’s your worker’s comp. Now how about a Jackson and we’ll call it even?”

Angie gazes at the 4’8” old woman and thinks most would say she has withered with time. Her once-defining red hair has faded to a grey any woman her age would have. A grey as dull as her bright green eyes have gone. Her sapphire blue velvet dress and white faux mink would be called gorgeously bold on a young woman, especially as attractive as Margaret was in her youth. Now the rude call it tacky and the polite still call it bold– with a different undertone. Angie knows that what people don’t see is Margret’s physical appearance has always shielded her personality. In her youth, that bright bubbly demeanor protected her ambition and naivety. Now the woman has no need to shield anything, a whole perfect being without the need to put on a show.

Well, a metaphorical show. 

Angie glances at the stage. The props crew consisted of Margret’s nephew, Carson, who might just be the sweetest person in the world. Good genetics for that. He also happens to be the worst at gluing. 

“I’ll… cut the part where the chandelier falls apart,” Angie assures Margret.

Margret lights up at the mention. “No need! An old lady like me needs the excitement and goodness knows that cast needed it too.”

Angie only laughs half-heartedly. She’d tell Margret to keep the twenty for her retirement fund, but she knows it’d do half of nothing for her at this point. Especially with the debt she’s racking up keeping the place. Margret promises her that the theatre is her retirement fund. She’ll keep going until she has to refinance the place and sell it with her last breath. That way she gets what she wants without putting a debt into her family’s hands. 

Angie snaps out of the thought. Margaret’s family was “raised right” and not in the way old folk say it. They are kind and loving with a good head on them. Carson and his mother Maddy would be devastated by their matriarch’s death, but Angie knew she’d be the one begging to be buried with Margret’s corpse. 

“Whatever the client wants, she’ll get,” Angie replies with a strained smile. 

Margaret does exactly as she says she will– it’s always been that way. A crumpled bill and a band-aid later, Angie loads up her tiny car and hugs Margaret goodbye. The dim sky does little to light up the old playhouse but Angie can’t stop staring at it. Margaret is long gone, doing whatever Margaret does to keep the place afloat. There’s only one of five lights designed to illuminate Wrightbrooke Playhouse, yet Angie can see the exterior perfectly. Every chip, every crack, even the old handpainted letters underneath the newer airbrushed version. As much as Angie wants to say that her only connection to the place is Margaret, she knows that’s not true. 

Despite herself, Angie drives into the back lot that hasn’t been used in years. Everyone parks out front since the street is no longer anything close to busy. But growing up, she was always been driven into the back lot. It was where the cast and crew would park to enter discretely and not clog up the customer’s parking. Angie stops the car and massages her temples. She loves Margaret, but maybe she shouldn’t have come today. Angie and the Wrightbrooke Playhouse are made of the same cigarettes. She imagines the building on fire, that sense of freedom she would feel once it’s all ash. But Angie knows she and everyone she loves would burn right down with it. So the image doesn’t last, fading into an old, familiar memory that can never really burn away.

It’s Angelica Burke, 25 again, handing her daughter Angie off to Margaret before entering the back door. Margaret looks a bit more mature than Angelica Burke, a mid-thirties woman with red lipstick to match her voluminous updo. Angelica Burke walks in like she owns the place like she has since she was sixteen. Angie wouldn’t know, since she was born a few years later, but it’s what everyone tells her.

The entire town of Wrightbrooke was sure that Angelica Burke’s blinding talent would sweep the nation. Her beautiful strawberry-blonde hair and bright blue eyes seemed to change with every role she played. Always beautiful, always perfect, and always just a little different, tailored to Lady Macbeth or Wendy or whatever character she graced with her face and voice. Despite the hot, blinding light illuminating the stage, nothing could dim Angelica Burke.

Nothing, except Angela Burke. 

Angelica Burke was destined for Julliard– if not, straight to Broadway– if not, then Hollywood. But she became pregnant at eighteen and birthed a daughter instead. She named her Angela Burke. In her image, but bland enough that Angie would not overshadow it. Angie would never become bigger than her mother, never wanted to, but she pulled her down anyway. 

Opportunities outside the Wrightbrooke Playhouse never came for Angelica Burke, all thanks to the daughter that stole her golden years. So all Angelica Burke could do was waitress at their local diner and play the part of the fallen Local God. 

Angie’s eyes darted around the empty lot, tracing the pavement where her headlight illuminated ahead. If she stayed too long, she might worry Margaret but Angie just can’t bring her hands to put the car in reverse. Luckily, her ringtone breaks the frozen moment in time.

Angie fumbles around in her purse and picks up the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Kat said you’re off until Monday,” Greg says more than asks.

“Yeah.”

Greg gives an exasperated huff, “Shit.”

Normally, Angie would be pissed at the clear sign she’s going to be guilted into giving up her weekend but now she has to stop herself from jumping on it.

Angie gulps. “What’s up?”

“You know the Martinez couple?” Angie hums in acknowledgment “Well they had to delay the wedding to tomorrow and I’ve got another client then. Any chance you’re close enough to fill in? You’re the only one I know that can also film.”

Angie tries to sound reluctant, “Well, I can but I don’t really know what they want. Tomorrow is really last minute.”

“I’ll fill you in obviously and Kat will do all the wedding photos after. You just need to film the ceremony.”

Sweetening the deal then. Angie isn’t a fan of wedding pictures anyway. They’re just easier to get hired for. She much prefers filming the ceremony. Weddings can be so awful, so stressful, except for that one moment in the ceremony. Everything else is just being bitched at for six hours.

“Alright,” she agrees, “Send me everything you have and we’ll meet at the office in the morning.”

Angie hangs up and finally pulls herself into leaving the lot. It suddenly feels a little too warm in the car so she rolls down the windows and starts the three-hour drive back. 

Wrightbrooke has been replaced by Angie’s generation– who don’t really remember, let alone care about, Angelica Burke. The only ones that even would are Angie and Margaret. Maybe if Angelica Burke became famous in the way she wanted, it would be different. Maybe if Angelica Burke was a good mother, it would be different. But Angelica Burke was– is– neither. Just a silent, faded in-between. On the Wrightbrooke Playhouse’s stage, bowing to an absent audience.

Angie fears the ashes of the Wrightbrooke Playhouse, but not nearly as much as she fears its emptiness. She prefers her life the way it is, wanting to be and being no one. She prefers the way Margaret is, so… herself that she’s content no matter what. Above all else she pities Angelica Burke, for living her life like the show is over.