A Theatre Alive

Charlotte placed her head on Ramsay’s shoulder, her foot brushing against his leg, the final seconds of a black and white forties movie she couldn’t name fading to black, and a feeling tearing into her that instead of sitting here in an abandoned theatre she should be back with her Mom in the hospital, in that wooden chair that pushed against her back, and the monitors whose beep gave her a week long headache.

The credits rolled. She held Ramsay’s hand, trying to convince herself she’d earned a night out after a full year consumed with trips to the hospital, microwavable dinners, and conversations telling her friends and teachers that the doctors didn’t think her Mom would make it.

A chandelier hung from the ceiling and lights hung on the walls and she clinched her teeth, willing the lights the turn on. Beside the screen were two double-doors with columns and an archway, carrying the elegance of an older time now consumed by dust and cobwebs and spotted mold.

“We should leave,” Charlotte said.

“They didn’t even turn the lights on yet,” Ramsay said.

“Will the lights turn back on in an abandoned theatre?” Charlotte said.

“What’s the rush anyway?” Ramsay said. “I’m sure your Mom is fine.”

“Don’t talk about my family,” Charlotte said.

“The whole town talks about your family,” Ramsay said.

“It’s not true though. What they say,” Charlotte said.

“Don’t you understand how famous this place is? Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart and Doris Day sat in these seats, and even Kennedy before he was president.”

“And why do they keep this movie playing if the theatre is abandoned?”

“Town superstitions I guess. Don’t mess with Hess Theatre.”

“Been hearing that my whole life,” Charlotte said.

“Makes sense when the owner throws themself off the balcony,” Ramsay said.

She stood up. Stretched her legs and stretched her arms and calmed her breathing. A metallic odor lingered in the air.

Charlotte told herself they’d be out of this theatre and back on the highway soon. She’d tell her Mom she’d been at Kate’s house studying or Amy’s house studying, any lie better than saying she made out with a boy in an abandoned building.

“I actually have a confession to make,” Ramsay said.

“You’re a virgin?” Charlotte said.

“No. Well, yes but that’s not the confession.”

“Holding my breath.”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“You told me you come all the time.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see if what they said about this place was true.”

“That what? That all those people died in a horrific fire? Or that the owner killed himself after the rebuild because he kept on seeing things and no one believed him?”

“Both?”

“I don’t think you’d find anything.”

She stepped over Ramsay. Felt him looking at her. A smile ran across her face, and as she stepped into the aisle, the double doors adjacent to the screen moved as though fists pounded on its decaying wood.

“What was that?” Charlotte said.

“You scared?” Ramsay said.

“I believe in science, not ghosts,” Charlotte said.

“Can’t you believe in both?” Ramsay said.

Charlotte chuckled.

She walked down the aisle using her phone to light the path, dodging the upholstery in the middle of the aisle, the water dripping from the ceiling, and the old candy wrappers sticking to the floor.

Ramsay followed her. She could feel him mesmerized by the high ceiling, and when she looked back his eyes were gazing at the balcony.  

“This was the oldest movie theatre in Philadelphia,” Ramsay said.

“I’m surprised my Mom hasn’t called me back yet,” Charlotte said.

“She’s in the hospital?” Ramsay said.

“I’ll pick her up tomorrow,” Charlotte said.

Another thud against the door. She grabbed Ramsay’s hand. Turned to the doors on the other side of the aisle and sprinted into the lobby.

As they closed the door the sound of keys jingling echoed from the theatre balcony.

Charlotte looked back. Told Ramsay to be quiet. Covered her mouth as the air thickened and climbed into her nostrils.

But the sound didn’t return. A glitch in the speakers perhaps? Or the projector or a mouse scurrying across the seats?

Charlotte and Ramsay headed for the door to the parking lot, passing movie posters falling and covered in mold, advertising new releases by Preston Sturges, Howard Hawks, and William Wyler.

A voice moaned from the second floor, a song trailing in the rancid air and gripped her, gripped her because it was the same song her Mom sang as she picked her up from school,  about a man going to see a gal in Kalamazoo.

The sound of keys jingling accompanied the faded voice.

She looked at Ramsey. He stood motionless, eying the banister. The words in that song, Kalamazoo zoo zoo zoo zoo,  freezing her at the door to the parking lot.

“Welcome to Hess Theatre,” he said.

“And who are you?” Charlotte said.

“I am Gerald Hess,” he said.

“Who?” Charlotte said.

“The owner of Hess Theatre,” Gerald said.

She looked at Ramsay. She pulled at the handle of the door to the exit, coughing and remembering what the history books told her about what the owner of this theatre did to himself.

“You can’t leave yet,” he said, speaking in a way that matched the original elegance of the theatre, though each word carried labored breath, and his cheek bones and jaw protruded through his skin.

“We have to go, “Charlotte said.

“Did you enjoy your time at my theatre?” Gerald said.

“We did,” Ramsay said.

“We all enjoy the theatre,” Gerald said. “For all of us in here it is our final resting place.”

“Who is us?” Charlotte said.

Gerald laughed.

“So there was a fire?” Ramsay said.

“Wasn’t just a fire,” Gerald said. “A crook burned it down. You see when we started out our movies offered risqué content, but that changed and soon all the stars came to my theatre. But still one man saw the need to burn it down with all of us here like it was punishment.”

Charlotte watched Ramsay, feeling the distance grow between them, his eyes regarding Gerald like a savior, each word spoken like a clue to eternal life. And Ramsay too, covered his mouth, coughing and heaving in the thick air.

She pulled at the door to the parking lot. Despite no semblance of a latch or a locking mechanism it didn’t open.

“You look familiar young lady,” Gerald said. “What’s your name?”

“Charlotte,” she said.

“Does Charlotte have a last name?” Gerald said.

“Cooke.”

Gerald studied her. He took a step forward. He moved his hand over her cheeks.

“I’d like to show you the balcony. It offers the best seat in the house,” Gerald said.

 “Why won’t this door open?” Charlotte said.

“I suspect this theatre doesn’t want you to leave. This beautiful and majestic place certainly has a mind of its own. And please understand, I am its caretaker, its steward if you will, and will do all that I can to protect it.”

She followed them up the stairs. Watching Gerald. His steps unnatural and questioning, and his body odor reminding Charlotte of when she said goodbye to her Grandfather, the way his breath and bones filled the hospital room with a stench that stayed with her for weeks after he died.

Voices echoed from the lobby as they reached the second floor. She looked down at the balcony and saw only sewage pipes, loose electrical wire, and an empty concession stand.

She didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits or the Trinity, that kind of talk  remained locked away for Sunday sermons and the dialogue in horror flicks and the fervent believer talk of her Mother. She rubbed the temples of her head, coughing the metallic taste from her mouth.

Velvet ropes guided them to the balcony. Gerald gestured them toward the torn seats.

“You know young lady, the man who burned my theatre to the ground was named Cooke.”

“Was he?” Charlotte said.

“Indeed,” Gerald said.

“The balcony is beautiful. I can only imagine what this place looked like years ago,” Ramsay said.

“You don’t have to,” Gerald said.

The doors to the theatre opened.

A man walked in wearing the same bomber jacket that Charlotte had seen on the movie posters, and following him a woman in a skirt suit that fell below the knees. Then two more women came, walking arm and arm and dressed like Liz Taylor, and behind them two children sprinted for the seats in the front row.

“These the people you are talking about?” Ramsay said. “Who find their resting place inside this theatre?”

“Indeed,” Gerald said. “There is no more pain and no more suffering here.”

Charlotte gazed at the creatures or ghosts or whatever taking their seats, their presence an offense to everything she knew and everything she’d been told, and her understanding of what lived in this world now vanished. Mom always said embrace change but Charlotte hated that idea, felt comfort it what she knew. She watched them sitting and laughing and talking as though the universe betrayed her. A gray fedora lay on the ground, and when an old man, or whatever he was went to pick it up, she saw bright burn marks tracing up his arm, his blood stained eyes staring back at her.

“You’ll never be happier anywhere else than in this theatre. We are a community bonded by tragedy,” Gerald said.

“Perhaps we can stay for the next screening?” Ramsay said.

“But of course,” Gerald said.

She leaned toward the railing, and in the flickering of the dim chandelier she saw what bonded everyone in the crowd. Their faces, their mouths, and skin deformed by flames.

“I know it’s not the most attractive bunch in the world,” Gerald said. “But they did all die in a fire.”

They sat through the movie a second time. Ramsay said nothing, leaning forward as his eyes glossed over the screen. She watched as Gerald stared at Ramsay the way a snake stares at a bug just before it’s sucked into its stomach. When the crowd stood up, Ramsay remained seated, tears dripping from his eyes.

“I’ve never been so happy in my life,” Ramsay said.

“This theatre will do that to you,” Gerald said.

“I don’t want to go home,” Ramsay said.

“There’s only one thing to do if you want to stay,” Gerald said.

“And what is that?” Ramsay said.

“You must do as I did,” Gerald said. “Jump. And all those who have passed on can visit you right here.”

His wide pupils stared at Charlotte, and in that moment she no longer recognized him, a man now poisoned by Gerald’s word and infected by the enduring fumes infecting the air.

Ramsay climbed on the ledge, he looked at Charlotte. “You must come with me,” he said. “Maybe there’s a way your Mom can visit after she passes. Who knows what secrets live in this theatre? And I’ll be able to visit my Mom as well, just like he said.”

“Climb off that ledge,” she said, standing up from her chair.

“And this theatre is so quiet and peaceful. And think of all the movies we could watch and the stories that these people have, oh the stories Charlotte, the stories!”

Charlotte wanted to lunge toward Ramsay, and yet she feared a sudden movement might scare him off the ledge. She knew that the pain of losing his Mom had cost him his relationship with his Father, and how he turned to movies to cope, and how staying here and living amongst whatever lived here might offer hope.

“This is why you wanted to come all along isn’t?” Charlotte said.

“I needed to see this for myself,” Ramsay said.

He stood on the ledge, a smile gleaming from his face as the crowd headed toward the lobby.

She remembered when she stood at her locker last year, when she stepped out of class every hour to cry after her Mom had told her the news at dinner two days prior, and everyone in the hallway had walked past her, except Ramsay.

That day he hugged her. Told her he’d lost his Mom six months before. Told her everything would be okay, even though he knew it wouldn’t.

A pamphlet lay on the ground, torn and drenched in pipe water. And it read The History of Hess Theatre with a picture of Gerald holding ticket stubs in his hand and a fat smile across his face.

Gerald stepped forward, and Ramsay fell back, landing in the middle of a row of seats, his back breaking like a branch, and his body trembling and shaking on the floor as blood spilled from his mouth.

A smile cracked from Gerald’s crusted lips.

Ramsay’s body trembled. Then it stopped moving at all.

“And you young lady,” Gerald said. “Care to stay?”

“You killed him,” Charlotte said.

“I did no such thing,” Gerald said.

“What the hell are you anyway?” Charlotte said.

Gerald leaned against the railing. He laughed. Stared at her the same way everyone in town stares at their family when they go to the store or go to church or simply leave the house.

“It’s because of your Grandfather that this happened you know,” he said.

“That’s impossible.”

“I know a Cooke when I see one.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Your Grandfather thought he was doing the Lord’s work by ridding the world of these movies, but all he did was murder innocent people. That’s why people look at you the way they do.”

Charlotte turned around and headed for the exit of the balcony, and when Gerald stepped in front of her she tried to push him, but no matter how hard she pushed he didn’t move, his body like hardened cement.

“I can’t let you leave. Not after what you’ve seen. I told you my job is to protect the theatre.”

“Get away from me,” Charlotte said.

She pulled one of the stanchions, unhooked the velvet rope, and swung at Gerald. He bobbed out of the way, tripping over the steps that led to the balcony.

She dropped the stanchion. She left the balcony. She sprinted down the stairs.

The woman that looked like Liz Taylor and the gentleman in the bomber jacket and the children with wide smiles stood blocking the door. And as she approached the crowd the full extent of their injuries became obvious under the chandelier dangling from the ceiling.

She tried to bulldoze her way through a heavy set man with burn marks that traveled up his arms and a face so charred she could barely see the man’s eyes, and she tried to crawl between the legs of a tall man with singed hair. She tried. And kept trying. And they kept pushing her back.

Her phone vibrated, and when she backed away from the crowd she pulled it from her pocket. She answered, knowing that she couldn’t talk long, but wanting to hear her Mother’s voice.

The crowd encircled her, sucking up the air in the lobby. She pressed her phone into her ear, telling her Mom to sing to her, sing that song Mommy. Then she sang the words herself. Am I dreamin’? I can hear her screamin’ Hiya Mr. Jackson, everything’s O-k-a-l-a-m-a-z-o.

But she heard nothing on the other line, and when she turned around she saw him, blood spilling from his mouth, his back crooked and bones bulging from his shirt.

Ramsay.

He followed her. Chased her into the crowd. And the crowd consumed her. Burnt arms covering her like flames, and they scratched at her arms and scratched at her legs, the voice of Gerald lingering in her head, telling her he could never let her leave.

She wondered how Ramsay could have betrayed her like this. But it wasn’t Ramsay anymore. Whatever walked in this theatre, he had joined them now. And as they clawed at her, she had never felt more alone.

The phone vibrated again. She recognized the number, and thought about the nights she watched tv with her Mom on the couch, and the way she read to her Mom on the hospital bed, and the way her Mom smiled each day she picked her up from school when she was a kid. And it was in that car, on those warm leather seats,  before all the bad shit happened, that she wanted to go back to. But even if she couldn’t, she wanted to fight for her Mom now.

She pummeled the man in the bomber jacket and cursed at Ramsay, or whatever had become of him, and she kicked and flailed until they dropped her. And on the ground lay that old pipe fallen from the ceiling.

She picked it up. Slammed it against the glass door that led to the parking lot, and walked outside.

If she hadn’t been so concerned about the phone call she would have found relief in the gentle wind that swept across the parking lot, and the rumble of cars moving across the highway in the distance, and the bright stars that lit the sky.

The phone rang again. She tried not to cry. Tried not to think it could have happened on the day she chose not to be there.

She answered. A nurse identified herself. Offered her condolences. Told her it had happened an hour ago, and that she had been asleep when she passed.

Charlotte told the nurse she’d be on her way in soon, and then she hung up, walked her way back into the theatre, trying to remember the quickest way to the balcony.