In one of the church stories, a dove brings back a twig or something, one that proves life.
Maybe that’s what they’re waiting for.
There’s not that much difference in a pigeon and a dove, really. A pigeon’s just a big dove that’s learned to live a different way. A pigeon is to a dove as I am to Kara—I study for the SATs, yeah.
And I’m going to ace them. I’m going to blast off into the world and this Ben Rogers thing isn’t going to stop me. He was just, literally, a speed bump, one I’ll be the only one to ever know about.
Good-bye, Kara. I’m sorry. But you have to keep moving. If you don’t, you end up living in this town forever.
I nod to myself about the honesty of this, and then it occurs to me that either Ben Rogers or the pigeon should have the leftover magic of that spell, right?
Then why is the pigeon dead out on the grass? I edge over to the foggy-cheap window, get a line on where the feet of the ladder were. Where I’m pretty sure there’s a bird corpse. Some kind of black lump, anyway.
Which reminds me: why didn’t the cops ever find Ben Rogers? Wouldn’t there have been a giveaway tornado of flies out there? Don’t any of the neighborhood third-graders play down there in the junk, just because they’ve been warned not to? Wouldn’t a neighborhood dog have shown up with a left hand clamped between its happy teeth?
Except you ran over that dog, I tell myself.
Right after you ran over the boy.
I chuckle with the bad luck of it all, and the creaking I turn to before I even realize I’m turning, at first I think it’s my dad standing in the door that goes to the kitchen.
But that door’s still shut, exactly like I left it.
It’s not the ladder creaking either, because I’m still touching the ladder, would feel it creaking, and the red hooks are dipped in plastic anyway.
My most sincere fear is that it’s going to be Tad and Kim Rogers, their mouths just these grim lines, their eyes so disappointed. At least, before I see the tiny hand guiding the lid of the washing machine up, I think they’re my most sincere fear.
I did come back down the ladder into a different place.
I know that now.
I climbed down into a world of my own making, and now I have to live here, with Ben Rogers, who wants to crawl up my frontside, latch his mouth onto mine, and breathe into my throat whatever’s rising in his.
Maybe his parents will find the doorway that opens up to us someday.
Or maybe Kara’s shovel will.
I’ll be waiting to feel that light on my face.
But hurry, please.
The Secret of Flight
A. C. WISE
THE SECRET OF FLIGHT
WRITTEN BY OWEN COVINGTON
DIRECTED BY RAYMOND BARROW
PROLOGUE
ACT 1
SCENE 1
SETTING: The stage is bare except for backdrop screen showing the distant manor house.
The lights should start at 1/8 and rising to 3/4 luminance as the scene progresses.
AT RISE: The corpse of a man lies CENTER STAGE. POLICEMAN enters STAGE RIGHT, led by a YOUNG BOY carrying garden shears. The boy’s cheek is smeared with dirt. The boy points with shears and tugs the policeman’s hand. POLICEMAN crosses to CENTER STAGE and kneels beside the corpse. BOY exits STAGE RIGHT.
POLICEMAN puts his ear to the dead man’s chest to listen for breath or a pulse. His expression grows puzzled. POLICEMAN straightens and unbuttons the dead man’s shirt. He reaches into the corpse’s chest cavity and withdraws his hands, holding a starling (Director’s note: use C’s, already trained). POLICEMAN holds starling out toward audience, as though asking for help. Starling appears dead but after a moment stirs and takes flight, passing over the audience before vanishing. (Director’s note: C assures me this is possible. C concealed somewhere to collect the bird?). POLICEMAN startles and falls back. (BLACKOUT)
LEADING LADY VANISHES!
Herald Star
October 21, 1955
Betsy Trimingham, Arts & Culture
Last night’s opening of The Secret of Flight at the Victory Theater will surely go down as one of the most memorable and most bizarre in history. Not for the play itself, but for the dramatic disappearance of leading lady Clara Hill during the play’s final scene.
As regular readers of this column know, The Secret of Flight was already fraught with rumor before the curtain ever rose. Until last night, virtually nothing was known of The Secret of Flight save the title, the name of its director, Raymond Barrow, and of course, the name of its playwright, Owen Covington.
Raymond Barrow kept the play shrouded in mystery, refusing to release the names of the cast, their roles, or a hint of the story. He did not even allow the play to run in previews for the press. Speculation ran rampant. Was it a clever tactic to build interest, or was it a simple lack of confidence after the critical and financial failure of Barrow’s last two plays?
Whatever Barrow’s reasoning, it is now inconsequential. All that is on anyone’s lips is the indisputable fact that at the culmination of the play, before the eyes of 743 witnesses, myself included, Clara Hill vanished into thin air.
For those not in attendance, allow me to set the scene. Clara Hill, in the role of Vivian Westwood, was alone on stage. The painted screen behind Hill was lit faintly, so as to suggest a window just before dawn. As the light rose slowly behind the false glass, Hill turned to face the audience. It appeared as though she might deliver a final soliloquy, but instead, she slowly raised her arms. As her arms neared their full extension above her head, she collapsed, folding in upon herself and disappearing.
Her heavy beaded dress was left on the stage. In her place, a column of birds—starlings, I believe—boiled upward. Their numbers seemed endless. They spread across the theater’s painted ceiling, then all at once, they pulled together into a tight, black ribbon twisting over the heads of the theater patrons. You can well imagine the chaos that ensued. Women lifted their purses to protect their heads, men ineffectually swatted at the birds with their theater programs. There were screams. Then there was silence. The birds were gone. Vanished like Clara Hill.
Was it all a grand trick, a part of the show? The stage lights snapped off, the curtain fell abruptly, and we were ushered out of the theater, still dazed by what we had seen.
As of the writing of this column, neither Barrow nor any other member of the cast or crew has come forward to offer comment. Dear readers, as you know, I have been covering the theater scene for more years than I care to name. In that time, I have seen every trick in the book: Pepper’s Ghost, hidden trap doors, smoke and mirrors, misdirection. I can assure you, none of those were in evidence last night. What we witnessed was a true, I hesitate to use the word miracle, so I will say phenomenon.
Prior to last night, no one save those directly involved with The Secret of Flight had ever heard the name Clara Hill. Last night, she vanished. Her name will remain, known for the mystery surrounding it, but I do not think the woman herself will ever be seen again.
Personal Correspondence
Raymond Barrow
December 18, 2012
Dear Will,
I know it’s absurd, writing you a letter. But a man my age is allowed his eccentricities. 88 years old, Will. Can you imagine it? I certainly never intended to be this old. The young have a vague notion they will live forever, but have any of them thought about what that really means? To live this long, to outlive family and friends. Well, since I have lived this long, I will indulge myself and write to you, even though it’s old fashioned, and there’s no hope of a response. Forgive an old fool. Lord knows I feel in need of forgiveness sometimes.
It’s been 57 years since Clara disappeared. Aside from you, she was my only friend. I wish you could have met her, Will. I think you would have got along—comrades in your infernal secrecy, your refusal to let anyone else in, but somehow always willing to listen to me go on about my problems.
I’m all alone now. The only one left besides the goddamn bird, the one Clara left me. It’s still alive. Can you fucking believe it? Starlings are only supposed to live 15, 20 years at the most. I looked it up.
Rackham. That’s what Clara called him. I didn’t want to use him in the play, but Clara insisted, and now I’m stuck with the damn thing. He’s not . . . natural. He’s like Clara. I don’t think he can die.
I’m ashamed to admit it, maybe you’ll think less of me, but I’ve tried to kill him—more than once. He speaks to me in Clara’s goddamned voice. Starlings are mimics, everyone knows that, but this is different. I tried to drown him in a glass of brandy. I tried to wring his neck and throw him into the fire. Do you know what he did? He flapped right back out into my face with his wings singed and still smoking.
To add insult to injury, he threw my own goddamn voice back at me, a perfect imitation. He said, “Leading ladies are a disease. You breathe them in without meaning to, and they lie dormant in your system. Years later, you realize you’re infected, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. You spend the rest of your life dying slowly of them, and there’s no such thing as a cure.”
Do you remember? I said that to you, years ago. At least it sounds like the kind of pretentious thing I would say, doesn’t it? I was probably trying to be clever or impress you. Did it work?
Pretentious or not, it is true. I’m infected, and Clara is my disease. She’s here, under my skin, even though she’s gone. Everyone’s gone, Will. Even you.
Well, goddamn you all to hell then for leaving me here alone.
Yours, ever,
Raymond
Items Displayed in the Lobby of the
new Victory Theater
1. Playbill—The Secret of Flight (1955)—Good Condition (unsigned)
2. Playbill—Onward to Victory! (1950)—Fair Condition (signed—Raymond Barrow, Director; William Hunter, Marion Fairchild, Anna Hammond, cast)
3. Complete Script—The Secret of Flight (1955)—Good Condition (signed, Owen Covington)
4. Press Clipping—Herald Star—June 17, 1925
“Victory Theater Under New Ownership”
A staged publicity photo shows Richard Covington shaking hands with former theater owner Terrance Dent. Richard’s brother, Arthur Covington, stands to the side. The article details plans for the theater’s renovation and scheduled reopening. The article provides brief background on the brothers’ recent immigration to America from England. A second photograph shows the family posed and preparing to board a ship to America. Arthur Covington stands toward the left of the frame. Richard stands next to his wife, Elizabeth, his arm at her waist. Elizabeth rests both hands on the shoulders of their three-year-old son, Owen, keeping him close. None of the family members are smiling. To the right of the frame, standing with the luggage, is an unidentified young woman with dark hair thought to be Owen Covington’s nanny. A shadow near the woman’s right shoulder vaguely suggests the shape of a bird.
5. Press Clipping—Herald Star—August 7, 1976
“Fire Destroys Historic Victory Theater”
A half-page image shows the burned and partially collapsed walls of the Victory Theater. Dark smudges above the ruins show a sky still heavy with smoke. Certain patches might be mistaken for a densely packed flock of birds. The article offers scant detail beyond that the fire started early in the morning of August 6, cause unknown. The blaze took several hours to bring under control. No casualties reported.
6. Press Clipping—Herald Star—December 1, 2012
“A New Life for the Victory Theater”
The image at the top of the page shows the exterior of the New Victory Theater. A brushed stainless-steel sign bears the theater’s name, and below it, an LED marquee screen shows the word WELCOME. The article discusses the successful fund-raising campaign leading to the construction of the New Victory Theater at the site of the original building. Brief mention is made of the architects’ intent to incorporate elements salvaged from the old theater into the new design, however all the historic pieces are held by an anonymous collector who was unwilling to donate or sell them. The majority of the page is given over to pictures of the gala opening. The article notes that Raymond Barrow was invited to serve as honorary chair of the event, but he declined.
Incomplete Draft of Murmuration by Arthur Covington—
typed manuscript with handwritten notes
(CLAIRE glances over her shoulder before hurrying to EDWARD’s desk, rifling through the drawers.)
CLAIRE (to herself): Where is it? Where is he keeping it?
(As her search grows more frantic, she fails to notice EDWARD entering the room. EDWARD grabs CLAIRE by the arm.)
EDWARD: Are you trying to steal from me?
CLAIRE: You stole from me first. Where is it?
EDWARD: Stole from you? You live in my house. You eat my food. Everything you own is mine.
(CLAIRE tries to strike him. EDWARD catches her hand. He leans close, his jaw clenched in anger.)
EDWARD: Show me how it works, and I might forget about your attempted thievery.
(CLAIRE doesn’t answer. EDWARD grips her harder, shaking her.)
EDWARD: There’s some trick to it. Look at this.
(EDWARD rolls up his sleeve and shows CLAIRE a long gash on his arm.)
EDWARD: I shouldn’t be able to bleed anymore. I shouldn’t be able to die.
CLAIRE (her voice hard): It was never going to work for you, Edward. You can’t steal a feather from a bird and expect to fly, or steal a scale from a fish and breathe underwater. You can’t change the nature of a thing just by dressing it up as something else.
EDWARD: Then tell me. Tell me how it works, and I’ll let you go.
(ANDREW enters STAGE RIGHT, freezing when he see CLAIRE and EDWARD. Unnoticed, ANDREW hangs back, watching. EDWARD strikes CLAIRE. CLAIRE doesn’t react. He knocks her down, pinning her, and puts his hands around her throat.)
God, this is shit. The whole thing is shit. It isn’t enough. It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t make up for the fact that “Andrew” just stood there and did nothing. I stood in the hall and listened to them yell, and then when I finally got up the courage to go into the room, I froze instead of helping Clara. Not that she seemed to need my help. Speaking of which, what about the birds? How the hell do I stage the birds? No one would believe it. I don’t believe it, and I was there. The room filling up with beaks and feathers and wings. Hundreds of birds coming out of nowhere while Clara lay there, and Richard throttled her, and I did nothing.
What the hell am I doing, writing this thing? Shit.
SUICIDE ATTEMPT THWARTED AT THE VICTORY THEATER!
Herald Star—April 19, 1955
Betsy Trimingham, Arts & Culture
There is a hero in our midst, dear readers. One, it seems, who has been hiding in plain sight at the Victory Theater. For months now, the theater scene has been buzzing with speculation over the Victory’s latest production, all of which is being kept strictly under wraps.
Last night, however, one cat escaped the bag. Owen Covington, son of late theater owner Richard Covington, prevented an unknown woman from leaping to her death from the theater’s roof. As it so happens, not only is young Mr. Covington a hero, he is the author of Raymond Barrow’s mysterious new play.
Although he declined to comment upon his heroic actions, I was able to unearth one piece of information at least. Owen Covington’s play, scheduled to open at the Victory later this year, is titled The Secret of Flight.
As for the young woman whose life Mr. Covington saved, could she be a member of the cast? Has Raymond Barrow unearthed the next darling of the theater scene? Or is she merely some poor seamstress working behind the scenes? More scandalously, could she be Raymond Barrow’s lover? The only clue Mr. Covington provided during my repeated requests for comment was an unwitting one. He said, and I quote: Clara is none of your business.
Who is Clara? Rest assured, dear readers, I intend to find out!
Personal Correspondence