Free Desert Winter by Michael Craft Page B

on the school’s music faculty. Glenn greeted him, “Hi, Lance.”
    â€œGlenn,” Caldwell acknowledged our employer, then returned his attention to me. “Yes, Claire, it’s ready. I think you’ll be very pleased. And I think you should know how proud I am to be a part of this project.” With a flourish, he produced a CD from the inside breast pocket of his nubby tweed sport coat.
    â€œStan,” I told the soundman, “let’s cue this up and take a listen.”
    Stan snatched it from Caldwell’s fingers and rushed back to the control booth.
    The composer was explaining, “Once I hit upon the central theme, the rest just flowed. It flowed. There’s a longish prelude or overture, to be played prior to curtain, then the two entr’actes, as well as incidental music for key scenes throughout. I decided on a synthesized performance, not only because it allowed me complete control, but because it has a certain ‘detached’ quality that seems to fit the mood of the script. Then I burned everything onto a CD, which should facilitate cuing.”
    Stan’s voice came over a loudspeaker: “Ready, Miss Gray.”
    Shielding my eyes with my hand, I looked up toward the booth, calling, “Let’s dim the houselights to half—better to set the mood—then go.” Turning toward stage, I called, “Quiet, everyone, please.”
    Instantly, a hush came over the auditorium as the houselights began to fide. Caldwell, Glenn, and I took seats in the fifth row, center, waiting for the sound to wash over us. I held my breath. I’d had lengthy discussions with the composer regarding the tone I wished to establish with his music, but I had yet to hear even a theme, a phrase, a note, so I had no idea what to expect from an artist known for his ego as much as for his skill.
    Then, out of silence, it began. By the second measure, I knew that Caldwell had truly delivered. It was impossible not to compare his music to David Raksin’s sumptuous film score, and it proved a worthy rival. Plus, it was original. It was ours.
    Sitting next to the composer, I put my hand over his and gave it a grasp of thanks. Without question, his music would add an important dimension to the production, a dimension that I hadn’t even realized, till now, had been lacking.
    After a few minutes, the introductory music had finished, and the remaining sections proved to be variations on the same wonderful theme. I began an animated discussion of the music with both Caldwell and Glenn, and sensing that my demand for silence had expired, the cast and crew broke into discussion as well. Someone was humming the infectious melody, and I became ever more confident that our show would be a smash.
    When the houselights ramped up again, Kiki clapped her hands for attention. “Costume parade! All actors onstage, please.” And within a minute or two, my cast of eight young charges had entered from the wings, modeling their finery for my scrutiny as well as Kiki’s. We had taken a straightforward, realistic approach in designing all of the costumes, which were stylish street wear of the 1940s.
    Tanner was predictably handsome in his wide-lapeled suit as Lieutenant McPherson. Thad was drop-dead endearing as Danny Dorgan, the nineteen-year-old son of the superintendent of Laura’s apartment building, a small role, but the first to speak. And then, of course, there was Laura herself, played by the beautiful Cynthia Pryor—remember that name. She, as well as several other cast members, had a number of costume changes, so the parade took a bit of time, as each costume needed to be viewed in combination with other characters. Before long, Kiki herself had climbed the stairs to the stage, poufing dresses, adjusting seams, and fussing with jewelry while dictating notes to an assistant.
    During all this hubbub, a backstage door opened, admitting a shaft of daylight. I heard