13. ANNABELLE’S MUSICAL

So, Annabelle, I asked, do you and Thatch want to do anything special for Easter?

I want to open our presents! Thatch responded enthusiastically, and he began to dance about the apartment.

Nope. No presents at Easter. I’m sorry.   You only get presents on Christmas and your birthday . . . and special occasions.

Are there any good songs we can sing? Annabelle inquired, looking up from her copy of Backstage.

Well, Rosemary Clooney recorded “Eggbert the Easter Egg” . . .

Is it as good as “White Christmas?” she asked.

Thatch burst into “White Christmas” and the pigeons on the fire escape joined in.

ALVIN! I yelled. Thatch stopped singing and started laughing. He loves “The Chipmunk Song.”

Well, no, I told Annabelle, it’s not as good as “White Christmas.” The only other song I can think of is “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.”

Is it as good as “White Christmas?” Or “Jingle Bell Rock?”

Well, it’s catchier than “Eggbert the Easter Egg.” Neither one’s very good.

She sighed and turned back to Backstage. I could hear Thatch and the pigeons singing “White Christmas.”

Wait! There’s a great Easter song: “Easter Parade.” How could I forget that? And it‘s by Irving Berlin, the man who wrote “White Christmas.”

And Annie Get your Gun!  Annabelle exclaimed. Then it must be good, so I should learn it! Annabelle was excited. Can you play it for us?

I played them several recordings of the song, and once she had the song down, Annabelle was really enthusiastic.

I love this song! It’s catchy! Do you know what a “rotogravure” is? I need a song as good as this and “White Christmas” for my musical. Thatch, we need to find this Irving Berlin. We’ll make him a star!

Yes, it’s true. Annabelle and Thatch are writing a musical. It all began when Annabelle threw a fit and tore up her copy of Backstage because no one was casting CATS and she saw no other roles suitable. She was also furious at me because I refused to let her take acting classes at the HB Studio. I like to encourage her dreams, but she’s sneaky. I don’t know what she does every time I leave the apartment.

She threw the tattered Backstage off the table, and began her usual diva act whenever things aren’t going her way: I’ll never be a star! I’ll never get to Hollywood, and her latest: I’ll never make the cover of Time or Entertainment Weekly!

These tantrums usually end by her jumping onto a shelf and tossing everything onto the floor or withdrawing to her washtub in the bathroom where she lies with the lights out and lets Thatch fetch for her. He loves her so much that he brings treats, strokes her ego, sings with her, and boosts her confidence. Because she’s easily distracted, I throw some bread on the fire escape for the pigeons, they show up, and Annabelle forgets her pique and does her standup comedy for them.

So, after her last big fit, we watched the movie The Actress to divert her. I told Annabelle that Ruth Gordon had written the play about her own life. Then I told her about Emlyn Williams writing Night Must Fall to give himself a starring role as a psycho killer. So, she’s writing a musical to star herself. She won’t tell me much about it, except that it’s a serious musical drama based on her life. Thatch tells me it’s really, really, really, really good.

I’ve heard her and Thatch singing and tossing rhymes about. At one point I suggested that she needed a good songwriter. She ignored me at first, but now she wants Irving Berlin to write her score. When I inquire what’s up, they tell me it’s nothing. However, Thatch has never been able to keep a secret, so he’s told me there’s a chorus line of pigeons and a cockroach ballet. I didn’t tell Thatch, but that cockroach ballet will be a huge problem for her choreographer for two reasons: cockroaches are too stupid to learn anything, and she’ll keep eating the cast.

Has she decided on a title? I asked him.

The Perils of Annabelle. Isn’t that good?

The Perils of Annabelle? I asked Thatch. Really?  What was she thinking? My little girl has the easiest life I know. She thinks she owns this building! She ought to call it “My Fair Kitty,” “Funny Cat,” or “West Side Kitty.”

It’s a serious musical, he whispered to me. It’s really, really, really, really, really good!

He tells me about it when Annabelle’s chatting with the birds on the fire escape or playing online. She’s been on Amazon again. I’ve noticed several books on musical theatre construction and the original Broadway cast recording of Evita on my shopping list.

Do you want me to order these items for you, Missy? I asked her.

Yes, please. I need to learn more about writing a musical.

It took all my willpower not to say, you’ve never learned anything; you always do exactly what you want, but I knew she’d throw a tantrum. It’s only a couple of books and a CD.

Instead, I asked, No rhyming dictionaries?

We’ve borrowed yours. What big shows have really good roles for me?

Like Evita?

It’s THE role. I’m perfect for it.

How’s your show coming along?

I’m a really good playwright. I’ve got to get my script to Irving Berlin.

He might be too busy.

Maybe I should find my director first? Do you know if Jerome Robbins is too busy to read my script?

No busier than Irving Berlin, I said.

West Side Story was wonderful. Robbins understands me.

Rob Berman said he was interested in helping you.

Oh, he’s good, too!

She looked around to see what Thatch was doing. He was chasing a Ping-Pong ball.

Thatch is not easy to work with, she whispered.

But he’s really excited about helping you.

Well, I have to tell him over and over, this is my life, not yours.

Isn’t he in it? You two are a team.

I don’t know yet. Who could play him? First, I have to find actors to play you and Val.

We’re in it?

Of course you are. It’s a serious musical about my life and my struggle for stardom and fame.

Well, this is exciting, I enthused. I’ve never been a character in a play before. Do you have any actors in mind to play us?

I want Brad Pitt.

For me? I was really flattered.

No, silly. For Val.  He’s the handsome one.

What about me?

Elmer Fudd. Do you know his agent?

Annabelle, you know that Elmer Fudd is not a real person?

Not real? Really? He’s in the movies!

Those are cartoons, Annabelle. He’s not a real actor.

Really?

I’m sorry.

This is irritating.  Are you certain?

I am.

This is giving me a headache!  Writing a musical should be easy.

It’s just a casting issue.

Now I have to rethink the character.

You told me you were a good playwright.

I bet Oscar Hammerstein never had this problem! she yelled before she climbed to the top of the bookcase to ponder the situation.

A day later, she was still pondering the situation. When Thatch climbed up to confer, she ignored him and walked to the other end of the bookcase. He then spent the remainder of the day crying because he was afraid he’d done something to upset her.

Yesterday, she stopped walking around with heavy sighs, and I saw her and Thatch playing together. Later, I asked him, How’s Madame Shakespeare coping?

Who?

Annabelle. Our playwright.

Oh, her. She’s really, really, really mad. She’s writing you out of the show.

She is? Wait till I tell her she’ll never get Brad Pitt for a workshop.

One morning after that, Thatch was playing with his catnip fish. I gave him a bit of my breakfast ham and eggs, and while he was gobbling it down, I asked, Did you and Annabelle solve her casting problem?

He stopped eating. Shhh, I can’t tell you anything.

He looked around for Annabelle. She was asleep on my bed.

He turned back to me and whispered, You’re back in the show . . . if she can find the right actor.

I whispered back, I don’t think she’ll get Brad Pitt, so we need to find her another actor. Just in case, you understand?

Any ideas?

I think we should do some research whenever she’s off the computer.

Thatch laughed loudly. Annabelle looked up from her nap. We remained very quiet. She relaxed and went back to sleep.

Thatch whispered, She’s always on the computer.

I know. I’m living in constant fear that she’ll start hounding me for one for her birthday.

Thatch finished his ham and eggs and whispered in my ear, She wants a smart phone.

I was having dinner when Annabelle decided she was bored watching me eat, so she leaped from the table to the top of the chest of drawers. Her kick sent my glass flying and water splashed all over me.

Cute, Missy, I thought, as I ran for paper towels to mop up the mess. When I sat back down to dinner, she and Thatch decided to play tag. She jumped onto the table, then leaped up to the filing cabinets before jumping back onto the table. Then she ran into the bathroom with Thatch in hot pursuit. The result was several more spills, and that’s when I yelled at her.

Annabelle, you are working my last nerve tonight!

While I mopped the table again, she and Thatch sat at my feet in silence and watched me seethe.

Listen, kids, I let you two eat in peace, so why don’t you let me? Why are you two so rambunctious? Give Daddy a break.

What was that word you just used? Annabelle sweetly asked.

What did I say? Uh . . . rambunctious?

Rambunctious! Yes. Thatch, he said we are rambunctious.

And then she laughed.

Rambunctious! Thatch yelled, and they both burst into noisy laughter and rolled around the floor at my feet.

Can we consider that a promotion or demotion from calling us scalawags last week? Annabelle asked.

One sarcastic kitten is bad enough, but two are impossible. I grabbed my wallet, left the apartment, and walked over to Barnes & Noble to regain my equilibrium. I browsed through the mystery and general fiction sections before I went to the musicals section, purchased a couple of books, and then walked over to the deli on Amsterdam Avenue. I was over my pique, and they do love a slice of deli turkey every now and then.

Daddy’s home! Where are my babies?

Are you still angry? a voice called down from the linen closet.

Annabelle had moved her office from the top of the bookshelves to the depths of the linen closet shortly after Thatch’s party.  She says the privacy inspires her writing.

No. Why? You two know I love you. I’ve brought you a treat.

Two kittens emerged from the linen closet.

Is it a contract for CATS?

No, Annabelle. I’m sorry.

Is it a shiny toy?

No, Thatch. I’m sorry.

They looked at me in pitiful silence. After a big sigh, they returned to the linen closet. As they left, Annabelle told Thatch, I think there’s a problem with my soliloquy after the Cockroach Ballet . . .

Oh, I have an idea! he responded.  We should turn your big speech into a song.

We must track down Irving Berlin!  Daddy’s absolutely no help at all.

I made myself a turkey sandwich, sat down, and pondered the new mystery: what actor will she choose to play me?

Since then, the musical has become something they discuss occasionally, when major earth- or apartment-shattering events haven’t taken over their lives. Annabelle’s failure to contact Irving Berlin has put a damper on things, and she and Thatch have plenty to keep them occupied. One day it was the inventory of all of Thatch’s Ping-Pong balls and soccer balls, and another was a serious discussion of the craftsmanship of Annabelle’s gaudy kitty jewelry. They have their weekly tea parties with the pigeons on the fire escape, learning new songs to sing, and discussing what R.U. Fémos can do for Annabelle’s career. Lately she’s been consulting with Thatch on the Backstage casting notices.

What are you two doing? I asked.

In the dark kitchen, Annabelle and Thatch crouched in front of the vacuum cleaner. They stared intently at its front base. I asked the question again before Annabelle looked up and gave me an irritated look.

You are breaking our concentration, she told me. Go away.

Okay, I said, but I’m really curious about this new interest in the vacuum.

Ignoring me, she turned back to the vacuum, and she and Thatch continued their intense vigil. They did this several nights in a row.

Okay, babies, I said. I’m turning off the Kitty Channel. “Mickey and Other Famous Mice” is over. It’s bedtime.

I want to watch the repeat of “My Three Kittens,” Thatch told me. We missed it the other day.

“My Three Kittens,” starring Fred MacPurry as the single father of three kittens, is his favorite program on the Kitty Channel, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. He missed it earlier because he and I were in Times Square at TKTS, the half-priced ticket booth, handing out flyers about Miss Annabelle. I told her it was a bad idea since it wasn’t advertising her in-progress cabaret act and she wasn’t in a show, but she insisted. It was a fiasco.

Okay, I said, but as soon as it’s over, I’m turning off the lights. I need my sleep. You two wear me out.

While Thatch watched “My Three Kittens,” I asked Annabelle about the vacuum surveillance.

You haven’t been using it lately, she told me.

It’s broken, I said. I need a new one.

I think it’s the new home for a cockroach colony. So every night Thatch and I wait for a few to come out and we eat them.

This will seriously affect that Cockroach Ballet in your musical, you know.

Thatch keeps saying that. I have no idea what he means.

So how’s the musical coming along? Are you still working on it?

Well, it’s not easy without the composer. I wish you would find me that address for Irving Berlin.  You’re no help at all.

 

©2018, Larry Moore