The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

Mary Beth Winthrop raised her eyes to the stained-glass rose window and prayed:

Faster. Put on some steam.

Glaciers rumbled at a quicker tempo than choirmaster Fluecher conducting the boys through endless “Who is the King of Glory”s.

Faster, please.

Mr. Fluecher heard a note he didn’t like and stopped them dead. Rapping his knuckles on his music, he compared the tenors’ pitch to a derailing freight train.

A fire. A small fire in a wastepaper basket.

The smoke would drive them out of the church and in the confusion no one would notice her gallop to the Shubert Theatre. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which had come to Springfield for a week, straight from Boston and New York, was leaving today for Albany. But not before Barrett & Buchanan replaced the soprano who sang “Amazing Grace,” a cappella, in the funeral scene. A piece of a biplane had fallen on the poor girl and a wonderful opportunity had blossomed only five blocks from Christ Church at the Shubert.

Right now, at this very moment, they were hearing singers try out for the role while Mary Beth—who sang in perfect pitch always, “and even would in a locomotive factory,” Mr. Fluecher claimed when he held her up as an example to the others—was stuck in choir practice. Not only could she outsing each and every one of them, she could also act circles around any girl in Springfield.

Maybe her yellow hair was not as long and thick as she would like, which wasn’t to say it was stringy. And she knew she wasn’t as pretty as the girls who couldn’t sing on pitch. Not with her round moon face. Except, when she looked closely at pictures on sheet music and magazines, the stars’ faces were as round as dinner plates—a shape that caught attention and projected their voices. So it didn’t matter not being as pretty. She would get the part. If she weren’t stuck in choir practice.

At last, it was over, and she ran all the way to the theater.

The sight of pieces of a New York City subway car rolling from the stage door alley on a freight wagon told her she was too late. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was leaving town. Company members were walking to the railroad station, the stagehands were striking the sets, and the Shubert’s manager was directing assistants on ladders who were changing the marquee:

*MATINEE TOMORROW*

ALIAS JIMMY VALENTINE

Direct from NEW YORK and PHILADELPHIA

“Top O. Henry Short Story Topped Onstage”

—VARIETY

Mary Beth Winthrop wandered away, numb with grief, until she sank to a park bench and wept. She had missed the reading. Some other girl got the role.

“Are you quite all right, miss?”

She looked up. An older gentleman with a kind face was leaning over her, balanced on a cane. “What’s the matter?” he asked, and when her tears flowed harder, he sat beside her and offered a snowy handkerchief with his initials embroidered in red. “Here, miss. Dry your eyes.”

She did as he said, and sniffled, “Thank you, sir.”

“Can you tell me what’s the matter?” he asked again, and Mary Beth Winthrop found herself suddenly pouring out every hope and dream in her heart to a complete stranger. He listened intently, nodding, never interrupted. When she was done, he asked, “Would you tell me your name?”

“Mary Beth.”

“What a pretty name. It suits you. Don’t worry, Mary Beth. You’ll get another chance.”

“In Springfield? Never. Nothing like this ever comes to Springfield. Jekyll and Hyde was my only way out of here. I’ll have to stay home and marry some stupid—”

“No, no, no. I meant you’ll get another chance today.”

“What do you mean? For Jekyll and Hyde?”

“Of course.”

“But they’re striking the sets. They’re leaving.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Are you in the company?”