The Imposter Read online

  "That wasn't stomping, it was dancing. I was practicing a dance routine for a show."

  "Yeah, well, I don't know nothing about no routines. All I know is, don't do it no more. You understand?"

  "Tell you what," Ryan said. "You fix the air conditioner, I'll quit stomping. Deal?"

  "Aahhh …" Mr. Bondi made a sour face and raised a flabby arm as if he meant to backhand Ryan, but Ryan knew he wouldn't really do it; it was just an act.

  "Good talking to you, Mr. Bondi," he said, and hurried off up the stairs.

  "Kids!" Bondi bellowed after him. "Don't nobody teach you no manners no more?"

  "That's three negatives in a row, Mr. Bondi," Ryan called back from the landing. "You're out!"

  As he unlocked the door and slipped inside, he heard Mr. Bondi still yelling. "It's you that's going to be out! Out on the street!"

  His mother was sitting where she always sat when she wasn't lying on the couch—at the kitchen table, with a drink in one hand and a much-chewed pencil stub in the other, doing the Toronto Star crossword puzzle. As always, the little black and white tv was playing away on the messy kitchen counter, the volume turned down low.

  Well, at least she'd been motivated to get dressed. She'd brushed her hair, too, and pinned it back from the undamaged side of her face with a pink plastic barrette in the shape of a bow, the sort little girls wear. On the left side, her hair hung loose, hiding the scars, unless she made a quick movement, something she was usually careful not to do.

  She was always saying that she wore her hair exactly like Veronica Lake. Ryan had never asked who Veronica Lake was. He guessed she was some movie actress from way back, long before he was born. His mother's whole frame of reference seemed to be limited to a time before he was born—especially that brief period when she convinced herself that she was going to be an actress.

  She'd never performed professionally, just a few things in high school. And though she'd relived those roles in great detail a dozen times, every so often she'd say, "Did I ever tell you I played Adelaide in Guys and Dolls?" and then she'd start singing "A Bushel and a Peck" and remember every word. Or she'd say, "That reminds me of when I was in Oklahoma. The musical, not the state."

  When Ryan closed the door, she looked up from the crossword puzzle, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Well, how did it go?"

  "Oh. You mean the audition."

  "Of course, the audition, Ryan! Now, tell me! How did it go?" She waved her hands up and down impatiently, as if she wanted to shake the words out of him.

  There was no way he could tell her the truth. He realized now why she had gone to the trouble of putting on a nice dress, why she had watered down her Canadian Club with soda instead of drinking herself into a stupor. She was expecting to celebrate. How could he tell her there was nothing to celebrate?

  He shrugged, as if it weren't really all that important, as if there were plenty of other roles. "Not bad. It's between me and this other kid. They said they'd call me."

  "What other kid?" his mother said, a bit contemptuously. "Anybody you know?"

  "No."

  "Well, he can't be any good, or we'd have heard of him. When did they say they'd make up their minds?"

  "I don't know. A couple of days, I guess."

  "A couple of days? A couple of days? You should have pinned them down. You should have told them you had another offer."

  "But I didn't have another offer."

  "So?" she said shrilly. "Make one up!" She took a swig of her rye and soda and softened a little. "Well, if they don't call by this time tomorrow, you call them, you hear? Tell them you need to know."

  Ryan nodded and said, "Yeah, okay," knowing that by tomorrow she'd have forgotten.

  "That's my boy. Now go get washed up and put on a clean shirt. We're going out."

  "Out?"

  "Yes, out. As in outside? Out to a restaurant? Is that all right with you?"

  "Well, sure. I mean, I'm glad we're going out. But what about—I mean, I thought we didn't have—"

  She slid a piece of paper out from under the crossword puzzle page and waved it like a miniature flag. "Ta-daa. It's Auntie oma's payday, remember?"

  "Come on, Mom. We can't dig into that. We need it for the rent." He reached across the table for the Ontario Mothers' Allowance check, but she snatched it away.

  "By the time the rent is due, you'll be making barrels of money."

  "Mom, I told you, it's not for sure yet—"

  "Well, I'm sure. They'll pick you for the part. Now, go get ready. We're going to live it up for a change."

  Chapter 3

  They had a reasonably good time. Ryan was still a little grumpy about the failed audition, but he forced himself to smile and enjoy his eggplant Parmesan. He'd really wanted fish and chips—mostly because it was the cheapest thing on the menu—but his mother wouldn't hear of it. "You don't order fish and chips when you're celebrating."

  She had also insisted on a table near the front door, so she wouldn't have to "make a spectacle" of herself, limping all the way across the dining room. Ryan had never considered her limp all that noticeable, but she was convinced that people were staring at her.

  "I know what they're thinking," she said. "They're feeling sorry for me. Believe it or not, there was a time when people stared at me because I was pretty. Now they stare because I'm an object of pity." She took a sip of her Bloody Caesar and laughed sharply. "Pretty. Pity. 'What a pity, and she used to be so pretty.' Isn't that a song from something?"

  "More or less," Ryan said.

  "Well, from what?"

  "The Fantasticks."

  "I read once that Claudette Colbert only allowed herself to be photographed from one angle, because that was her good side. Maybe that's what I should do, eh? Maybe I could have a career yet!" Just then the waiter—Ryan recognized him as another starving actor—came to check on them; she quickly turned her good side to him.

  Ryan feared that she might keep feeling sorry for herself and totally spoil the evening, but, for once, she let it drop, and they talked about other things: how he felt about school starting in a few weeks, what she liked to call his "love life," how much money he was likely to make when they cast him in Les Miz. Ryan brought the subject back to school, mostly because he didn't want to talk about the audition debacle, but partly because he really had a problem he needed to talk over. "There's this kid named Tick that lives in one of the apartments upstairs—"

  "Tick?" his mother echoed, laughing.

  "That's not his real name, of course. Everybody at school calls him that because he used to tickle the little kids until they peed their pants. Nowadays, he's more into beating them up and taking their lunch money. Anyway, every time I pass him on the stairs, he tries to pick a fight with me for some reason, and I'm not sure what to do about it."

  "Oh, lord," his mother said. "Whatever you do, don't let him hit you in the face. That's your meal ticket."

  And that was the extent of her advice.

  When they got back to the apartment, it was past eight o'clock and the phone was ringing. "Hurry!" his mother cried, as he jammed his key into the lock. "It could be them!"

  "I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying. Could you quit shaking my arm?" He had no doubt who she meant by them. He had even less doubt that it wasn't going to be them.

  "Keep ringing," his mother said through clenched teeth. "Keep ringing."

  The second the deadbolt clicked open, she flung herself through the door and descended on the phone with a swiftness that was amazing for a woman who insisted she could barely walk. She greedily snatched up the phone and, in a voice that seemed to belong to someone else, someone younger and more ingenuous, breathily said, "Waite residence." She paused and wiggled her eyebrows significantly at Ryan. "Just a moment. I'll check." Lowering the receiver, she shouted, just as if he were at the far end of a large house instead of six feet away, "Ryan? Are you home?"

  Ryan sighed. "Yes,
mom!" he called back into the palm of his hand.

  She hung onto the phone long enough to say, with a disarming laugh, "He's so busy, I'm never sure whether he's in or out! Oh, here he is now!" She placed the receiver in his hand with exaggerated care, as if passing him something valuable and fragile.

  "This is Ryan Waite," he said into the mouthpiece.

  A low, rough voice on the other end said, "I've been trying to get hold of you all evening."

  "I'm … I'm sorry." Ryan was taken totally off guard. "We were—"

  "You need to get yourself an answering machine."

  "Well, my mother is usually—"

  "Never mind that. Listen, you're the kid that was trying out for the play this afternoon at the Royal Alexandra Theatre, right?"

  Ryan's stomach lurched, and he had to swallow hard before he could answer. "Yes?" Was it possible that he hadn't blown it after all? This obviously wasn't the voice of the director—it was a good octave lower—but it could be somebody else with the company. The assistant director, say, or the musical director.

  "I liked the way you handled yourself," the voice said.

  That was an odd way of putting it. "Ah. Well. I'm glad to hear that. You probably noticed that I wasn't having a very good day. I'm not usually that unprepared." His mother was mouthing something at him, and he put a hand over the mouthpiece to ask, "What?"

  "Don't apologize!" she whispered fiercely.

  He waved her away impatiently.

  "You did all right," the rough voice was saying. "I've got this part I think you'd be right for. I want you to try out for it."

  Ryan's bright, professional manner sagged. "Oh?" Clearly this wasn't someone from the Les Miz company, after all.

  "What is it?" his mother demanded, still whispering. "Did you get it? Ryan!"

  Ryan scowled and gave her the "butt out" signal again. "What sort of role is it?"

  "I'll fill you in on it when you try out."

  Why did this person keep saying try out instead of audition? The last person he'd heard use that term was his peewee hockey coach. "Uh-huh. Well, can I ask what theater it is?"

  "You wouldn't know it."

  "I know all the theaters in Toronto."

  "It's … it's out of town. So, when can we get together?"

  "That's up to you."

  "Okay. What about tomorrow?"

  "Just a moment, please. I'll check my schedule," Ryan said, as his mother had taught him to. He covered the mouthpiece again.

  "Is it them?" she demanded, so keyed up that she heedlessly pushed her hair back out of her eyes, revealing the broad patch of scar tissue.

  Ryan shook his head. His mother's face froze, ready to crumple with disappointment. Hastily he added, "But it's just as good. It's another touring company. The director sat in on the auditions today and liked me. He wants me to be in his show."

  "What show?" she asked eagerly. "What show is it?"

  The abandoned sheet music for "Where is Love?" inspired his answer: "A revival of Oliver."

  She clapped her hands. "Oh, I love that show! What part?"

  "The Artful Dodger, I think."

  "Oh, my lord! That's great! Did he …" She lowered her voice to a whisper again. "Did he say how much it paid?"

  Ryan shook his head again and returned to his curious phone conversation. "I'm doing a commercial in the afternoon tomorrow," he lied, just to make it sound as if he were working regularly. "But I've got the morning free."

  "Good, good. You got a pencil?"

  "Of course," he said calmly, even as he rooted through the pile of old mail and used tissues on the counter. He made frantic writing motions at his mother. She snatched up her stunted crossword pencil from the kitchen table and thrust it at him, like a runner in a relay race.

  "You know where the old Shoe Warehouse is, on Queen Street East?"

  "Yes?"

  "Can you be there at ten o'clock?"

  Ryan paused a beat. "At the Shoe Warehouse?"

  "Yeah. Is that a problem?"

  "No, no. Just making sure."

  "So, you'll be there?"

  "I'll be there," he said, and started to add, "Should I bring sheet music—" but the phone clicked, and he said it to a dial tone. He glanced over at his mother, who was still watching him expectantly. "Oh, well, thanks," he continued cheerfully, into the receiver. "I'll tell my voice teacher you said so. I'll see you tomorrow morning, then. Goodbye."

  His mother looked dismayed when he hung up. "You didn't ask about the money?"

  "Mother, it's an Equity show. They'll pay scale."

  "Oh. I suppose you're right. But what was all that about a Shoe Warehouse?"

  "Shoe Warehouse?" he said, as if he couldn't imagine what she was talking about. Then he forced a laugh. "No, no. He said I'd have a big dance number, and I said what if my shoes wear out."

  "Well, that was a stupid thing to say." She shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder about you."

  Chapter 4

  The former Shoe Warehouse was a long, low affair, crouched between two larger buildings of weathered red brick. Ryan could vaguely remember his father buying him his first pair of sneakers there, but the business must have moved out soon afterward—probably about the same time Ryan's father moved out of his life and his mother's. The plate glass window was cracked, and the for lease sign was so faded that the phone number was unreadable.

  Ryan stood across the street for a good ten minutes, hesitant to try the door, afraid that he'd been the victim of some bizarre practical joke. Maybe that had been Tick on the phone, disguising his voice, luring Ryan down here in order to beat his brains in. Oh, well, it didn't matter, as long as he remembered to guard his face.

  He picked up the briefcase that contained his resumé and head shots. The case, as far as he knew, was the only thing his father had left behind, and Ryan wouldn't have known about it if he hadn't dislodged it with the sweeper wand while he was vacuuming under his mother's bed. When he asked what his father had used the briefcase for, she'd mumbled something about an advertising agency, and how much he'd hated the job—which just about doubled the amount of information Ryan had concerning his father.

  He warily crossed the street and peered through the window. The store looked dismal and deserted. But when he put up a hand to cut down on the reflection, he saw, near the back of the long room, a single folding chair with a big man sitting in it. In front of the man stood a short kid, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, gesturing stiffly, first with one hand then with the other, obviously performing a monologue and obviously doing a pretty sad job of it. Ryan hesitated. If he opened the door and went in now, it would probably mess up the kid's concentration.

  He opened the door and went in. The kid glanced in his direction, faltered, went on. The hefty guy in the chair twisted around and, spotting Ryan, nodded and pointed a thumb toward one wall, indicating that he should park himself there. Ryan grinned amiably, shrugged apologetically at the kid, and sat down on his briefcase—the only thing in the room that wasn't covered in dust—to watch the proceedings.

  He gave a lot more attention to the man in the chair than to his fellow auditioner's performance, which he dismissed as strictly amateur night. The man was burly but not exactly fat, and he wore his hair in a brush-cut that didn't look as if it had been brushed very recently. When he turned his head a little, Ryan caught a glimpse of his nose, which looked a lot like Robert De Niro's in Raging Bull.

  No question about it: this was the same guy who had been standing at the rear of the theater the day before. He'd even given Ryan the same curt nod. Ryan imitated the nod and surreptitiously practiced it a few times, meaning to add it to his repertoire of mannerisms. It might be a good bit of business for the Artful Dodger—he caught himself and almost laughed aloud at his own foolishness. He wasn't really auditioning for Oliver.

  Or, for all he knew, maybe he was. The guy had given him no clue. But when it came right down to it, did it really matter? All that mattered was, it was a job
. Whatever the role, whatever it paid, it had to be better than what he was doing now, which was nothing.

  The hefty guy stood up and said a few words to the short kid, who wasn't a good enough actor to cover up his disappointment. As the boy slouched toward the door, Ryan rose and gave him a comradely clap on the shoulder. "Better luck next time, eh?"

  "Thanks," the kid said morosely.

  Ryan took his sheet music out of his briefcase and approached the director—or whoever he was. "I didn't know whether to—"

  "You're the Waite kid, right?" the man interrupted.

  "That's me." When the director said nothing more, just stood looking him up and down, Ryan added nervously, "That is I. I am he."

  The man fished in his pocket and came up with a couple of cellophane-wrapped butterscotch candies. "You want one?" When Ryan shook his head, he shrugged, unwrapped one, and popped it in his mouth. "So," he said around it, "what kind of things have you done?"

  Ryan opened up his briefcase again. "I've got a copy of my resumé—"

  The man waved it away. "No, never mind. You've done a lot of stuff, right?"

  "Yes. Musicals and straight dramas, both. I've worked with—"

  "You ever do any of that …" The man made a circular motion with one hand, as if trying to get his mental wheels rolling. "What do you call it, where you make it up as you go along?"

  "Improvisation?" Ryan offered tentatively, unable to imagine that any director could forget such a common term.

  "Right, improvisation. You ever do any of that?"

  "Of course. I study with Bea Spencer, and we do exercises every—"

  "Here." The director picked up a sheet of paper from the chair next to him and thrust it at Ryan. "Read that over and be ready to answer questions. You can have ten minutes." He headed for the front door. "I'm going to get myself a cup of coffee. You want anything?"

  Ryan looked up distractedly from the paper. "What? Ah … no … no, thanks. I'm fine." Well, not exactly fine. Dazed might be a more accurate word. Panicked was another possibility. He'd been to at least a hundred auditions of one kind or another over the past six years—tv commercials, radio plays, community theater, experimental theater, even a puppet troupe—and none of them had been anything like this.