FRESH YARN presents: Carousel... by Cheryl Montelle

FRESH YARN presents:

Carousel
By Cheryl Montelle

I met Milton the first day of rehearsal for the musical Carousel. I was 19 years old. This was my first professional job. I'd only done two musicals before, and they were at my synagogue when I was 11; they were Fiddler On The Roof and Milk And Honey, and we stood on stage mouthing the words to the albums.

The elevator door to the rehearsal studio opened and someone pushed past me, knocking my dance bag to the floor. As I bent down to pick it up, I heard, "Maybe standing in front of the elevator isn't such a good idea." I looked up into the sparkling eyes of a heavyset man with gray, unkempt hair and a white goatee. "Oh I'm so sorry," I said standing up.

"Don't worry about it, are you in the show?" he asked.

"Yes I am," I said proudly. "I'm a dancer -- my name is Cheryl Movitz, I mean Montelle, I just changed it and I keep forgetting. You see, I've never heard Jewish names in the chorus, and my grandfather, Sam Movitz, wanted to be a tap dancer instead of a butcher, which he ended up being anyway, but he was going to call himself Ronnie Montelle -- so I kept it all in the family." God I was nervous.

"Nice to meet you Miss Montelle, my name is Milton Rosenstien, and I didn't change my name."

"Milton, that's my dad's name, you know there aren't that many Miltons around." He laughed and said, "You know, you're right."

As he walked away, I noticed a thick bundle of music under his arm. I thought he was one of the character actors, but as we started rehearsal, he took a seat behind the table next to the director, and I discovered that he was actually the musical director of the show. He caught my look of embarrassment, raised his eyebrows, then gave me a wink.

From then on, Milton looked out for me. Once, when I kept shifting off my alto line back to the melody line over and over again, he took me aside after the rehearsal and whispered, "Sing the melody. In fact, just sing the melody whenever you feel the need to, but don't tell anyone I said so."

He walked away with his wife, Sally. They were newlyweds and she was a singer in the chorus. I always sat next to her in the dressing room and she taught me how to put on stage makeup because, as she put it, "God knows, I've slapped on enough of this shit!" A buxom blonde, she reminded me of Mae West, only sweeter. Sally was about 40 to Milton's 65, and she loved taking care of him. On tour, they'd rent rooms with kitchens so that she could cook all his favorite foods. She even converted to Judaism, calling herself "the Jewish shiksa."

Sometimes at rehearsal breaks, Milton would sit down next to me, and just talk. He'd tell me about growing up in Brooklyn, and how he delivered groceries to pay for his piano lessons and trips to the Yiddish theater. He said his parents were poor, but had a great love of music and wanted him to become a concert pianist. "Yeah, well, I tried that route, but my real calling was interpreting a score, not necessarily playing it. Besides, I liked to watch all the pretty girls dance by me in the shows."

He talked about the shows too, like Funny Girl; he was assistant conductor on that one. "She was just a kid when she started, but I watched Streisand bloom into a real talent. Her voice was pure; not like now, always sliding up to hit the notes, singing pop music no less. And let's not forget Merman, what a gal, what a love of the theater that woman had." He'd worked with her on Gypsy. I thanked Milton for sharing his stories and he shrugged, "I gotta tell somebody, and I knew you'd get a kick out of 'em. Besides, I like you kid."

In Indiana, a couple of weeks into the tour, I knew he really did like me when he found me alone in the dressing room crying over a recent ex-boyfriend. I'd lifted my soggy head off my folded arms to find a tissue, and there, past my own reflection in the mirror, was Milton's. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a frown and a soiled T-shirt, his large belly protruding over his pants, held up by a pair of suspenders. His eyes were moist, and I wondered how long he'd been watching me cry. I turned around, still heaving, unable to catch my breath.

"Boyfriend trouble?"

I nodded yes. How did he know that?

"Is there anything I can do?"

I shook my head no.

He was thoughtful for a moment, then brightened, "Well, cheer up kid, it only gets worse." He disappeared down the cement hallway, chuckling. Something in his delivery made me stop crying and start chuckling, too.

When it was time to start the show, I took my place on a little platform along with two other girls. We played kooch dancers, hired to lure men into a girlie show at the carnival. I wore an exotic costume and played the castanets. The music was strange, dreamlike, and the choreography, sensual. I watched Milton for our cue, and as he brought down the baton he looked right at me and nodded. I began dancing. I took my arms over my head Spanish-style and turned slowly around swinging my hips. I caught Milton's eye again, and he was grinning ear to ear.

Carousel is a moving story about love, loss, and eventually hope. It's full of dark undertones and beautiful dances and songs. It's one of the great American musicals. Unfortunately, by the time we got to New Orleans our production had been panned in every town. Our star couldn't remember his lines so he ad-libbed all the way through the show.

Ah, but New Orleans. We stayed on the edge of the French Quarter in a run-down but festive motel called the Vieux Carré. The lobby was small, but opened onto a huge courtyard thick with green bushes and blooming red flowers. There were white lights strung in the trees and in the middle of the courtyard was an old bar, a place the cast met after each show. Around the perimeter were the rooms, two stories high, with iron balconies -- very French. The whole place had the quality of another century. I had this eerie sensation that past and present collided here; that masked behind the party atmosphere, the eyes of those who lived before us were watching our every move, manipulating things just this side of dangerous -- like the day we arrived. My roommate, Patty, was still checking in and I was completely alone in the room. I walked into the bathroom and didn't just slip, but felt pushed from behind. I went up and then down with such momentum, and landed so hard on my right elbow, I was out of the show for two nights. I could feel the strange forces at work in this old town.

Three days into our stay, we gathered at the bar as usual after the show. We ordered our first round of many drinks, and lit up our smokes. Patty was complaining about abdominal pain. Milton said, "Let me try something." He put his right hand on her belly and closed his eyes. Patty said she could feel heat coming out of his fingers, something shifting deep inside, then -- no more pain. Milton came out of his trancelike state, and moved on to talk with the director, leaving the rest of us to wonder what the hell had just happened. We all knew Milton was a gifted musical director, but this was a side of him we'd never seen before. Maybe he could do something for my elbow; I made a mental note to ask him about that later.

I slept badly that night. I woke early and decided to treat myself to Café Du Monde for a chicory coffee and an order of their famous beignets -- square donuts dipped in powdered sugar, my recent downfall.

When I entered the lobby, I was surprised to see Sally, Milton's wife, and Marie, a tough middle-aged redhead featured in the show. They looked exhausted. Sally was at the front desk, crying, her bags around her feet. She was wearing big dark sunglasses and a black and white scarf tied under her chin, Audrey Hepburn style. I moved toward her, but Marie put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Not now, Cheryl." Just then, our stage manager approached Sally, picked up her bags, and pointed to a blue van outside. She nodded, and as he escorted her out the door, she wiped her nose with a tissue, looked back at us, and shook her head. Her face was blotchy, and her upper lip was bruised.

"What happened, Marie?" I asked.

"Milton and Sally had a fight and Milton hit her; he hit her a few times, the bastard."

Milton hit Sally? I couldn't quite take that in. We watched the van drive away. Sally was going back to New York, leaving the tour, leaving Milton -- and what about Milton? How could he hit her? They were on their honeymoon, for God's sake. Marie's hand was still on my shoulder. I turned to her, "Now what, Marie? How do we face Milton?"

"The real question Cheryl, is how the hell does he face us?"

She walked away, and I was left alone in the lobby staring at a folding table that was holding a pot of stale coffee and a few Styrofoam cups.

I walked outside. The Quarter was quiet, and the streets were wet from a light drizzle. There was no sun that morning, but the humidity was already on the rise. I went to the café, ordered my coffee as planned, then sat down at one of the outside tables. Pigeons pecked at crumbs as I tried to make sense of what happened between Milton and Sally. They probably stayed too long at the bar -- I'd seen them both tie one on more than once. I knew the show was in trouble, an added pressure. Milton was busy keeping our spirits up because the show wouldn't be going to Broadway after all.

What happened? Was Milton a jealous man? Did he drag Sally back to the room where she made him chicken soup from scratch, and hit her because he thought she was coming on to another guy? Or was it the other way around? Maybe Sally needed Milton that night, and he wasn't interested; maybe she taunted him, and he told her to knock it off and when she didn't stop, he shut her up with his fist.

This was not the Milton that took me under his wing, feeding me stories of Broadway legends. Last night he'd laid healing hands on my roommate Patty's belly. They were big, his hands. When he conducted, the baton looked small and yet he held it so delicately. Sometimes he didn't even use the baton. He'd caress the air, his right pinky raised to coax a note from a flute or a single horn. On opening night, he'd put both hands on my shoulders and gave me a good luck squeeze. They were warm and reassuring even before he said, "knock 'em dead kid." Now those hands had blackened my friend Sally's eye. How could this be the same man? What was it that filled those hands with so much rage? What stories did you leave out, Milton? Is this what you meant when you said it only gets worse?

Backstage that evening, morale was low. I sat and stared at the empty makeup station next to me. When the five-minute warning was announced, it took the cast a long time to move to opening positions. The overture began; the haunting melody had always been my favorite part, foretelling the tragedy to come. Tonight that tragedy was ours. The curtain came up and being professionals, and in honor of Sally, we gave one of our best performances. Even our star remembered his lines! I stole a peek into the pit. I was curious to see if there was any noticeable difference in Milton. Other than avoiding eye contact with anyone on stage, he conducted as gracefully as ever.

Outside of the theater, I didn't see much of Milton after that. I just couldn't. In Virginia, our last stop, I was eating dinner at the Greek diner across from our motel. I was only having split pea soup, thanks to complaints from my dance partner -- too many beignets I guess. As I ate, I watched the waitress behind the counter loading plates up her arm, knowing that I'd probably be doing the same thing in a couple of months. Just as I was about to spin into a mini-nervous breakdown, contemplating my future, Milton walked into the diner alone and I was relieved to see a friendly face, until I remembered New Orleans. He smiled and took a seat next to me.

"So how's the soup?"

"Not bad, it's what you would expect from a Greek diner."

He scanned the menu. I tried so hard to stay distant, concentrating on the cakes and pies turning slowly around in their case near the counter. After he ordered a turkey sandwich to go, he put both elbows on the table and leaning toward me asked, "So what's your plan of action when you get back to New York?"

"You know, auditioning again, looking for work."

"Well, hang in there kid, you won't be in the chorus long, that's not where you're headed; you've got something special." He pointed his finger at me, and said, "Don't give up!"

"Okay Milton, I won't."

"My next job is The Music Man with Dick Van Dyke. Michael Kidd's directing that one. I'll mention you to him, you'd be perfect for that show."

"You would do that for me Milton?"

"Sure, why not? Just come to the audition, and we'll take it from there. I gotta run, meeting with the big boys." He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for letting me join you."

"Milton?"

"Yes?"

"I . . .thanks"

He looked me in the eyes for a moment, as if he knew what I wanted to say but couldn't, turned, and walked out the revolving doors.

A week after we returned home from the road, Milton did point me out at The Music Man auditions, but Mr. Kidd wasn't interested. I don't think he cared for the size of my thighs marching across the dance floor.

After that, I didn't see Milton again until I heard he'd had a heart attack, but had recovered and was conducting The Dance Theater of Harlem. I felt a strong need to see him, so I bought a ticket to see Giselle.

Milton came out in his tux, faced the audience and bowed. He looked weary, but the light in his eyes was still there. After the show, I waited at the stage door. It was freezing and I was just about to leave when he came out. I went to give him a hug, but he put out his hands -- those hands -- and I gave them a squeeze instead.

"I like Giselle, but I came because of you. I heard you've been ill, Milton, how are you feeling? You look a little thin."

"I'm fine, but what's the matter with your voice?" How did he know? I'd strained my vocal chords teaching aerobics. "It's nothing," I lied, "I'm just getting a cold, that's all." I was embarrassed - aerobics.

"Listen," he said, "it's cold out here, and I'm tired. Here's my number, call me and we'll share a bite to eat sometime. I'd like to catch up."

"Okay," I said, and took his card. He helped me hail a cab, then said goodnight.

I never called. I meant to. Maybe I was ashamed that I hadn't lived up to his expectations as a performer, but, in truth, I think it was my inability to admit to myself that I cared deeply about a man who could hit his wife. And then, it was too late. The man who took me under his wing, believed in me, encouraged me, told me stories, and eventually gave me my first glimpse of the dark side of a passionate heart, died of another heart attack.

He died alone, I'm told, in his one room flat on 56th and Broadway.