Cries of the Phoenix

A piercing wail broke the silent night. Men in large heavy coveralls ran to their trucks and orange and yellow lights were soon seen flashing on both the north and south side of the building. The men jumped from the vehicles, secured the tens of feet of hose to the hydrants nearby, and turned to face the dragon in front of them.

Orange and red tongues licked greedily up the outside of the structure. The beast had blown out the multiple large windows and most of the interior was already eaten by the ravenous animal. The large wooden beams became white and cracked as the heat expanded and eventually split the theatre from the inside out.

Nathaniel Aidell watched helplessly as the fire engulfed the legacy of his family. One hundred and twenty-nine years to the day the Phoenix theatre had been opened, and he was watching her burn down. His trusted staff and loyal theatre director Parker surrounded him.

How could this have happened?

_________

Nathaniel’s shoes slowly shuffled down the main aisle. It was noon, which meant that in a couple of hours the house seats would start filling with people who had traveled to see what the New York Times called, “ A masterpiece to behold,” and “A visually stunning and startling look into the current life and times.”

But now, even though the theatre doors would not even open for a few hours, the house and stage were a flurry of activity and sound. In every other row, ushers, dressed in black and white jackets, helped the staff vacuum every seat. This was no small task considering the floor of the Phoenix and her four curvilinear balconies held exactly 2,804 guests, each in a red velvet cushion.

But this was the routine for every play and event that the Phoenix catered to and Nathaniel’s staff, regardless of how they felt, dealt with the realities of the owner’s OCD in silence. The curtains on the main stage were being raised and lowered by the rigging staff, various backgrounds and props moving around and behind and in front of the players as tiny details were tweaked for tonight.

Nathaniel paused his slow ritual when he saw his director walking briskly up the aisle towards him.

_________

The Phoenix now lay in a pile of smoke and dead wood. The fire crew had finally killed the dragon in its keep, but the wreckage left the castle completely beyond repair. There still seemed to be small fires and hotspots throughout the building but one of the trucks had left the scene to be replaced by a small black SUV and several new police cars.

The black SUV opened and a rather short portly man with a large mustache exited. He then opened the back and grabbed a navy windbreaker, wrapping it around himself and heading towards the fire chief conversing with an officer. Silver letters on the back of the jacket read INVESTIGATOR.

He walked into the still smoldering building, wearing shoe covers over his boots and gloves on his hands. He didn’t seem to mind the mist of the last few water hoses the firemen carried, ensuring that the blaze would not reignite and cause further damage.

As if there was really any further damage that could be caused. The heap that was once the prized Phoenix Theatre, a specimen of craftsmanship and one of the few fully wooden masterpieces on the east side of 7th Avenue, was unrecognizable.

The investigator, a Detective Arnold, liked to get in the building as quickly as possible. It helped to collect as much evidence in a scene early to try and avoid the continual damage the water and air would do. His team arrived shortly after he did, and started to photograph and collect as much as they possibly could from the charred remains. His team would ensure that witnesses were interviewed, leads were followed. They had a 92% close rate for fire cases.

_________

“Mr. Aidell? I have a question about the print-ups for next season”

Nathaniel removed his glasses from his face. The frames had been his grandfathers, a pair of wire-rimmed that he had taken after his death in ’84, replacing the lenses multiple times as his prescription had changed throughout the years.

He looked at the glass and then reached into his suit jacket to find a smooth microfiber cloth. He began to buff the lenses carefully.

“What’s the problem, Parker?”

Parker began to rant. Something about the print now being incorrect because of a cancellation of one of their guest talent, but Nathaniel was solely focused on cleaning his glasses and his mind quickly stopped listening to Parker and instead focused on the pit orchestra running through some last checks in time with the circles being made by his fingers on cloth.

“The theatre can’t afford a reprint.”

Nathaniel’s mind quickly snapped back.

“Sorry, what was that Parker?”

“Mr. Aidell, please, you have to get in touch with some of our foundations as soon as possible. Margaret has tried her best to connect with them over the weeks but money is tight for everyone, and people aren’t contributing to the arts as they once did. A call from you would greatly encourage our more reluctant patrons to consider larger donations now that most of your grandfather’s trust is…”

“Gone?” Nathaniel offered, placing the now spotless glasses back on his face.

“I was going to say diminished, Sir.”

“Of course you were.”

Nathaniel tucked the cloth back in his pocket and looked at the stage.

“First thing tomorrow, Parker. I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Parker looked exhausted and frustrated but continued walking up the main aisle and exited out the back, heavy theatre doors closing behind him. He always worked too hard on things both on and off-season. Theatre was supposed to come easily; at least it had for Nathaniel’s grandfather and Parker’s father who had worked under him before his death. Unfortunately as the years went on, it seemed more of a struggle for their younger generation to figure out.

That evening the theatre wasn’t as packed as it usually was, but the guests seemed no less extravagant. Men dressed in tuxedos with coattails, accompanying their ladies in fine gowns of silk and satin. The freshly cleaned chairs cradled them throughout the show, and the applause was enthusiastic and generous. As owner, after the cast had taken the appropriate support from the crowds, Nathaniel walked on stage to accept the acclamation.

He smiled. But it had a hint of something strange woven into the crease lines. This adoring crowd was not enough to support the theatre and they seemed unwilling to open their pockets more. He knew it, his director Parker knew it, several people in the background of the theatre-works knew it. And yet he smiled, one that he had been using more and more often since the money started to dry up: the smile of a guilty child wanting forgiveness mixed with the grimace of a drowning man.

Nathaniel soon found himself alone in the theatre after the guests departed, pacing the main stage from wing to wing. He could still hear the applause of happier times, the voices of admiration and congratulations echoing in his ears. But there was a different voice that was added into the mix.

Help me! It whispered.

“What?”

Nathaniel’s own voice echoed into the house.

Help us!

“Who are you?” He called. “What do you want?”

“Sir?”

Parker stood in front of him on stage. Nathaniel focused on his director.

“Did you hear that?”

“I heard you calling, Sir. Is there anything you needed?”

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He must have imagined it.

“No, Parker. I’m fine.”

“I was going to lock up for the night. Are you going to be here for a bit?”

Parker seemed to look at him hopefully. Perhaps he wanted him to actually try and get some work done in regards to the patrons and their funds. Nathaniel didn’t want to deal with them tonight but the theatre voices were still fresh on his mind so he answered:

“Yes. I’ll be here a little longer. But go ahead and lock everything up. I have a key if needed.”

“Yes, Sir.”

That night, the Phoenix burned.

________

Nathaniel and his staff were interviewed the following afternoon. If Detective Arnold had had his way, they would have been interviewed the night of the fire, before they had a chance to set any stories straight amongst themselves. He always presumed that fires were arson. It made it easier to look critically at people surrounding the event and he was usually correct.

This time had proved no different.

Now Arnold sat at his computer, staring at a picture on the young Nathaniel Aidell brought up by Google. He had struggled to maintain the theatre after the trust that was built by his grandfather diminished thanks to the man’s lavish spending and suspected drug use. And the well-known play stage, regardless of current financial trouble, would still claim a large sum from the insurance companies for its historical significance alone. It hadn’t taken long for the media and eventually the police to indict the owner for 1st degree insurance fraud, punishable by 25 years if he is sentenced to the maximum.

The problem was that Nathaniel Aidell had vocally maintained his innocence throughout the entire event. He had also provided copious notes and recorded conversations (apparently he had trust issues) between his theatre director and himself: arguments about theatre usage, money troubles, and most recently, and conversation the night of the fire in which the director allegedly ensured Mr. Aidell would be staying late and locked up anyway.

It would seem that Nathaniel Aidell should be innocent, and that this director, whose name for some reason Mr. Aidell would not produce, was at least potentially responsible for the fire. But where the hell was this director?

Arnold watched the tapes of Nathaniel’s latest interview at the station, the most recent available now that the Aidell family’s lawyer had been called.

-Please state your full name for the record.

-Nathaniel Reynolds Aidell Jr.

-Can you tell us what happened the night of the fire, Mr. Aidell?

-I don’t remember much. I was talking to my director on stage, and then he left, and then I was there for a bit. And then my theatre was on fire! I tried to leave but the doors were locked and my key didn’t work. I had to break through one of the sound booth windows to reach my office where I got out.

-And what’s your director’s name?

SILENCE

-Mr. Aidell? You realize that without providing a possible suspect, you are in real danger of incriminating yourself for the fire.

SILENCE

-None of your other staff will provide us with his name either or even explain to us who this director is. That’s a little weird Mr. Aidell don’t you think? Your staff can’t tell us the name of their boss?

SILENCE

-We can’t help you if you don’t help us.

SILENCE

-Very well then.

The cop left the interview room and Nathaniel was left alone. He removed his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt and set them down on the table. He then looked up at the far corner of the room and quietly laughed and smiled, as if enjoying a joke with someone else in the room.

“What the hell?”

Arnold rewound the footage and watched over and over again as Nathaniel removed his glasses, looked into a corner, and laughed.

The several resulting phone calls placed Det. Joseph Arnold in a courtroom a week later, an expert called on behalf of St. Lucy’s and Mr. Aidell’s defense team. He was sitting in the back, anxiously awaiting a decision.

“Closing arguments, counselor.”

A man in a gray suit stood.

“Thank you, your Honor.”

He faced the assembly.

“For most of us, life is pretty stressful. I can imagine that the responsibilities of maintaining full operations of a theatre, for example, is taxing for the most stable minds. For Mr. Aidell, the role is even more stressful, having to deal with not just the voices of his own thoughts as owner and the concerns of his family’s investment, but the constant thoughts of a Mr. Parker Kaufman, who has been the aforementioned theatre director of the Phoenix for as long as Mr. Aidell has owned it. Unfortunately, that tragedy of creative differences escalated to a decisive battle with the burning of Phoenix theatre on April 2, 2020. But not as severe a tragedy as the continual war being raged between these two men who are trapped in Mr. Aidell’s own mind…”