Acts of Love (57 page)

There were no questions or comments. It went more smoothly; everyone felt it and a few times they seemed to relax. Jessica had laid the new blocking diagrams in key spots on both turntables, and simply knowing they were there helped them remember their moves. And, as their movements became more natural, they could concentrate on their lines and on the way Jessica spoke hers. She still stumbled over words, and missed cues, but fewer than before, and they were all so absorbed they barely noticed it. What they did notice was that they responded to Jessica differently from the ways they had responded to Angela, and because of that they heard new meanings in their lines and discovered new ways of relating to each other. By the end of the second run-through, though they still were having problems, they all knew that the play was becoming richer and more intriguing than at any time before.

“I'd like to go through it again this afternoon and after dinner,” Jessica said. “Does anyone mind?”

“No,” Edward said, surprising them all. “It's getting quite interesting.”

On Monday—
the day before we open
—the morning rehearsal went almost without a hitch. “We're getting there,” Whitbread said outside the dressing room. “I think we're definitely on top of it.”

“Jessica is not good,” Edward said, his voice despairing. “She's not
alive.
She seems distracted and—oh, God, I don't want to believe this—afraid.”

Once again, Jessica met the eyes of the wardrobe designer, who was making a final alteration on the sleeves of the evening gown she would wear in the third act. “Assholes never learn,” said the designer sadly. “Greatness works slowly. If I had to design a dress in half an hour, what would it look like? A lunch bag with a buttonhole. Don't they know you need time?”

We have today, tonight and tomorrow morning.

“Forget that you're the director,” Hermione said as they finished lunch. “I'll be the director. I'm sitting in the fourth row counting the times you blink.”

“I'm blinking a lot?”

“Not more than usual. If you do I'll let you know. Now listen carefully. I want you to forget everything but Helen. That's what you always did before, isn't it, thought of nothing but your part? Well, how did you do it? You and Constance: how did you do this transformation you're always telling me about?”

“I don't know. At some point it just happened.”

“Then do that now.”

“Do what?”

“Let it happen.”

“But—”

“You're blocking something. Maybe you're still hung up on how you look. Maybe you're afraid you'll be wonderful because then you'd agonize over why you wasted all those years. But those years are gone, Jessie, this is now, and you are going to
be
Helen. Let it happen; let the past go.”

“But we never completely get rid of the past. That's the theme of this play.”

“Then use it. Use your past to make us believe in Helen. Damn it, you ought to be able to do that. That's your job. That's what you're good at.”

They began again, a little before two in the afternoon. This was a full dress rehearsal, with makeup, lights and props. In the third act, Jessica wore an evening gown of deep red satin, closely fitting, flared at the hem, the long sleeves ending in lace that lay lightly over the backs of her hands. When she took her place, Whitbread rushed up to her. “My God, Jessica, I am
stunned.
I mean, the makeup, the dress, your hair  . . . I am stunned. No wonder Helen impresses everyone. Such an impressive woman!”

“Not bad,” said Hermione complacently. Before she took her seat in the audience, she whispered to Jessica, “If you're as free of your fears as you look, we haven't got a thing to worry about.”

Jessica watched the others take their places.
Free.
That was what the theater was all about. The freedom to explore new worlds, to learn more about human nature, to discover and rediscover the wondrous variety of life.

The freedom to grow from the past to the present.

And she knew that, for the first time, that was how she felt. Free.

The opening lines of the third act were spoken by Edward and Nora, in their son's apartment. Then Jessica spoke, standing beside the couch in her apartment, talking to Whitbread. And that was when, in an instant, she caught fire, and became the Jessica she had been. And became Helen.

It happened so easily that it was a few seconds before the others reacted. But then Nora said, “Oh!” in a short gasp and Edward dashed from his set to Jessica's, to see her face.

“Places!” Hermione said sternly from her seat in the fourth row.

Edward half turned to her. “I just wanted—”

“We're rehearsing,” Hermione snapped. “Jessica, as soon as Edward is ready, would you repeat your last line?”

With frustrated backward glances, Edward returned to the other set. Jessica had not moved; she still faced Whitbread, her body holding the sense of urgency it had had when she had begun. And, as Hermione was the first to see, her stoop seemed almost gone. Somehow she had moved her shoulders just enough to give the illusion of standing straight, her head high.

Thank you, God, Hermione breathed. She wanted to do a dance, she wanted to shout, but she sat still, her clipboard in her lap, and scrawled HALLELUJAH across the top sheet of paper. Backstage, Dan Clanagh and the wardrobe designer grinned at each other. The lighting director, in his booth high up in the back wall of the theater, nodded, as if he had known all along that everything would work out down there. And from that moment on, it did not occur to anyone in the theater that the woman standing by the couch had a stoop and a limp, that her face was thin and lined and her body frail. As the play moved to its conclusion, all they saw was Helen. And they believed in her.

Tuesday morning the final dress rehearsal did not go well and Jessica called it off at the end of the first run-through. “We've overdone the rehearsing; we need to get away from here. Go home and relax. Take a ferry ride. Do yoga in the park. Meditate in the Chinese Gardens. Think about anything but the play. I'll see you back here at six. I think you're all wonderful and we're going to give a splendid performance tonight.”

“We think you're wonderful,” Nora said. “You're so exciting to watch, Jessica: the way your voice changes, and how you stand and sit, even the way you put your hand up—you know, like this—and brush back your hair  . . . I mean, I've never seen you do that.”

“Because that's something Helen does,” Edward said. He touched Jessica's arm. “Dear Jessica, we have so much catching up to do. I'll call you early tomorrow and we'll take the whole day, go somewhere private, get to know each other again. We've been apart much too long.”

She looked at him blankly. What was he talking about? But as the silence stretched out and she saw the folds in his face deepen, his lips tightening and pulling down, she knew she could not risk tonight. Tomorrow he would be on his own, but for tonight, she could not risk anything. Tonight they needed Edward at his best.

“We'll talk in the morning,” she said softly. “After Sydney discovers its newest actor, tonight.”

“We could have dinner first.” He took her hand. “We've waited a long time.”

“I never eat before a performance. I suggest you don't either. Unless you don't get nervous before going on.”

“I do.”

“Then it's better to have an empty stomach.” She smiled at him and went to join Hermione, who was waiting in the wings. “I hope you don't mind that I sent them all home. We were—”

“Stretched too thin. I know. You did exactly right. What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“I think I'll go to a movie.”

“What a good idea. Would you mind if I tagged along?”

“I'd like that.”

“By the way, I won't be back here at six. Do you mind?”

“No, it's not necessary.”

“You haven't asked, but the fact is, I have a date.”

“On opening night?”

“I got him a ticket.”

“That's nice,” Jessica said absently. “We're sold out, aren't we?”

“We are sold out for four weeks. Between Varden's review and the theater parties, we're into April. Which makes all us investors very happy. What movie are we going to see?”

“Let's get a newspaper and throw darts. Whichever one we hit.”

It turned out to be an American film, a deafening jumble of machine guns and bloody cries of pain, bodies smashing through plate-glass windows and an occasional lull for the lead actor and actress to tumble into bed. “Good sex, lousy story,” Hermione said as they drove home. “Reminds me of an affair I had once. Why do filmmakers think people like all that mayhem?”

“Because a lot of people do like it.”

“Probably reminds them of their home life. Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“You're terrific, you know. Have I told you that? There's something magical about the way you turn into Helen; you'll have them on their feet: standing ovation, cheers, applause, the whole thing.”

“It's bad luck to say that before a performance.”

“They won't move, they won't applaud, they won't even clap politely.”

Jessica laughed. “I love you, Hermione. I couldn't have done anything in these past months without you. Go home to your date; I hope you have a very sexy dinner.”

Hermione pulled up in front of Jessica's house. “You know you're a lovely lady. I've never had as good a friend or anyone as fine to work with. This is going to be your night, not mine—”

“Our night.”

“—and you deserve it. You deserve all the good things in the world. You're the best person I know, and a great actress.” She kissed Jessica on both cheeks. “I'll wish you luck now. Or is that bad luck, too?”

“Not coming from you.” She watched Hermione drive away, then went into her house. She glanced at the empty fax machine and felt a sharp pang of loss. She wanted Luke to be there. The excitement of yesterday had not been perfect, because he was not there to share it.
Oh, damn, damn, damn, Luke. Why couldn't you be here?

A cup of tea, she thought. A hot bath. Then a book or a magazine, or just staring out the window, gathering strength. And then the theater.

I've done it so many times. It's just a routine by now.

But by the time she arrived at the Opera House, very early, and parked in the underground garage, she was trembling so that she could barely walk. The next two hours were a blur. She did her makeup, with help from the expert Hermione had hired; she dressed and organized her other clothes to make sure they would be ready when she needed them; she checked props to see that they were all laid out; she spoke to the cast, encouraging them, helping them with a line or phrase they suddenly could not, for the life of them, recall because they were gripped by fear. But she was barely aware of any of it, until Dan went through, calling, “Places for act one, everybody.”

She stood in the wings, waiting for the houselights to go down so that they could move onto the set, in the dark, and be in their places when the stage lights came up. Her breathing was quick and shallow, her stomach was a knot of fear. To distract herself, she looked through the small opening in the wall, invisible from the other side, to see if the house was indeed sold out, and if the audience was settling down.

And she saw Luke.

He was sitting in the sixth row, on the aisle, in animated discussion with Hermione. His profile was to Jessica, so familiar but so strange: his sharp features and heavy eyebrows, his deep-set eyes and wonderful smile. In one hand he held the program, in the other the insert that announced Jessica's starring role.

She stared at him. She could not believe he was there. Why had he come, without telling her? I have known him for one week, she thought, and I love him with all of my being. But maybe I don't know him at all. Why is he here? Why didn't he answer my letter?

Hermione knows.

You haven't asked, but the fact is, I have a date.

Oh, Hermione, Jessica thought. Another scheme. You wrote to Luke, or called him, saying you had a ticket for him. But I wrote to him, too. And he never answered.

“Ready?” Dan asked her. “Houselights down?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was dry, and she leaned against the wall for support. The excitement of Monday night's rehearsal was gone. One day's success never guaranteed the next; every actor and painter and writer knew that. Each new day, each new project, was like starting from the beginning. And tonight, Jessica thought, there is an audience, there are critics . . . and Luke. And I can't remember my first line.

But that always happened. She could not worry about that. She moved onto the dark stage and stepped up to the turntable, setting her cane down softly, silently with each step as she followed tiny reflectors in the floor that led to the desk. She sat down, laid the cane on the floor behind the desk and picked up the telephone. Whitbread was on the other turntable, seated at his dining room table with Edward and Nora. The stage lights came on, illuminating the double set and the four actors.

Applause greeted the set. Then the audience fell silent, and Jessica spoke the opening line into the telephone, remembering it perfectly, as she had known she would.

Luke leaned forward, gripping the arms of his seat. It was Jessica  . . . but not Jessica. She was not the woman he had known on Lopez, nor was she the world-renowned actress of another time. She was Helen—proud, arrogant, self-satisfied—and Luke knew that if others noticed that her face was thin and drawn, they would have thought that that was exactly what Helen looked like. Her hair was pale blond, Luke saw, wondering briefly why she had not done that before—and longer than he remembered it; her makeup was skillful. She moved hardly at all, staying in one place or taking only a few steps while holding onto the back of a chair or the edge of the desk, but the blocking had been done so skillfully that the way the others moved made her stillness seem natural. Her body seemed frail and stooped . . . no, she wasn't stooped . . . yes, of course she was, but the way she held her shoulders created the illusion that she was standing straight. Few people would notice—directors would, dancers and athletes would—but most of the audience, Luke thought, would never realize the effort that went into that controlled posture. They would see only a woman who was not beautiful but who held them with the force of her will, the art of creating a complex character with great simplicity of motion and gesture, and her voice.