Backstage Nurse (6 page)

Oliver Craft's gaunt face became kindly. "I believe you would, Roger. And I'm touched. Deeply touched. Really, I am. But don't you understand that no one is forcing me to do this? And I am not doing it because of the money involved. This tour is a thing of sentiment with me."

Roger stared at the old actor for a moment in silence. Then he shrugged. "I'm sorry, Grandfather. We just don't understand each other. I can't seem to reach you."

"There's nothing wrong or surprising in that." Oliver Craft put a thin hand on Roger's shoulder. "There is a wide bridge of time between us. You young people today set too great a store on security. In my youth, I didn't have any. My whole life has been a wonderful gamble. That is why I have accepted the challenge of this tour. In a way, it is my last gamble, this time with death."

"If you won't listen to me, perhaps Dr. Trask will." Roger started for the door.

"I shall look for you at the theater tonight, Roger," the old actor said.

"I'm going to do everything I can to prevent a performance," Roger Craft told him firmly, and went out.

"You see, I was right." Oliver Craft smiled wearily at Shirley. "I said he would have arguments, and strong ones."

She was almost speechless in her despair. "But you were feeling so well. To come in here and upset you like this! It was wrong, wrong, wrong!"

"Perhaps the action was wrong, but the motive behind it was good. Roger just doesn't understand."

Shirley was in a stern mood. "I'm going to guard your suite for the rest of the day. He won't get in here again."

"That might be an excellent idea. Now I think I'll lie down." Oliver Craft smiled at the door of his bedroom. "You were a formidable opponent, my dear. You really do have a temper."

Alone, Shirley couldn't help smiling. She wondered what sort of virago Roger Craft had decided she was. It didn't matter. He had shown extremely poor judgment, and someone had to let him know it. She had an idea that Dr. Trask would further enlighten him on the facts of the case. She imagined, with relish, the nasal New England voice of the doctor lecturing the young man.

All day, Oliver Craft rested and in the late afternoon he had a light meal in his room. He had arranged for Shirley to have her own dressing room and she took her evening dress with her in a bag. Backstage, everyone was filled with the excitement of the opening.

The first person they encountered on their way to the dressing rooms was Charles Victor. He seemed his jolly self again, and smiled at them broadly. "A big night, Chief," he promised. "It is going to be one of the best."

Oliver Craft nodded, and they went on. Shirley helped him until he was in costume and made up. "I have never had a more lovely dresser," he complimented her. "Now I think it is time to put on your own gown and take a seat in the orchestra. I have one reserved for you."

"No," she protested. "I should be backstage with you."

"There's nothing more to be done, my dear. You can return between the acts."

She tried to argue with him, but he insisted that tonight she should watch the play from the audience. After making sure he was all right, she went to her dressing room and changed.

When she had finished, she studied herself in the mirror and decided that she looked her best. She had had her hair done the evening before in an upsweep style that set off the grace of the strapless yellow gown. Transferring the contents of her purse to her jeweled evening bag, she checked her ticket and saw that the seat was about halfway down in the theater. This would place her near a side exit that led to backstage in an emergency.

In the corridor, she almost collided with Jeffrey Sayre, now a dashing figure in his military uniform and looking more his movie self in his wavy blond wig.

"You look much too lovely for a nurse, Miss Grant," he said, bowing to her and clicking his heels in mock-gallantry.

"You're more than usually handsome yourself," she returned.

"My charm is difficult to hide," he smirked.

Then he nodded toward the star's dressing room. "All well in there?"

"Fine. He wants me to see the play from the audience tonight."

Sayre whistled. "The old buck must be in good shape. Well, you'll not be far away. Wish us luck."

At the end of the corridor near the stage, she came upon Hugh Deering, Joy Milland, and the character woman, all in make-up and costume, and in an excited huddle of conversation.

Hugh smiled at her. "Dressed for the occasion, I see."

"Good luck." She waved to them and headed toward the exit.

"You look divine!" Joy Milland called after her shrilly.

Just as she touched the exit door, Lyon Phillips hurried by, coatless and perspiring. He grinned at her. "Another rat deserting the ship," he said.

By the time she was shown to her seat, the orchestra was playing. It was one of the things she liked about the Colonial Theater. Only a few houses kept an orchestra now, and it added so much to the show. The audience was fashionable and every seat in the great theater seemed to be occupied. Not only a successful night at the box office, but an evening of tribute to a beloved star.

As Oliver Craft had promised, she saw Boston's own Cardinal and his retinue seated in seats near the front of the middle section.

The curtain rose to a round of applause, and in the dimly lighted prison set the play began. It built from the quiet scene with Charles Victor and the character woman, through the angry scenes between the Communist leaders, played to the hilt by Jeffrey Sayre and Hugh Deering, to the dramatically right entrance of Oliver Craft as the Cardinal.

Again, the play was halted by applause and Jeffrey Sayre lashed into his scene opposite the old star with a bite that made Shirley afraid once again. But Oliver Craft's calm control did not seem to falter. He played his role with a mounting strength that caught up the audience. And when he said his memorable first-act curtain line there was a hushed silence as the curtain fell before the theater exploded with applause.

In all her theatrical experience, Shirley had never heard such an enthusiastic response to a play. Even she had forgotten her concern for her patient during the final moments of the act. Now she thought of her responsibility and pushed her way through the crowds to the side exit and backstage.

She found the old star in his dressing room repairing his make-up. He was perspiring, but his face wore a happy smile. "No worries, my dear," he greeted her. "I'm feeling quite well."

His grandson stood by him, and he acknowledged Shirley's entrance with a slight nod. Then he said to his grandfather, "I'll be back again next intermission." With a second nod to Shirley, he left.

"He's a little nervous of you." Oliver Craft chuckled.

Shirley dropped two white tablets in a half-glass of water and passed it to him. "This will help your second act."

The old man drank the liquid without a question. Then he said: "You should be onstage with us at the final curtain. Part of our success is due to you. Without your good care, I wouldn't be fit to play my part tonight."

"You still have two acts to go," she teased.

"I'm not worried," he said, adjusting his Cardinal's cap.

Watching him, Shirley thought how right the part was for the old actor. He had the gaunt, saintly air of a venerable churchman. Surely the playwright must have had him in mind when he wrote the role.

The second act built up steadily and ended on another high note of drama, which brought a repeat of the first-act thunder of applause. Lyon Phillips was standing by the set when Shirley came back this time.

"I didn't think he'd ever be this good again," he told her, his eyes shining.

"I hope he's able to keep it up."

"That applause is all he needs for his bloodstream," Phillips said, looking toward the front curtain. "They love him."

"I know." Shirley started toward the corridor.

"Are you going to the party at the hotel?" Lyon called after her.

"I haven't decided," Shirley said over her shoulder.

"Better do it now," Hugh Deering said in his easy, friendly voice, taking her by both bare shoulders.

She stopped still and, blushing, waited for him to let her go. He did so in a second.

"We'll need some pretty girls there tonight," he said, smiling. "And you are a pretty girl, you know."

He looked so handsome in his military uniform, his hair grayed a bit more at the temples, his eyes accentuated by make-up, that she found it difficult to answer him for a moment. "You're giving a fine performance," she said. "Everyone is."

"Pleasant words," he told her. "But there are others I'd rather hear. Such as your saying 'yes' to my question about the party."

"I'll think it over," she promised with a faint smile. "I'd better get in to the Chief. He may need me." She hurried on.

When she went in this time, Oliver Craft was bent forward on the make-up counter, his hands at his temples, his eyes closed as if in meditation.

Shirley went up to him slowly. "Are you all right, Mr. Craft?"

He nodded and then, leaning back, opened his eyes. He spoke in a low voice. "Just now… a little cramp in my left side. Quite severe. But it seems to have passed."

Alarmed, she said, "I can call Dr. Trask. He's near the front of the house."

"No, no!" He raised a hand in protest. "A thing like that could ruin the play. Word would go through the house like wildfire. After that, they'd be watching me and not the Cardinal. The mood would be lost."

Shirley searched quickly and found a small vial of blue pellets that Dr. Trask had given her to use in case of the old man having sudden pain. "This will help, I'm sure," she said.

He took one of the pills and she saw that his hand trembled slightly. "Don't mention this to any of the others," he warned her.

She nodded, handing him another small glass of water. Watching as he took the tiny pill, she knew that this secret conspiracy between them was going to be a permanent thing—a conspiracy against pain from which all the rest of the company would be shut out. She wondered if she had a fraction of the courage of the old man beside her and if she would be able to match up to him in his defiant battle with death.

He looked up at her with his weary smile. "Time for the third act." And in answer to the unspoken question in her face: "Yes. I'm all right now."

Oliver Craft had been right. For her, the magic of the play was partially lost. But it seemed she was alone in her fears. All the rest of the audience were caught up in the play. At last the big curtain scene arrived and Oliver Craft as the Cardinal said: "Yes, I am going to die. But everything about me you want killed will live." The curtain fell to the final outburst of applause that topped all the others.

The curtain went up and down as the company took their calls. And then came the moment when Oliver Craft faced the audience alone. Cheers were added to the thunderous ovation; all around Shirley, people stood up, clapping their hands. Time after time, the curtain was lowered and raised and then the full company took a last call. Oliver Craft stepped forward to the audience, smiling, and said a simple: "Thank you, my friends." The curtain dropped for the last time.

Shirley was on her way backstage when a voice at her elbow said, "Miss Grant."

She turned to face Roger Craft, who had elbowed his way through the crowd. He was quite different from the young man she had met that morning. Smiling apologetically, he said, "I'd like to ask your pardon for the way I acted at the hotel."

Knowing that he was sincere, she said, "I think I understand."

"I love my grandfather," he said, "if that's an excuse."

"I'm sure it is."

"But I see now that you and the doctor were right," he went on, looking at the crowd surging out of the crowded lobby. "This is how it should be with him, as long as he is able to go on."

Shirley glanced toward the backstage entrance. "I should be back there. But he wanted me to see the show from out front."

Roger Craft took her by the arm. "It will probably mean a little pushing." He smiled at her. "But I think we can manage it now."

Pressing against the current of the crowd wasn't easy. But they finally made their way to one of the backstage doors. As they went through, Shirley said, "That was really something. I'm tired out."

"You'll be coming to Dr. Trask's party at the Statler, won't you?" Roger Craft inquired in a way which indicated that he would be attending.

She smiled without answering as they arrived backstage.

Here, all was confusion. A line of people waiting to speak with Oliver Craft stood by as photographers busied themselves taking pictures of the stage Cardinal posing in a friendly handshake with Boston's own Cardinal.

Shirley glanced across to where the other members of the cast were grouped together and saw Hugh Deering staring at her. Catching her eye, he smiled in a cynical way and she realized that Roger Craft was standing close to her, an arm protectively around her.

Oliver Craft sat heavily in front of the mirror and removed his Cardinal's cap. "I'm very tired, but I feel better now," he told her. "Boston has always been kind to me, but tonight was something more than I expected."

She stood by him. "Do you think you should attempt Dr. Trask's party?"

He nodded. "For a few minutes at least. Just to say hello to his guests."

"I'm sure he'd understand if you didn't feel able to go."

"Don't worry, my dear." He smiled at her. And the make-up gone, she saw that his face was a mask of weariness, his color not good.

Since he insisted, she went outside and told his grandson. Roger went out to have a taxi ready and she waited backstage for the old man. Most of the others in the company had already left the theater. But as she stood waiting, Lyon Phillips came up to her.

"You've decided to come to the party, after all?" He was in high spirits, the night having been such a success.

"The Chief has made up his mind that he will, and you know what he's like." She gave a small smile of despair.

"I'm glad he's stubborn about it. He should have a bit of fun. Won't hurt him," the stage manager said gaily. "And besides, he earned it tonight."