Screen Play (2 page)

~
Three
~

For two hours, we watched the snowplows scrape the runways, listened to colicky babies cry, and waited for a breakthrough. I thought of calling my mom in Orlando, or my dad in Elizabethtown, but after a year of telling them things were fine when they weren’t, I decided to forego the playacting.

The first beam appeared from the burning yellow sun. It cut through the sky, puncturing holes in the cobweb clouds. A stressed-out gate agent announced our boarding over the intercom, happy to uncork the exits and let people drain out into planes.

The flight was packed. I wedged myself into a seat between a man who started snoring before takeoff and a surgeon talking on her cell phone about organ transplantation. I slid a dog-eared copy of
Apartment 19
, the classic American play by Arthur Mouldain, out of my carry-on. I’d found it in a used bookstore on Michigan Avenue the day I received the blessed call. I cracked open the paperback once again, pouring the words into my mind like hot cocoa into a thermos. I reread Bella’s note, too, folded between the pages. She offered just thirteen words of encouragement, but they meant the world to me.

I believe in you. God has a purpose and plan for your life. Bella

At one fifteen, I pulled open the elegant pane-glass doors of the Carney Theatre on West Forty-fourth Street and let myself inside. Angels, not the heavenly sort, but kindhearted benefactors, had recently donated millions toward renovating the 702-seat Carney. I’d read about it online at a Chicago public library on State Street.

I tiptoed across a sprawling sea of bright red carpet toward two open doors on the other side of the lobby and entered the darkened theater. Before my eyes adjusted completely to the room’s murky darkness, I parked my luggage against the back wall and quietly pulled open the clamshell seat so as not to disturb the actors rehearsing onstage, or any of the half-dozen strangers scattered around the theater. My breathing felt rushed, a result of speed-walking and nerves, so I tried drawing in long, deep breaths while transitioning into a strange, new world. I recognized the play’s director, Ben Hughes, even in silhouette, sitting ahead of me in the shadows, but then I’d know him anywhere. I couldn’t identify the stranger sitting next to him, a woman leaning in, whispering as two actresses rehearsed on the lighted Carney stage. I wondered how well she knew him.

Everyone knew the two actresses onstage—everyone familiar with the New York theater world and network television, anyway.

Avril LaCorria—my blonde-haired, easily thin, twenty-eight-year-old best friend, who I hadn’t laid eyes on since our year together in Chicago—and Helen Payne.

I’d never met Helen, but it was impossible not to know the legend. Her hit TV show,
Mystery Detected
, had aired each Sunday night for ten years in every home in America, including my own. I’d watched it countless times with my mother while I was growing up. Helen was sixty, I guessed, with a robust build and the confident poise of a Broadway star. She’d dressed for rehearsal in a dark sword-pleated skirt, frilly white blouse, and unbuttoned tan cardigan to chase away the chill of the large Broadway theater.

“I come on stage left,” Helen said, walking through her moves. “Stand at center stage and … where will she be?” Helen asked, pointing over at Avril in a way that suggested even after four weeks of rehearsals she didn’t yet know Avril’s name.

“Right where she is now,” Ben said. He stood, reestablishing his directorial authority.

I leaned forward in the back row, resting my arms over the theater seat in front of me. It was my first look at the much-touted revival of
Apartment 19
.

“Shouldn’t she be further back, Ben?” Helen asked, as if it were the only position that truly made any sense. “Or if she were even sitting when I came in, I could just give my first line—
Why are you still here in the apartment?
—to myself rather than asking her directly. The audience will think I don’t know she’s even there.”

“Helen, I’m fine with that, but let’s just walk through this once again with Avril at the front of the stage. The audience will get the tension that she’s supposed to have left, but she’s still in the apartment with you.”

Judging by Helen’s expression, a brief but contemptuous stare, she didn’t much care for Ben rejecting her suggestion. Without further rebuttal, Helen exited the stage, tapping her heels sharply as she returned to the wings.

“From the top again,” Ben said, slipping back into the obscurity of his theater seat. A moment later Helen reentered, this time in character. Even without benefit of a costume, props, or theater makeup, her transformation into Audrey Bradford was utterly mesmerizing.

She took her mark at center stage, glaring at Avril’s character, Roxy Dupree, the eccentric and emotionally unbalanced tenant who rents a single room in the wealthy widow’s large New York apartment. With neurotic contempt exuding from her large presence, Helen Payne delivered her line.

Why are you still here in the apartment?

Avril looked as though the pent-up tension in Helen’s question had knocked the answer clean out of her head. She stammered.

I wanted to speak with you. I was afraid we got off on the wrong foot.

Helen pointed a sharpened finger into the wings at stage right.
I want you out of this apartment, now!
Avril reacted like she’d been Tasered, her body crippled by an electric shock. The intensity onstage was palpable. Prima donna or not, Helen Payne knew her stuff. Each line she delivered sent chills up my spine. The method actor moved with purpose around the stage, a caged tiger, every subtle gesture underlining what a monster her character was.

In front of me in the dimness, I detected a slight movement and shifted my line of sight. The thirty-something woman sitting next to Ben—her raven hair cut blunt at her chin—turned her head to look at me. She stared, her eyes detached and expressionless, studying or sizing me up. A beam of auxiliary stage light flickered across the woman’s eyes, as thin as the cold blade of a saber, and I felt a sudden chill. The flap of her charcoal hoodie had fallen around her shoulders, making her look like a poisonous crone from a Grimm’s fairy tale. I fixed my eyes on hers, unable to peel them away. She turned back toward Ben, scribbling something onto a clipboard in front of her, and tilted it toward him just as the scene broke onstage.

“Okay, let’s stop there. Very good, everyone,” Ben said, rising up from his theater seat to the height of his six-foot-two frame. “Can we get the houselights up, please?”

The unseen hand of the lighting director amplified the soft glow inside the Carney from half past midnight to noonday sun. A sea of ruby seats, hundreds of closed clamshells, uniform and perfect, came to life before me. The scarlet curtains framing the proscenium brushed downward in vertical lines like a woman’s hair. Upper and lower box seats, once the symbol of luxury in Broadway’s grand old days, were recessed into each sidewall, garlanded with ornamental gold leafing. But the heart of the Carney Theatre was the grand crystal chandelier suspended in the center of the room. It looked like a bell made of diamonds, cascading light like water splashing from a fountain.

Twenty or so actors, stage grips, and crew once concealed in the dark drifted out onto the stage. Ben addressed everyone from his spot in the fifth row.

“All right, everyone. We’ve got the makings of a truly great show on our hands, but as you can see from rehearsal, we’re not ready yet. But we will be. After all, we still have four days.”

Ben glanced at his wristwatch, the consummate Broadway director, responsible for every detail of the show.

“I’ve got just after one thirty now. Let’s break for an hour lunch. Rehearsal will go no later than six—however, I’ll need you all back here at the Carney tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. Please do not make tonight your ultimate New Year’s Eve to remember.”

Ben’s gaze searched the theater, finally catching sight of me sitting in the back row.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Harper, would you stand up, please?”

I stood as the rest of the cast and crew turned to stare at me.

“Everyone, please say hello to Harper Gray. Harper is here from Chicago to fill the role of Helen’s understudy since our darling Miss Molly left for Hollywood to make her movie. Please make Harper feel welcome, especially since she …”

Ben turned back toward the stage. The Russell Crowe look-alike, with brown hair slightly lower than his shirt collar, laid the flat of his hand across his eyes like the bill of a baseball cap, searching for Helen in the bright houselights.

“Helen, how long has it been since you had to use an understudy?”

The actress returned to the stage, her star shining just as brightly without the presence of stage lighting. She stepped with a balanced gait, playing her other character, the real-life Broadway diva Helen Payne.

“I’m not sure—but I believe the last time, Ben, was in 1983.”

A howl broke out among the cast and crew. It was the sound of showbiz people recognizing humor in another’s pathetically comical lot in life. I cringed inside.

Helen Payne had given thousands of performances over the past twenty-five years, which meant I basically had a thousand-to-one shot of ever being called upon to grace the footlights in
Apartment 19
.

Standing alone at the back row of the gloriously refurbished Carney Theatre, I bit my lip, lifting the corners of my mouth into the shape of a smile, the most natural I could muster. I was pretending—acting, if you will, that I didn’t look grubby on the outside from a long, frustrating day of airports, shuttle rides, delays, and crowds. Or worn out on the inside from bruises accumulated over a long, bumpy year. And that the star of the show hadn’t just completely humiliated me in front of a group of strangers.

I smiled, feeling the last ounce of my self-esteem shatter into a million pieces. This was the water at my chin finally flooding above my nose, suffocating and submerging the old me to a watery grave.

My eyes lifted until they met Helen’s powerful stare where she stood, the Trident Queen, in the center of that magnificent stage. She appeared to be grinning through me, with her award-winning TV persona, her four-decades-long Broadway pedigree sizing up and dismissing me in an instant.

She posed on the high stage above me, a modern day Cruella De Vil, with one arm wrapped around her middle like a belt of flesh and the other jutting away like the chiseled lines of a cold, Roman numeral. Her burning cigarette balanced at the end of her hand as a lifeless thread of smoke ascended in retreat.

Clearly, she enjoyed the cast’s laughter. Helen was a born performer onstage and off. Her demure posturing told everyone that this Broadway production had only one star. She would give up her stage to an understudy the day William Shakespeare returned, holding in his quivering, bony hands the sequel to
Hamlet
written with Helen in mind.

“So everybody, make Harper feel right at home in our little family,” Ben said. “And I want to see everyone back here in one hour.”

Helen floated out of sight, presumably to her private dressing room backstage. I clutched the rough upholstery of the theater seat in front of me, shaking off the cold beam of narcissism Helen had shot at me.

The old cliché “nothing left to lose” didn’t begin to scratch the surface. I felt like a child does when a fever breaks, or when a witch’s spell is broken in a fairy tale. This sensation didn’t
dawn
on me; it slammed me like a hit-and-run driver. I felt
reset
, released, and fighting mad. After a year of falling, I’d come to New York City and found rock bottom. It took a beloved TV star to meet me there and press me down with the heel of her foot. But I also realized I wouldn’t stay there. Touching the bottom meant I finally had a push-off point to find my way back to the surface.

~
Four
~

My favorite LA actor sat on the Carney’s stage, her legs dangling over the edge. She wore faded blue jeans and a white embroidered hippie top, no doubt from a California boutique on Rodeo Drive. Avril LaCorria smiled, waving to me with wiggling fingers, looking like a beauty pageant winner riding in the back of a convertible in the Rose Parade.

She eased herself off the stage. No longer in the mind-set of Roxy Dupree, Avril put on another character, clowning her way down the center aisle toward me. She approached bashfully, her hands tucked into the front pockets of her blue jeans, her shoulders drawn up tight as if she were a puppeteer’s marionette. When the space between us had dwindled sufficiently, Avril let out a sudden squeal of excitement and threw her arms around me in crazy delight.

“Oh, my gosh! I’ve missed you!” Avril swallowed me up in her rocking embrace. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

We both lost our balance and came crashing down into the theater seat beneath us.

“I missed you, too,” I said into her armpit, conscious and thankful of the message her flamboyant hug sent to everyone in the room. If one star didn’t accept me, at least another one did.

“We are going to have the best time in New York! Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe how well this all came together.”

Avril squeezed me again, chirping the musical utterances she voiced when everything was right in her perfect world. Cast members shuffled past us on their way out, slowing enough to joke with Avril and the new girl, my comic fate threatening no one.

Ben retraced the path Avril walked, sidestepping the exiting actors, comfortable enough in his own skin to wear J. Crew—denim, brown plaid, and construction boots. With his wire glasses and short, sandy beard, Ben looked as ready to go hiking as direct a Broadway play. He slid into the row of seats ahead of us, and Avril climbed off me so I could stand up.

“Welcome, Harper. Glad to see you were able to make it safely to New York.” Ben extended his hand over the seats, and I took hold of it. Strong and warm, his hand shook mine at first, then held on while he spoke. “I hope your flight was good. I hear there’s been weather.”

“The flight was fine, but the timing of your call was perfect, Ben. I can’t thank you enough for offering me this role.”

“It’s Avril you should thank,” he said, letting go of my hand and gesturing to her. “When Molly gave us her news on Monday, it was Avril who reminded me of
Grease
last year in Chicago. That cast gelled together quickly. I said, ‘If there’s any way Harper’s available, let’s ask if she’ll come do this for us.’”

I smiled. It was nice of Ben to make it appear that I was the one doing him a favor. I hadn’t forgotten that about him. His humility and kindness were still fresh on my mind since that was also the last time I’d worked.

“You didn’t have the biggest role in the show, but obviously I know what you’re capable of.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

“And you know me, I like working with actors I trust,” he said, his green eyes peering at me through the wire-rim glasses. Everyone around us might have interpreted his gesture as an appeal for my loyalty, but I didn’t. I knew exactly what Ben meant, and answered him with my own silent nod. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d trusted me.

“The situation’s just as I described over the phone. It’s unlikely you’ll see stage time, but we’re obligated for insurance purposes to have an understudy. The Mouldain estate has granted us a very limited license for
Apartment 19
—a short forty-two performances over the next six weeks. And you probably know this, but the role of Audrey Bradford has never been portrayed by a younger actor. So, if you ever do get the call, we’ll show the critics just how innovative we can be. Let’s get you up and running after lunch today, okay?”

Ben clapped his hands, punctuating the end of his speech before stepping away, on to his next directorial task. I told him thanks one more time, and Avril bowed low like an obliging servant.

“We are but lowly actors, m’lord. Humbly at your service.”

Like the famous TV detective Columbo, Ben turned back toward us in the aisle.

“Oh, and one more thing. Did you get the script and video of rehearsals we Fed Exed you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was able to get my lines down before leaving Chicago.”

“Memorized?” Ben asked, taken somewhat aback. “That’s fantastic, and one less last-minute detail to manage. Good work, Harper.”

It was true. I had my lines down, but not because of any video. Had the script and DVD arrived on time (I didn’t bother mentioning neither had arrived until the day before my flight), it wouldn’t have mattered much because my apartment lacked a television set, DVD player,
and
electricity. .

“Our stage production director, Tabby Walker, will be working with you. She’ll go over basic stage blocking in rehearsals this afternoon.”

Arriving on cue, the raven-haired woman I’d seen next to Ben joined us, attaching herself to Ben’s side.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Tabby said, her high-school hall-monitor clipboard cross-armed over her chest like a shield.

“Good,” Ben said, checking his large silver wristwatch. “We’ll see you back here at two thirty.”

Tabby said nothing more. She simply spun on her heel and followed Ben out of the theater.

I turned to Avril. “What’s up with her?”

“Oh, don’t mind Tabby,” Avril said, moving toward the main exit. “There are all kinds of people in the land of make-believe. Tabby’s world only works when she’s in charge of everyone in it.”

“Bet I’m in for a very interesting day.”

“Only after a very interesting lunch. Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” I said.

“There are five thousand restaurants in midtown Manhattan. What are you in the mood for? A kosher deli, Italian, Taiwanese, Chicken McNuggets?”

“I can’t choose. It all sounds so good.”

My stomach growled. I pressed my arm through the sleeve of my leather jacket as we walked through the sea of theater seats. I gathered my
one
small bag from the back wall.

“Harper, how is it you only brought one suitcase with you from Chicago?”

“My other bag wanted to go to Philly.”

Avril laughed. “Why do the funniest things always happen to you?”

I didn’t know the answer, didn’t care. I was thankful that anything was happening in my life.

Pedestrians filled West Forty-fourth Street as we broke through the front doors leaving the Carney’s placid world behind. The cold city air blew against my face, calming my nerves. I inhaled it in huge gulps, like a reef diver breaking the ocean’s surface.

“Oh, I just got the best idea! I
have
to take you shopping tonight after rehearsal,” Avril said, excited about everything. “It will be my way of welcoming you to Broadway.”

“You don’t have to do that, Avril.”

“Harp, there’s
no way
your other bag is showing up in New York on New Year’s Day. Of course, I want to celebrate you being here, but you have to have clothes to wear too.”

She smiled, and I felt good about our friendship. With Avril, out of sight meant (mostly) out of mind, but when we were together, it was, “Do you have clothes to wear? Do you have food to eat?” I treasured her friendship.

For lunch, Avril recommended Bongiorno, an Italian eatery near the Theater District. Inside, the walls were exposed brick, the floors, hardwood, and tables covered with red cloths under white paper, a bottle of San Pellegrino on every one.

“Okay, last time, I
promise
—but, I’m so glad you’re here,” Avril said, once we’d been seated. She squeezed my hands across the table like we were a sister act reunited, Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen in
White Christmas
. “Life’s so perfect. Have you ever noticed that, Harper? We shared an apartment at Northwestern, had the flat in Chicago while we worked on
Grease
, and now we’ll keep a two bedroom in the Village while we go to the Carney every night and dazzle Broadway.”

“
Apartment 19
.”

Avril rolled her eyes, puffing a burst of air from her lips.

“You don’t like it?” I asked.

“It’s just not realistic. A small-town chick moves to the big city and rents a room from the diabolical and very weird Audrey Bradford. Hey, I’ve got an idea—live somewhere else.”

“It’s supposed to be a story about surviving a difficult situation,” I said, the script still fresh on my mind. “Your character, Roxy Dupree, doesn’t feel like she has much choice. She’s trying to do the right thing, and it takes all the courage she has.”

“Oh, whatever. I just want my next project to be set in LA, preferably at the beach, with one of those
SNL
comedians making the whole thing funny.”

“
Baywatch: The Movie
—starring Will Ferrell?”

“Perfect. Now, just attach a six-figure paycheck and send the plane ticket to my iPhone.”

The waiter brought out our lunch plates. Speaking only Italian, he announced the name of the dish we’d both gotten—insalata caprese con pollo—and set our plates on the table in front of us, then split back to the kitchen.

“I can actually see you making that movie,” I said. “You look great, Avril. New York suits you. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say the Big Apple is your kind of town.”

“Despite living in Chicago, New York, Toronto, and Boston—I’m LA through and through. New York robbed me of my tan. That’s nearly unforgivable,” she joked. “I’ll never fall in love with New York, Harper, but that doesn’t mean it’s the wrong city to fall in love
in
.”

Avril took a small bite of her salad, smiling and teasing like she had a secret. I took a bite of mine, and the flavors exploded on my tongue.
How long had it been since I’d tasted food like this?

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” I asked, both of us waving off our server when the pepper mill appeared.

“He’s a lawyer here in Manhattan. Very good looking, short hair. He works out all the time so even his Armani business shirts look like Nike athletic wear.”

“Okay, I get it,” I said, marveling at her gift for kismet. “Does this paragon have a name? How did the two of you meet?”

“His name is Jon,” Avril said, suddenly coy. “I hesitate telling you how we met. It’s not my favorite part of the story.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She set down her utensils and stalled for a moment, taking a sip from her water glass and wiping a bashful grin away with her napkin.

“Jon and I met online through an Internet dating service,” she finally said, leaning in to await my reaction.

“Huh.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too at first, but I’ve been dying to tell someone because I feel”—Avril tilted her face upward, as if looking for the words stenciled on the ceiling—“like I bought a dollar raffle ticket and won a brand-new Mercedes. I mean, honestly, online dating is the
last
thing in the world I would do. It all started as a joke when I was out with a friend of mine, Penny, and her friend Jill. We were hanging out one night when Jill confessed, pathetically, that she was an online dater. Of course, we
made
her log on so she could show us all her matches. She tells the most hilarious stories of the guys she’s met online. Well, an hour later Penny and I were signed up, uploading crazy head shots of each other from our cell phones, laughing the whole time.”

“Avril, you were on TV every week for three years.”

“Yeah, I know, but you couldn’t really tell it was me in the photo. I wore a large floppy hat. Anyway, Jon was one of the guys I got matched with, and I decided to go out with him.”

“A TV star?”

“He only knows I’m an actress in New York, of which there are thousands, and nothing more. It’s actually been nice going out with someone who doesn’t know anything about me. I can be more myself this way. I don’t have to worry Jon’s only interested because he fell in love with the character I played every Tuesday night at nine, or that he wants to break into the business, or see his picture splashed across the front page of a tabloid.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “What’s the name of the site?”

“LoveSetMatch.com. And I will so kill you if you tell anyone,” Avril kidded. “But honestly, who cares? It totally worked because Jon is so cool.”

I raised the white napkin from my lap, erasing any trace of insalata caprese from my lips.

“So you haven’t told him what you do for a living?”

“I haven’t exactly been
completely
up front with him yet. He wasn’t a teeny bopper TV watcher, so he has no clue.”

“LoveSetMatch.com.”

Avril stared over the tabletop at me, happy as could be. “So what about you, sister? Anyone fill Sam’s shoes after his infamous disappearing act?”

Sam’s shoes. I flashed for a moment, remembering his habit of leaving his shoes lined up inside the door of his apartment. His nine-to-five office shoes, his Adidas for basketball league, the tasseled loafers he wore Sunday afternoons on his parents’ boat. He had a pair of shoes for everything important in his world. Maybe his flip-flops best represented us. I wondered which pair he put on the day he decided to walk away.