The Fourth Wall (2 page)

Suddenly there was a lump in my stomach and a ringing in my ears. We'd reached a point in the play where Sylvia was to gather up some papers and put them in an attaché case. The minute she reached for the unopened case I knew what was going to happen. I stood up.

“What's the matter?” hissed John.

Sylvia opened the case. She stood there for a moment, staring, not moving. Her jaw started working, up and down, up and down. Then a high whining sound came out of her nose.
Hhhnnn
. Pause.
Hhhnnn
. Pause.
Hhhnnn
.

Ian Cavanaugh stepped over and looked in the attaché case. He blanched, then shut the lid. He turned to Sylvia and tried to lead her away.

But he was too late. Sylvia vomited on the stage, in full view of the audience.

2

The next day was Wednesday. Sylvia Markey's understudy played the matinee; Sylvia herself would be back for the evening performance.

I was depressed. Part of it was the matinee; part of it was what had happened the night before. I'd taken one look at the mutilated remains of the cat in the attaché case and almost lost my own dinner. Somebody clearly had it in for Sylvia.

Jake Steiner, Sylvia's husband, had hurried his abnormally quiet wife into a cab and away from the theater. Leo Gunn, the stage manager, had laid into the prop man until it was clear the attaché case had been placed on the prop table early in the evening, as it always was, where anyone could have gotten to it. John Reddick had called the cast and crew together and delivered a blistering tirade to the effect that you really shouldn't do things like that. No one admitted a thing, of course.

I'd forgotten how awful matinee audiences could be. So
many
crackling packages in the laps of shoppers who look upon the theater as a good place to rest their feet for a couple of hours. And they talk. God, how they talk! Just as if they were home watching television, where nobody has to concentrate more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time.

What galled me most was that this audience was watching a job of acting so good I could scarcely believe what I was seeing—and
they hadn't even noticed!
Ian Cavanaugh was giving an absolutely brilliant bravura performance, and it was almost solely his effort that was carrying the play. Sylvia Markey's understudy was giving it her all, but her voice was just too light for the role—something else we should have caught during tryouts. Early in the first act the cast had seen that the ensemble performance they were used to giving just wouldn't work this time—the understudy couldn't carry her share of the load. I sat there and cringed, listening to what she was doing to my lines.

The performance was in serious trouble. So Ian Cavanaugh had, quite literally, taken over. By sheer force of personality he dominated the play. Normally I would have screamed bloody murder at this distortion of my play, but under these circumstances I wasn't about to object to Ian's herculean effort to save the performance.

The rest of the cast began to play
to
Ian in a way they'd never rehearsed. It was a curious thing to watch—actors are a competitive bunch, not noticeably given to sublimating their roles to make another performer look good. But that's exactly what they were doing. They yielded stage to Ian; lines normally addressed to a roomful of people were now aimed specifically at him; stage business that might distract from his performance was abandoned. And over it all soared Ian, like an omnipotent mandarin demanding his due.

Ian Cavanaugh was a big, aristocratic Irishman with the handsomest face I'd ever seen. He didn't have the acting range Sylvia Markey had, but within his field of competence he was one of the best. Ian had built a good New York career for himself playing light comedy; his experience with heavier roles had all been limited to out-of-town summer festivals and tour companies and the like. I'd first met Ian about eight years ago, when we were both associated with a repertory company I'd helped organize. But he'd never acted in one of my plays before
Foxfire
, and at first I hadn't wanted him for the part. John Reddick had talked me into changing my mind; now I was glad I'd listened.

At intermission the audience that had talked all the way through the first act continued the conversation in the lobby and on the sidewalk in front of the theater. Much of the talk was about Sylvia Markey's cat. For some reason the out-of-towners knew what had happened and the New Yorkers didn't.

Backstage, I saw Ian Cavanaugh's dressing room door was open. He'd sweated off all his make-up during the first act and was applying fresh. When he saw my reflection in his mirror, his face took on a defensive look. “Abby, before you say anything—”

“It's all right,” I interrupted. “I think you're doing the right thing. And doing it beautifully. Keep it up!”

He relaxed slightly—only slightly, because he would have kept it up whether I approved or not. I sought out the understudy and told her a few comforting lies. She was doing the best she could.

“Abby, would you come in here a minute?”

I turned to see Hugh Odell gesturing to me from his dressing room door. Hugh was an actor I'd known all my professional life, about fifteen years. He was one of those bulletproof actors who are almost never idle, the kind Hollywood calls character actors. He was a highly gifted performer, but a lot of his success was due to the way he looked. Off stage, he had an appearance that made no positive statement—he could have been anybody, a face in the crowd. So on stage he could be whatever he needed to be without having to shed a strong personal image first. His role in
Foxfire
was a big one, almost big enough to be called a third lead.

I went into his dressing room and glanced at the girl sitting at Hugh's dressing table brushing her long brown hair. “Hello, Rosemary,” I said.

“Hanh,” she answered.

Hugh closed the door. “You've been out front?” he asked me. “You've seen that audience?”

“I've seen them,” I said grimly. “And I'm wondering how they all managed to escape their keepers on the same day.”

Hugh nodded. “I'm worried. I don't think we're handling it right.”

“Is there a right way? The regular approach obviously didn't work.”

“But don't you mind, Abby? We're not playing it the way you wrote it. I think we ought to go back to the other way.”

“Yes, I mind. I mind very much.” I knew what was bothering Hugh. In spite of his professed concern about playing
Foxfire
the way I wrote it, he wasn't really thinking about the play. Actors aren't interested in plays; all they care about is their own parts. Hugh Odell was having second thoughts about underplaying to Ian Cavanaugh because it diminished
his
role. “I mind,” I repeated, “but we have to be practical. I think the way you and Ian are handling it”—a little soap—“has a better chance of succeeding than depending on Sue to come through.” Sue was the understudy. “She can't do it.”

Rosemary spoke up. “I think you ought to do it Hugh's way. I mean, he's the actor, after all.”

Hugh blew her a kiss.

“But there are other actors involved. Hugh, if you go out there and start playing it the regular way, you're going to throw everybody else off.”

“Not if you tell them to switch back.”

Ah, that was it. In John Reddick's absence, Hugh wanted me to order the cast to return to acting the play the way they'd rehearsed it. Well, I wasn't going to do it. I shook my head. “No, Hugh. You can't switch back now.”

He was on the verge of accepting it when Rosemary said, “He doesn't have to do what you say. I mean, you're not the director. You only, uh, well.”

Wrote the play
, you fool girl.

Rosemary got up from the dressing table and slipped her arm around Hugh's waist. She smiled up at him, feeling her power. “I think you ought to do it the way
you
want to, Hugh.”

I sighed. I was too old and too tired to have to compete with sweet young things like Rosemary Odell. When a man doesn't marry until he reaches fifty, he sometimes chooses a mate that leaves his friends and well-wishers a little nonplused. Rosemary's attraction was blatantly sexual; Hugh couldn't keep his hands off her. Rosemary was of the generation that had grown up on rock music and television, so she was both a petrophile and a bibliophobe. Hugh worshipped her.

While I was trying to think what to say next, Hugh moved over to the washbasin for a glass of water and swallowed some pills. He suffered from asthma, and I mean
suffered
. Daily medication and weekly injections kept it under control, and the only way the respiratory ailment had interfered with his career was to prohibit his making a Hollywood movie. He'd acted in movies and television shows filmed in New York and Europe, but California had defeated him. He'd turned out to be allergic to all the grasses growing in the southern part of the state. The one time he'd gone out there to make a movie, he'd had to drop out after two days.

“Hugh,” I said, “I can't force you to do anything. All I can do is appeal to your professionalism. Right now the performance is the only important thing. Act
with
the others, not
against
them. Please.”

There was a rap on the door. “Two minutes, Mr. Odell.”

I started to leave, but Hugh stopped me. “Don't worry, Abby. You can count on me.”

Relieved, I thanked him. As I left, I could hear Rosemary complaining. “I don't see what all the fuss is about. It's only one performance. I mean, it's not the end of the world or anything.”

Soon after the beginning of the second act, that idiot audience finally tumbled to the fact that they were seeing something extraordinary. Hugh Odell and the rest of the cast continued to support Ian Cavanaugh's heroic efforts, and the audience began to respond. At the end of the performance they pounded their hands together and someone even yelled “Bravo!” I tried to convince myself I was glad for Ian's sake, but the afternoon left a sour taste in my mouth.

Home was a brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street, and that's where I headed. Perhaps it was an unconscious avoidance of the problem of the second act, but all I seemed able to think about was Sylvia Markey's cat. I prowled around turning on lamps, but lighting the rooms didn't lighten my mood a bit. I opted for the distractions of late-afternoon television. Rerun Heaven.

Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock and Dr. McCoy were all reminding one another of their duties. Scotty spoke of his engines in the language of lovers. Lt. Uhura opened the hailing frequencies.

My ex-husband and I had kept a cat. She'd lived with us for six years, a funny little animal that gave us at least one good laugh every day. If I'd ever come home and found her head on my dresser …

Who? I couldn't think of anyone in the
Foxfire
company capable of that kind of malice. If the cat had been, say, poisoned—that would have been bad enough. But the vicious, sadistic dismembering of the animal could only be the work of someone not quite right in the head. And the dismembering had gone on backstage at the very time everyone else was getting ready for the performance.

The backstage crew was small for
Foxfire
. I knew them all fairly well with the exception of the properties manager, a rather shy young man named Jerry. He was the one Leo Gunn had chewed out for letting the attaché case get on stage with its grisly contents.

John Reddick and most of the cast I knew like family. None of them could have done it, I was sure. But against my will, one name floated to the surface of my mind.

Ian Cavanaugh.

It wasn't that I believed Ian capable of cat-slaughter; I'd thought of him simply because I had no idea what he was capable of. Although I'd known Ian for eight years, I didn't really know him. He was a reserved man, managing to remain remote and even aloof in a let-it-all-hang-out profession. He never capitalized on his family for publicity; in eight years I'd met his wife only once and his daughter never. He brushed off interviewers who asked too-personal questions and never spoke of his life before he entered the theater. He existed for the world only while he was acting; what he did with the rest of his life was none of your business, thank you. I liked his rather prickly defense of his privacy and often wished some other people I knew would follow his example.

But the fact remained that Ian Cavanaugh was a virtual stranger to me. I'd never particularly wanted it any other way, but right now I was wishing I knew him better.

My refrigerator was empty; there hadn't been time to stock up since I got back. I went to a deli for a bite before going back to the theater.

Backstage there was some talk of the matinee audience, but mostly there was no talk at all. Jerry the prop man kept opening the attaché case (new) and checking the contents.

“Abby.”

I turned to face Sylvia Markey.

“Have you finished the new opening for the second act?”

I stared at her. She knew I'd just got back to town the day before.

“It's just not working the way it is,” she went on. “And we really can't wait much longer. When can we have it?”

“When it's written,” I said. “Not one minute before.”

“Now look, Abby, you've got to understand something.” The professional telling the amateur how it's done. “If that second act isn't fixed soon, this play is going to close. Gene Ramsay told me so.” Gene Ramsay was our producer. “So you can't
afford
to keep us waiting. And it does take some time to learn new lines, you know.”

“Come off it, Sylvia. You know I've only just learned there's a problem.”

“Well, it's your problem, isn't it? You wrote the play. Why didn't you catch it during tryouts? That's what you were there for, weren't you?”

I started to snap back at her but ended up laughing instead.
We should have caught it during tryouts
. That was exactly what I'd been saying ever since I got back.