The War Against Miss Winter (15 page)

Whatever it was, it didn’t look as if I was going to find out. Peter glanced at his watch and clapped his hands. “Shall we go upstairs, ladies? It’s time for rehearsal to begin.”

Seven actresses other than us were seated elbow to elbow in a rehearsal room on the second floor. At the head of the table was the stage manager, a woman identifiable as such because of the timepiece she had set before her, the stack of paper she was collating, and a look on her face that made it clear some predetermined schedule had already been violated. Peter took his place beside her, and Ruby and I squeezed our way into the two remaining chairs. The other actresses tossed us quick glances intended to assess who we were in relation to them. Two of the women were in their forties, one in her sixties. The rest were our age or younger and all, while attractive, didn’t possess the kind of beauty that made you look at them twice.

Peter sighed and planted a smile on his face as a way of signaling to us that we could be at ease. “Welcome, ladies. Let me begin by introducing our stage manager, Hilda Cuthbert.” Hilda nodded and continued assembling her mimeographed pages. Her job was to keep us in line and on schedule, not be our friend. “I appreciate your coming out today, especially since for many of you this was on such short notice.” He gave Hilda a knowing nod and thick packets of paper began making their way
around the table, each ominously stamped
SAVE PAPER, SAVE YOUR JOB
. “As you know, we have opted to change plays at the last minute. We have been given the opportunity to do an exciting new work, one that is more prescient. I have appended the cast list to the copies of the play, which are going around now. Before we begin the read-through, I should point out that in many ways this play is different from the works previously produced by People’s Theatre.” My heart leaped. “While we are certainly no stranger to controversy”—he paused here and his audience tittered appreciatively—“this play is the first for us that not only examines the war in Europe but looks at it from the point of view of each nation’s women. I think you’ll agree that this is a most unusual way for a play to proceed.”

Again, the other women mumbled their consent. I slumped into my seat until my head barely cleared the table. A stack of scripts made its way toward me and I reluctantly accepted my meat. While everyone else whispered with excitement, I stared at the cast list, searching for what awful role I’d been assigned. Something wasn’t right; the character’s names were listed with the actresses’ names beside them, but mine wasn’t among them.

I flipped to the next page and found a list of who was assigned which part. Here, at last, was my name, though beside it was the most unsavory term imaginable: understudy.

I sucked in air so quickly the page drifted toward my mouth. Understudy! Understudy? Maybe I was misunderstanding something. Could it be this play was about plays and the characters were given names that were the generic terms one used in the theater? I scanned the rest of the page and found relatively normal monikers that gave no hint of theatrical terminology.

I gasped at confirmation of my demotion. How could I have gone from being cast in a lead role in a lousy show to this insulting position? Beside me, Ruby silently plowed through her script to verify she had more lines than anyone else. Of course—this was her doing. Never had I been assigned such indignity. I’d been in choruses and cast as nameless characters who were servants and ladies in waiting, but I always had a part I could call my own. An understudy wasn’t a part. It was an insur
ance policy for someone who thought she was more important than me.

I couldn’t decide what to do. My pride wanted me to stomp out of the room while uttering a melodramatic “I won’t be so insulted,” but my ego couldn’t bear such a scene before a room full of people who would see to it the story circulated faster than C-rations at lunchtime. I decided to stay for the read-through in hopes the situation might be clarified. If that didn’t happen, I could at least use the time to plot my revenge against Ruby.

I closed my eyes and silently counted to ten. When I opened them, Peter suggested we go around the table and introduce ourselves, indicating which character we’d be playing.

I clenched my teeth as the introductions began, each woman not being satisfied with merely listing her name but also her recent accomplishments and any accolades she’d received. When my turn arrived, I’d worn the enamel off my molars.

“I’m Rosie,” I said, deciding that listing both my full name and recent roles would do nothing but highlight my descent. “And apparently”—I added a chill to my voice suitable for
Hamlet
’s Gertrude—“I’m the understudy.” Peter raised an eyebrow, waiting for me to say more. I clasped my hands together and smiled sweetly to signal I was done.

Ruby began her monotonous recitation of recent print ads, radio work, and stage performances, pausing every now and again so her adoring fans could comment that they knew they’d seen her somewhere and my but wasn’t she good in
what’s it called
? Another stack of papers began to make its way around the table, and I silenced the angry voice in my head in case this was a corrected casting list held back until now as part of some kind of stupid exercise.

“This,” said Peter, “is a final formality. I must caution you about one thing: we’ve been asked to keep the fact that we’ve been given access to this play confidential. In fact it’s so confidential, I can’t tell you the writer’s name. I know this is unorthodox, but no one in this room is permitted to discuss the script. Everything that occurs in this building must remain a secret. If you can’t agree to this, we’ll have to excuse you from the production.”

My fury momentarily took the run out. Was this it? Could I have walked right into the missing play? As Peter instructed Hilda to begin reading the stage directions aloud, I stared at the script, hoping the play would alleviate my anger. It did just that, for as the reading began, my rage blew and was replaced by relief that I’d narrowly escaped being cast in a dog of a show.

The working title of the play was
In the Dark
. The unfortunately unlit were eight women of different nations and backgrounds whose lives were connected to the war and whose exposure to propaganda left them, as the title implied, “in the dark” about what was really going on. There was a Nazi sympathizer, a German hausfrau with no party affiliations, a Polish Jew, a Russian, a British aid worker, a fascist, a Japanese woman living in an American relocation camp, and a U.S. Women’s Army Corps lieutenant. This cast of characters should have made for explosive drama, but the writer never examined the women’s experiences in their own cultures. Instead, he showed moments from before and during the war that served to express one common idea: they needed the war and they needed the Allies. The play couldn’t have been more red, white, and blue if it were printed with colored ink.

Ruby played the saintly WAC, which was the best of the eight parts, though given the overall shortcomings of the play, that was a bit like being the whore with the nicest teeth. As the reading progressed, I overcame my amusement at the play’s defects and found myself combing through the text—pen in hand—looking for something remotely inflammatory. There was nothing. If someone wanted to keep this play from being performed, it could only be because they respected audiences too much to inflict this poorly written garbage on them.

So this play wasn’t
the
play. I had two strikes for the day.

The reading came to an end and Peter asked if anyone had any questions. One woman requested clarification about pronunciations, then Hilda passed out the rehearsal schedule and announced that we were all to be present at each rehearsal, regardless of whether or not our scenes were being blocked. The actresses slowly shuffled out of the room with Ruby as their caboose. I mulled following them, but my body was unwill
ing to move until I had an explanation for what had occurred.

Peter lingered at the head of the table with Hilda, quietly communicating instructions for the next rehearsal. Once Hilda was done noting her tasks on a stenographer’s pad, she collected her mountain of remaining paperwork and left. Peter attempted to do the same, but before he could dust, I cleared my throat.

“I didn’t realize you were still here,” he said.

“Apparently I’m easy to overlook.” I stood and we faced each other with the table between us. “I think you owe me an explanation. I’m the understudy, am I? That’s a hell of a thing to tell a girl and a hell of a way to tell her.”

“Ruby thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased?” I put my hands on the table in an effort to look more massive. “I believe the words you’re looking for are insulted and mortified. Why, pray tell, would I be pleased?”

“She mentioned a difficulty with your boardinghouse. She said this would help to secure your living arrangements.” He continued to look bewildered and I wondered if what I’d originally taken as thoughtfulness was simplemindedness.

“Next time you decide to make a decision like this, why not let me in on it?”

“I apologize. And you’re right: I should’ve contacted you before today, but there simply wasn’t time. Besides, I was concerned if I told you beforehand, you wouldn’t have shown up.”

I laughed, no longer caring how horrid it made me look. “Wow, you’re a prognosticator. It’s good to know you have something to fall back on if this show flops. If you wanted to give me work so badly, why didn’t you cast me in a part? I could’ve played any one of those roles.”

He sighed and set his stack of paper on the table. “Most of these women have worked here previously. This is a very important production and it was vital to our board that we use performers who were…known quantities.”

I didn’t know how to take that. On the one hand, it was a perfectly rational reason, especially in light of the awful script. If you had to do
a bad play, you needed good actors. On the other hand, I was no slouch. I’d worked enough that anyone should’ve been comfortable hiring me. “Why Ruby Priest? She hasn’t worked here before. Was it her looks? Her talent? Because I can act circles around her.”

Peter sat on the edge of the table. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but it was an economic decision. I needed a name.”

“And my parents didn’t bother to give me one?” I huffed and I puffed and I blew my credibility down.

His focus shifted to his hands. “I understand why you’re angry.”

“You can’t begin to understand.” My voice shook the building like a bass drum. “I gave up other parts—real parts—to do this show because I wanted to work with this company.” So I lied, what of it? “And now, instead of furthering my career, you expect me to be a second banana whose name’s listed between the assistant lighting designer and the prop master.”

He removed his cheaters and rubbed his eyes. “All I can say is I’m sorry, Rosie. I was under the impression this was something Ruby had discussed with you. It was a last-minute change. Had I done the other play, I would’ve kept you in the lead, but this piece came up and the opportunity was such that I couldn’t turn it down.”

“And a fine opportunity it is. I don’t know what’s worse—getting booted or getting booted out of a lousy play.”

He ignored my stab at literary criticism. “I need you. I need a reliable understudy. Ruby has other commitments that will prevent her from being at many of the rehearsals. And all sorts of things can go wrong between now and opening night. You’ll still get paid full scale and I’ll make certain you get to play at least one performance.”

“Yeah, a Sunday matinee in the smallest part available. I know the drill.” I picked up my script and hugged it to my chest until the paperclip left its impression on my skin. “Why did you ask me to audition in the first place?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that how you’re going to play it?” I wanted to tell him where he could put his need for an understudy, but Belle’s face projected
itself on the wall opposite me. I may not have wanted this job, but I needed it. “You’re lucky I’m desperate, because if I wasn’t I’d…I’d…” I couldn’t think of a good threat so I waved my hand at him and stomped out of the room.

I let my rage propel me down the stairs while I tried to convince myself not to cry. I failed, and by the time I arrived in the lobby hot tears poured down my face and dirtied my blouse. I plopped onto one of the lobby benches and mopped at my eyes. The gesture primed the pump until I wondered if it were possible to drown in my own salty water.

Calm down,
I urged myself.
If this is rock bottom, things can only get better
.

“Rosie?” Ruby emerged from the ladies’ room and approached me. Had I been a cat, I would’ve hissed. “Is everything all right?”

I tried to roll my eyes, but they bobbed above the waterline. “What do you think?”

Rather than taking the hint that I lingered on the knife edge between vile and violence, Ruby sat beside me. “You must be awfully disappointed.” She passed me a handkerchief she had ready for just this purpose and I defiled it in a variety of ways before mashing it into my hand. “My heart broke for you when I saw the cast list. I guess the good news is, since you’re still being paid, Belle can’t throw you out. And I’ll bet rehearsals will be loads of fun. I hear Peter loves to experiment.”

I couldn’t handle her forced merriment any longer. “How’d you pull it off, Rube? Did someone make a phone call? Or was a conversation with Peter enough for you to get your way?”

Ruby put a hand to her chest and gasped. “I can assure you I had nothing to do with this. Honestly, I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing when it’s obvious how bad I feel.”

I laughed and my nose leaked. “Bad enough to give me your part?”

“I couldn’t do that!” She shifted and replaced outrage with pity. “But if there’s anything else I can do for you, anything at all, I’d do it in a
second.”

I had a laundry list of things, most of which would get me arrested. I discarded the worst of them and settled on the most practical. “Well, if you really mean it…”