The War Against Miss Winter (28 page)

“I’m not giving up hope,” said Peter. “But we open in five hours. We need a contingency plan and I’m afraid you’re it.”

I looked over my shoulder at Jayne to make sure she hadn’t heard what Peter had said.

“Did you hear me, Rosie?” he asked.

“Loud and clear.”

“It’s a full house tonight and there are a number of reviewers in attendance. I can’t cancel things, and while the situation isn’t ideal, I know you’ll do a great job.”

I was torn between feeling jubilant that I would get to play the part and terrified that Ruby was lying in an alley somewhere because of me and my big mouth. If Ruby was dead, then just as Detmire predicted, my attempts to smoke out the killer had succeeded only in causing more loss of life. “Will you do it, Rosie?”

I slid to the floor and knocked my head against the banister. “Do I have any choice?”

“Y
OU
’
RE DOING THE SHOW, AREN
’
T
you?” Jayne was on me before the phone hit the cradle.

“He needs me.”

“What he needs is to cancel the show. Don’t you see that?” She followed me back into the room and guarded the door while I threw what I needed into a bag.

“It’ll be fine, Jayne.”

“I’ll remind you of that at your funeral.”

“I know the situation isn’t ideal, but I don’t have a choice in the matter. This is our last chance—after tonight everyone’s going to know the play doesn’t exist. The safest place I could be is onstage.” Jayne pondered this logic while I hid my lack of conviction beneath a hastily applied layer of lipstick. Too many stories in the pulps pointed out the flaw in my theory. If I wasn’t shot during my big monologue, any number of accidental catastrophes could befall me—falling rigging, poisoned water, knife-wielding henchmen waiting in the wings. Suspect though they may be, careful planning on the part of the culprit could make it possible for whatever happened to me to be ruled an accident. And given my experience with the bias of the local flatfoots, I doubted anyone was going to dicker with a misdiagnosis.

I just wouldn’t stand beneath any lights, beside any flats, or drink any liquids I didn’t prepare myself. Oh, and I’d wear an iron girdle beneath my costume.

“I’m going to need more reinforcements for tonight,” said Jayne. “If you’re going to be onstage, me scoping out the crowd won’t be enough.”

I applied my hat and coat and did a final search of my bag. A horrible thought crept through my head as I performed what had become
my mundane routine: What if this is the last time I ever did this? Would I wish I’d spent more time doing ordinary things?

Should I have written Jack?

I gave Jayne a wide, false smile. “Bring whoever you’ve got to bring—Tony, Al, whoever—but don’t worry. I’m going to be fine.”

Churchill yowled and rubbed against my legs. There it was: verification of my impending demise. When even the devil’s nice to you, you know you’re in trouble.

“Knock it off, Churchill.”

“He’s wishing you luck,” said Jayne.

“He’s bidding me farewell.” I gently kicked him out of my way, and with a hiss he approached the dresser. As I pinned on my hat and pulled on my coat, he began to use a mahogany leg as his scratching post. Since it wasn’t my dresser or, technically, my cat, I ignored him. He wasn’t happy about this; he increased his damage and his volume.

“You’ll miss me,” I told him.

Jayne hugged me with the intensity of a war bride, then pulled away and studied me as if she was trying to cement the image for posterity. “You’re right—everything will be great. And all things considered, this may turn out to be quite a night for you.” Her face lingered somewhere between a grin and a scowl, confirming that while she intended her words to be upbeat, they really were nothing more than one of my ma’s attempts to placate me when I was sick. Ma would reassure me that I wasn’t dying and that whatever symptoms I had were ones she herself had weathered, but the minute I turned my back, she was on the phone crowing to the doctor about her baby’s descent to death’s door.

I’d survived measles, mumps, and smallpox; I’d survive this, too.

When I arrived at the theater at 4:00, Peter wasn’t there, which was fine by me. The last thing I needed were his opening night hysterics further complicating what was bound to be a difficult evening. Hilda let me inside, then resumed her work preparing the lobby with flowers, photos,
and a more conducive arrangement of the benches.

“Where’s Peter?” I asked her.

“Running errands, which means he’s probably holed up at John Kelly’s doing shots.” And here I thought he didn’t drink the whiskey.

I picked up a program and was disappointed to find the printer lacked psychic abilities. Ruby was prominently listed while my name was nowhere to be found.

“There’ll be an insert,” said Hilda.

I nodded, trying hard to look like I couldn’t care less if my performance was acknowledged. “Big crowd tonight?”

Hilda nodded toward the end of the bench, silently asking for my assistance in moving it. “Huge. The biggest I’ve seen at this joint yet. And we’ve not only got bodies, we’ve got names. Rumor has it LaGuardia’s coming.”

“The mayor?” I wondered what kind of dirt he thought Fielding had on him.

“Yep. And his wife.”

I tried to keep up my air of not caring, but it was impossible to do that while hauling heavy furniture. “Any chance I could see who else is on the list?”

We lowered the bench into its new position and she stepped back to assess that all was as she wanted it. “Look, Rosie, opening a show you didn’t intend to open is bad enough. I’m not going to let you dwell on who’s going to be here when chances are you won’t be able to see beyond the first row. Concentrate on you and leave the rest to me.”

You had to admire a woman who knew how to deal with paranoid actresses. On another night, I might’ve even appreciated it. “Thanks, Hilda, but I just want to make sure my friends got reservations.”

“Assume they’re in. Anyone tells the box office your name will get a seat, even if I have to kick out my own mother. Do you need anything else?”

I pondered the variety of intoxicants that could get me through the night and shook my head. “An hour alone in the theater would be good.”

“Done. The costumer is due here in forty-five minutes, but she’s never on time. The other girls are coming at five thirty to run through your scenes. Until one or the other shows up, I’ll protect those wooden doors with my life.”

I disappeared into the auditorium and found they had yet to adjust the heating in the building to levels compatible with human life. Overnight they’d painted the stage floor black to hide the weeks of scuff marks we’d left on the wood. Small pieces of tape replaced the heavily drawn lines we’d relied on to find our marks.

To summon the emotions I needed for my character, I tried to recall every moment I’d felt slighted and insignificant, from Jack’s silence and Peter’s mixed signals to Ruby’s and Eloise’s more direct attacks. I walked the stage whispering my lines, no longer thinking of the words but of the meaning. As I progressed from the beginning of the play to the end, tears welled up in my eyes and I implored invisible characters to find it in their hearts to forgive me.

Applause sounded from the rear of the auditorium. I stopped what I was doing and located Peter standing with his back to the wall. “You’ve restored my confidence,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware you’d lost it.”

“Call it temporarily misplaced.” He met me at the edge of the stage and offered me a hand to help me to the floor. I landed with a wobble that increased as I caught a whiff of booze on his breath.

“You’ve been celebrating early.”

“Can you blame me? If your life were about to end, wouldn’t you allow yourself a little pleasure?” He wore a blue serge suit that had started clean and pressed and deteriorated into a wino’s Sunday best.

“Your life isn’t going to end, Peter. It’s one production.”

He looked toward the ceiling. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face splotchy. He’d been crying. “It’s so much more than that.”

I pulled out a hankie and gently cleaned his face. “Why? Why does this production matter so much to you?”

He stopped my hand with his and studied my fingers as though it were the first time he’d really seen those odd digits that separated man
from beast. “I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to make it clear that I was ready for bigger and better things.”

“That is clear. Ruby isn’t taking that away from you.”

He released me and leaned against the stage. “It’s not just Ruby. It’s
In the Dark
. We’ve done good things, but when all is said and done, this production is going to be forgotten.”

“That’s a bleak outlook.”

He turned to me and cocked his head. “It’s an awful play, Rosie. We both know that. To do the first production of a really important play allows something of what you’ve created to be preserved. My direction, my revisions to the script, my cast—they all become indelibly connected to the play. I had to do this production, and maybe someone will see it and think good things about me as a director. But even if the run’s a success, it will not be the play that will make my career.”

“And what would that play be like?”

He smiled faintly and swept my hair off my shoulder. “For starters, my performers would be very different from this production. Not only would they be talented, but they’d influence every decision I made. I’d pick actresses not because of who they are and what they’d been in but because of what they meant to me.”

His face was inches from my own. We breathed the same air and his afternoon cocktail no longer seemed so terrible. “And the play?”

“It would be important, well written, controversial—everything this play isn’t.”

“What if such a play doesn’t exist?”

He stepped away from me and took my hands in his. “It does. I just have to find it.”

I should’ve told him the play he wanted was no more, but I couldn’t stand the idea of shattering his illusion, especially since I was to blame for the position he was in. “You will find it,” I said. I searched out my next words. They felt cruel, but if it helped Peter get through the evening, I didn’t see the harm. “In fact, I think I already have.”

“You found the play?”

I stuttered, immediately regretting saying anything. “I have a very strong lead.”

Peter smiled and nodded. “I’ve waited this long. What’s a few more days?” He landed a feather-light kiss on my cheek. “The other girls are here and you have work to do.”

He opened the auditorium door, and the rest of the cast came pouring through, greeting me with “Congratulations,” and “Isn’t this exciting,” and “I’m so glad you’re playing the role instead of Ruby.” I stood dazed as they gathered around me, acknowledging their words with a mumbled thank-you while wondering if it was too late to scram.

I didn’t have a chance. For the next hour we went through my scenes to make certain I knew all of the blocking. Peter sat quietly in the audience, nursing his drunk with a strong cup of joe while contributing nothing to the effort beyond a growing sense of doom. As soon as we’d done the final scene, I was banished to the dressing rooms where Joan—the costumer—awaited with assorted implements of her trade and a WAC uniform that was much too ample in the bust.

“Nervous?” she asked. She was a large woman with a mass of curly hair she’d pulled back from her face with a scrap of gingham. All about her enormous bosom were pins she’d stuck through her dress lapel. You could see the pins’ heads and tips, but the centers disappeared beneath the fabric so that it looked as if she’d pierced her skin.

I shrugged at her statement of the obvious and decided to be contrary for the heck of it. “I don’t get nervous.”

She smiled at me and I knew she felt my lie in the way my pump raced beneath her touch.

“Things seem pretty normal to you tonight?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” She had a space between her front teeth you could drive a flivver through.

“You know—does this seem like an ordinary opening night to you?”

“You’re the first understudy we’ve had step in if that’s what you mean.” It wasn’t, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get the answer I needed without outright telling her why I was asking. “Peter must be
feeling pretty good about hiring you.”

Peter was feeling a lot of things tonight, but good wasn’t one of them. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’re the first understudy People’s Theatre ever hired. They’re not in the budget.” She laughed and fished a needle out of her dress. “Heck, I’m not in the budget. Peter fought tooth and nail to get you for this show, though. Of course, once word gets out, I imagine every director is going to insist on the same. Board’s going to love that.” She threaded the needle and bit the thread free from its spool. “I’m going to have to sew you in for tonight. If this ends up being a regular deal, we’ll look into making some more permanent changes.”

I nodded and braced myself as she pushed the needle into the fabric beneath my left armpit. “I thought Ruby insisted she needed an understudy?”

Joan shrugged, which changed the needle’s path until it pricked my skin. “I just know what I hear. Rumor was Peter claimed it was the way professional theaters did things, and if we ever hoped to be considered one, we’d do the same. ’Course, he may have been worried that Ruby would pull something like this. I tell you, that one could make a bear eat its own cubs.”

She was wise, this woman. “But why me?”

“Why not?”

Hilda entered our enclave and rapped her clipboard against the wall. “Twenty minutes to places.”

Joan bit free the thread that joined her to me and tucked a neat knot inside the new seam. “I know you’re not nervous and you don’t need it, but break a leg, kid. You’re going to be fantastic, knock on wood.” She gave me a solid pat on the back and picked up a basket containing an assortment of thread, needles, and fasteners. As she left, she rapped her fist on my vanity to solidify the good fortune I so desperately needed.

The other girls bustled into the dressing room and pulled on the simple shifts designed to represent their various nationalities. The air grew heavy with powder and nervous chitchat that predicted all the horrible things that might happen that night. They all talked over one
another, until their overlapping voices became a symphony of everything that might go wrong.

“I know I’m going to trip. Right in the middle of my monologue I’ll go facedown, and with Brooks Atkinson in the house.”

“Just make sure you wear a slip. I walked onstage opening night of
Taming of the Shrew
and no one bothered to tell me that you could see my drawers when I found my light.”

“I’d kill for something like that to happen to me. I’m so forgettable in this lousy part that they printed my name in the program with invisible ink.”

The girls cooed remonstrations at one another, assuring themselves that they were talented, lovely, and destined for greatness. I smiled to myself as they fluttered about, wondering how it was that after weeks of enforced tension, the group had managed to gain the camaraderie of any other cast. Peter would’ve been mortified.