Emma Who Saved My Life (40 page)

“We'll have to,” said Smalley. “He's looking over the script now, and he's got his makeup on.”

I asked Don how it was going.

Don, crumpled over his script at the makeup table, looked up with an unconfident look. “Well, considering … I guess I've got it down. No, I'm not confident, but I'm all right. I think.” He dived back into his script.

Smalley threw up his hands, doubling the pace of his pacing: “Great! Great! He doesn't know the lines!”

“Chris, get outa here—let him concentrate,” said Bonnie escorting everyone out the door.

We exchanged anxious looks.

Suddenly there was a commotion, a banging of doors, the sound of yells and curses. Broome had arrived tipsy. No, not tipsy: drunk.

The door opened and Brent walked Tucker to a chair, lecturing him: “Look at you, Tucker! Tucker I am APPALLED, I really am—I don't know how to express my indignation—”

“Shut up Brent. Lemme handle this,” Bonnie said, taking charge.

“Helllo Bonnnie,” said Tucker, slurring his speech.

“Can you go on Tucker?”

“The show MUSH go on!”

Bonnie sized up the situation and went to her makeup case and pulled out a bottle of pills. Amphetamines. I got her a glass of water.

“Take these,” Bonnie said, forcing Tucker to take the glass, putting the pills into his palm. “Now, Tucker, take them.” Bonnie looked up at me: “Don't ask about the uppers, Gil. There's lots of medicine in Aunt Bonnie's kit, right?”

The stage manager said people were still milling and he could hold curtain until 8:30. Tucker was coming to, sort of.

“I'm a professional,” he mumbled. “I can go on with flu, I can go on no matter what. Last year I went on with cancer. The doctor said set back, retire, get off the stage—to hell with 'em. Cancer. I went on with cancer—I'm a professional…”

Cancer. Bonnie and I exchanged educated looks.

“Do you know what it's like to go on with cancer?” Tucker asked, before turning to look at himself in the mirror.

“Forget it, Tucker,” said Bonnie, “the question is: Can you go on in a minute?”

Soon, he was dabbing makeup on his face, reviving slightly. Bonnie told me to be prepared to cover. If he dropped a line one of us would pick it up—confidence, have confidence. I was confident. The blood was pumping—I was up, I was ready. Scared to death, but ready.

Act One …

DORIS

What do you want from the boy, Morgan? You always pick on him unmercifully. Didn't he live up to your little plan for him?

MORGAN

[Tucker swayed a bit, unsure of his line:] Yes he … I don't know. I don't know what to …

DORIS

[her body projected confidence, her eyes which I caught said P-A-N-I-C; she covered for him:] You don't know, do you? You don't know what you want. You wanted to mold him in your own image, go into business—

MORGAN

[who was reminded of his line, picking it up:] … Yes, yes, go into business and make something of himself. I did want that. Was that so bad? Was I so wrong to … [fading again] so wrong to …

DORIS

So wrong to shape him, push him somewhere he didn't belong? Yes, you were.

And then the drugs took effect. Tucker, as if a switch had been thrown, came to, picked up his lines, began to come alive, but he was still short on motor control. He bumbled into desks, fumbled with doorknobs, took out his gold pocketwatch and couldn't open it during his speech.

Intermission. Backstage:

“I've got it now, I've got it now, I'm rolling,” said Tucker, clutching a cup of coffee. Brent was pushing cup after cup on him; Smalley was pacing more frantically than ever, not convinced. “No really,” said Tucker, chuckling. “A bit shaky there, yes, a bit shaky for a moment, but I'm hot now, I'm
hot.
”

“The drugs have kicked in,” Bonnie said, sighing a measure of relief. “It'll be hyper-Tucker for a while.”

The stage manager tried to calm us: “I was out in the lobby. Everyone is enjoying it; no one thinks anything's wrong. They're saying Tucker plays a great drunk. The problem is—”

“I know the problem,” snapped Bonnie. “It's MY character that's supposed to be the drinker. Gil, we'll have to alter the script a little—how can we explain this away?”

“
No script alterations,
” stammered Smalley. “You've butchered this play of mine enough.”

“Five minutes,” said the stage manager.

Tucker was speed-king all of a sudden: “I'm fine, I'm bright, I'm alert. You want to hear my lines: ‘Doris, I've had enough of this drama. It's a time in my life that I—'”

“Okay, okay, you're peaking,” said Bonnie, “now try to keep with it and don't let it slip away from you.”

“Look I'm shaking,” said Tucker, holding up his hand. “I'm shaking … if I could just have a drink to calm me.”

But Tucker wasn't just “all right,” he was STUPENDOUS. He went out and gave the performance of his career. In fact, with uppers coursing through his veins he delivered every line with a freshness, a precision and dynamism never seen in rehearsals. The audience was on the edge of their seats—he was a marvel to watch, his theater sense never better.

DORIS

We're not a family anymore, damn it. You're tearing us apart—you and your goddam expectations. How can you stand there and be so nonchalant?

MORGAN

You can't move me anymore, Doris. You've lost the power to do that. Maybe a long time ago before you threw me over for our son. Maybe … [Tucker was stretching out on the sofa, but as he sat down he toddled against the end table sending a vase to the floor; the one he kept knocking over in rehearsals].

DORIS

[ad-libbing:] Oh fine, just fine. Now we'll have to pay for that too. Just like we … have to pay for so many things you've broken. [She looked unsurely at Tucker stretching out on the sofa.] An afternoon nap, dear? The excitement too much for you?

MORGAN

Ullllhh … [Tucker groaned something as he lay down—no … could it be? He was
falling asleep
onstage? Passing out? Shit, just ten lines before the end of the act!]

DORIS

[looking beseechingly at me:] Well, that's typical—tune us all out; roll over and go to sleep.

CHARLES

Yes, Dad, that's just typical [I wasn't adding anything—but we were stuck for lines … ]

DORIS

[thinking quickly:] He's drunk again. He tries to pawn it off on me as if I have the problem but it's him, all him.

CHARLES

Yes, I've been trying to tell you, Mother.

Pause. Dead Air. What now? Bonnie said the last line of the act:

DORIS

There are many things, Morgan, I have to tell you.

You'll have to face the truth.

Lights dim, curtain falls. Applause.

Bonnie turned to me, saying, “I think he's out cold.”

Brent came running behind the curtain hugging us, kissing us: “Oh brilliant, just brilliant! I've never seen Tucker so brilliant—he was brilliant, wasn't he brilliant? I mean, brilliant!”

Smalley was right behind him: “He never did it so well in rehearsal. Who'd have thought he could have pulled it back like that?”

“I sent Don home. Obviously the crisis has passed!” cried Brent.

Bonnie and I looked at each other.

“You idiots,” snarled Bonnie. “Didn't you watch the last minute? He's out, out cold.” She nodded to the sofa where Tucker was prostrate.

The four of us scooped him up with the help of two stagehands and took him to the dressing room. Someone turned on the shower and let it run cold. We took off his suit coat and put him under it, but he numbly stirred and seemed to sink back into his reverie.

Brent was in hysterics: “My god, he's passed out for good! What are we going to do, my god, my god…”

Bonnie was calm to the core. “Brent, Brent, take it easy. We've got ten minutes to think of something.” Then Bonnie looked at me, as if to say, Gil, YOU think of something.

Smalley had a burst of violence, pinning Brent to the wall, holding him up by his collar: “Malverne, it's YOU who are through! Why did you cast him? Why? Why?
Flip Flop?
You threw my play into the trash can, finished me on Broadway because this man was in
Flip Flop
fifteen years ago? Huh?”

Brent yelled to be put down. Smalley dropped him to the floor, then stormed around a minute, cursing this, cursing that, finally sweeping Bonnie's makeup things to the floor in a rage.

“Hey fella, that's my makeup!” Bonnie marched over and took Smalley (appreciably shorter than she was) and sat him down roughly in the chair. “Now calm down and think. How do we get our hands on that understudy?”

Brent was sniveling on the floor. “Oh god, it's my fault—I sent Don home in the middle of Act Two…”

“That's right,” snapped Smalley, “everything is your fault!”

“We could send a police car,” said Brent, shrinking into himself, “and say it was an emergency, speed him back here.”

Bonnie crossed her arms. “But he may not have gone home. It could take a half hour. No. We're going to have to work around Tucker in Act Three—”

Smalley was on his feet again: “NONSENSE. That's not the play! We cancel, we go out and cancel.”

“And your play sinks into nothingness, Smalley. Closing on opening night,” Bonnie added.

Now it was Smalley who started to simper. “I'm ruined, ruined! You Malverne! You'll die, DIE for this. I have Mafia connections!”

The stage manager stepped in: “Five minutes, folks.” The manager looked about the room, seeing Tucker in the shower. “Oh shit,” he said, as Bonnie drove him from the room, closing the door on him.

“Gil,” said Bonnie, her mind working steadily, a gleam in her eye. “Let's say Daddy died offstage, drunk—was hit by a tourist bus. We'll do the third act, as if … God, how do we get around the final fight scene?”

As I thought aloud, Smalley stood to go:

“Well, I'm going out to go out and get totally drunk. I'm going to turn a bottle of scotch upright and drink every drop. Writers are supposed to die in the gutter in America and that's what I intend to do right now. Good evening.”

Bonnie winced. “No, Chris stay here and help us—”

Smalley laughed a brief but maniacal laugh. “No, no thanks. I'm not driving the nails into my own coffin. I'm walking out of here, good night.” And he began to walk, we restrained him, he shook us free.

“Just as well, Gil,” Bonnie said, biting a fingernail. “Now let's think fast.”

“Bonnie,” whined Brent, still huddled on the floor simpering, “you don't really suppose he has Mafia connections do you?”

Bonnie lost her cool and hurled a box of tissues at him: “Oh shut up, Brent,
I
have Mafia connections and after his Mafia connections break your legs, mine will be back to break your arms.” Brent laughed uneasily and used the tissues to blow his nose.

I had been giving Bonnie's suggestion a thought: Yeah, what if Dad got hit by a tourist bus—

“That makes sense with the play, Bermuda and all, right?”

Yes, and we could pretend, in our grief, Dad was still around. One or the other of us taking his lines, as if he were there. It would be as if … as if we were haunted by his presence, creating dialogue for him because—

“Because we could not accept that he had died. Died a drunk. Which would cover for all of Tucker's bumblings.” She grabbed my hand and led me out of the dressing room to the side of the stage. The stage manager asked if he should signal the foyer and get people back to their seats.

“Yes, do it now,” she said. Then she turned to me and looked me squarely in the eye: “We have got to go out and do this cold before we talk ourselves out of it.”

What about the final fight scene where we fall into each other's arms and say how much we love each other?

“We'll do it without him … But shit, how do we resolve the business about the watch he was going to give you?”

I ran back to the dressing room, took the gold watch from Tucker's pocket, and came back: We can say, Bonnie, that he with his dying words left it to me.

“Nah, nah, too hokey even for a Christopher Smalley play. No, better yet, they found it, the police, returned it and you can brood over it, make up some lines … but how do we end this thing?” Bonnie clutched the stage manager's arm: “Look when I say … when I say ‘The weather is clouding up, it's time to go home,' you hit the lights, end of the play, okay?”

The stage manager nodded nervously, adding, “I'd say you've got about three minutes.”

Bonnie and I looked at each other, panic in both our eyes. “Good god,” she muttered. “All the critics out there tonight too.” Then she laughed darkly, looking at the floor shaking her head. “What a night. This'll figure in my memoirs, I promise.”

My heart was racing, adrenaline instead of blood in my body. Could this work?

Bonnie put a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, it'll work. I was in a
Showboat
in '59 when the captain had a heart attack before his last scene, dropped dead backstage. Understudy couldn't go in because he had been used for another character. So we sent out a chorus-extra to sit there with the other player and they talked about ‘Boy, if the captain were here, he'd look out and say … etcetera.' No one caught it, but a few critics—and the director convinced them at a party afterward that this version was the original Ferber version. We dressed the old stagehand who worked the door as the captain for the ensemble scene at the end and then kept putting other singers and dancers in front of him—this old coot even took the guy's curtain call—”