Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (4 page)

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Authors: Amanda Matetsky

BOOK: Murder on a Hot Tin Roof
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ABBY WAS SO MAD SHE DIDN’T TALK TO me during the entire three-block trek uptown. She didn’t even say anything when I asked if I could make a quick stop at Nedick’s for a hot dog. She just shook her head (rather violently, I thought) and kept on walking (okay,
charging
) past the strip joints, rifle ranges, novelty shops, penny arcades, and peep shows strung, like gaudy charms on a bracelet, along the blinking neon borders of Broadway.
When we got to 45th Street, Abby made an abrupt right turn and led me halfway up the block to the Morosco Theatre. I was happy to see the words
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
displayed on the theater’s marquee. At least
that
part of Abby’s story was true. And the large posters hung near the theater’s entrance made it clear that Ben Gazzara was, indeed, the male star of the show. Now there were just two questions left to answer: Would Mr. Gazzara’s understudy be playing the lead tonight, and would two free tickets actually be waiting for us at the box office?
I followed Abby into the crowded lobby, expecting the worst (as I usually do) but praying to be wrong. All I wanted in the whole wide world at that moment was to sit down in a cushioned seat, pry off my painful high-heels, and surrender my feverish body to a comforting blast of refrigerated air. (I had given up all hope of a hot dog.)
Without a word, Abby turned her back to me and began pushing her way toward the box office, quickly disappearing in the crowd. Exerting an uncharacteristic effort to be confident and optimistic, I decided to wait for her near the main door to the theater, in the ticket-holders line. (I hadn’t read Dr. Norman Vincent Peale’s number-one bestseller,
The Power of Positive Thinking
, for nothing!)
I didn’t have to wait long. Abby reappeared within minutes, waving two tickets in the air and wearing a very smug smile on her self-satisfied kisser. “See?!” she crowed. “I told you they’d be here. My friend Gray is a man of his word. And I trust him a hell of a lot more than you trust me! So, what do you have to say about that, Miss Snotnose?”
“That’s great!” I exclaimed, hoping those two little words, coupled with the joyful-yet-apologetic look on my face, would convey my sincere repentance and gratitude.
Abby, you should know (if you don’t already), is a more forgiving and accepting person than I am. “This is so groovy!” she said, dropping all signs of anger and impatience and replacing her smug smile with a happy one. “I can’t wait to see Gray perform here tonight. He’s going to be great. I know he will!”
“What makes you so sure?” I asked, trying, but failing, to suppress my still-burning curiosity. “Have you seen Mr. Gordon perform anywhere before?”
“You bet I have,” she said, “but it wasn’t on the stage!” She grinned and gave me a big fat bawdy wink that answered my unspoken question. “Now, come on!” she chirped, linking her arm through mine and tugging me toward the ticket taker. “Let’s go inside.”
 
 
HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE SUDDEN DREAM-LIKE sensation that you died and went to heaven? Then you know how I felt the instant I stepped into the hushed, cool, velvet-soft sanctuary of the elegant Morosco Theatre. It was as if I had left the real world altogether and walked into a cushy cloud.
Abby and I made our way to our seats (eighth row center, just like she said), and sat down in a flurry of excitement and petticoats. (Abby was wearing at least three of the starched and swishy things. I had on just one.) I looked over the playbill and scanned the cast list, spotting three names I recognized: Ben Gazzara in the role of Brick; Barbara Bel Geddes in the female lead of Margaret, a.k.a. Maggie the Cat; and Burl Ives in the role of Big Daddy. I read down the list of the understudy’s names and, sure enough, Gray Gordon was there.
“Can you see all right?” Abby asked me. Her tone was sarcastic, not serious. She knew we had great seats, and she was prodding me to admit it.
“Perfectly,” I said, delighted to give her the satisfaction. I didn’t mention that the wide-brimmed hat on the head of the woman sitting in front of me was blocking part of my vision. I’d complained enough for one night. “Everything is ideal, Abby. Especially the air-conditioning. Thanks so much for bringing me. I’m sorry I was such a—”
My apology was interrupted by an abrupt squeal of static on the loudspeaker, then a brief, static-free announcement: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a deep male voice intoned, “and welcome to the Morosco Theatre. Due to a sudden but, thankfully, not serious illness, Ben Gazzara is unable to appear in tonight’s performance of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
. His leading role—the role of Brick Pollitt—will be played by his understudy, Gray Gordon. We trust you will enjoy Mr. Gordon’s fresh and exciting interpretation, and we thank you for your support of the dramatic arts.”
A slight murmur of disappointment swept through the audience, but there was no further reaction. No outburst or uprising. Nobody jumped out of their seats and stormed into the lobby for a refund. The only person who seemed deeply affected by the announcement was Abby, who was squeezing my hand so hard I thought my fingers would fall off.
“This is so atomic,” she whispered, “I think I’m going to explode! Gray must be going out of his mind right now.”
I sincerely hoped not. I felt cool and comfortable for the first time all day. I wanted to sit in that red-velvet-covered seat forever. I wanted to kick off my shoes, wiggle my toes, and lose myself in the trials and turmoil of somebody else’s drama. Longing for the curtain to rise, and for Gray and the rest of the cast to put on a good show, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer of encouragement for thespians the world over—but primarily for the one who had
shtupped
my soon-to-explode best friend.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudspeaker voice continued, “the Morosco Theatre is proud to present the most talked-about new play of the season, Tennessee Williams’s
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
.”
A hush fell over the audience and the theater went dark. Abby gasped and squeezed my hand even tighter. Then the footlights clicked on and the heavy red-and-gold-trimmed curtain began its smooth, otherworldly ascent. I sat back in my chair, slipped off my shoes, and exhaled a grateful sigh. It was showtime.
 
 
I WISH I COULD RELATE THE WHOLE play to you—describe every detail of the lush, dramatically lit stage set and repeat every word of the emotion-charged dialogue—but I can’t. It would take way too long. And I’d be infringing on every copyright law in the book.
So, in the interest of brevity and legality, just let me say that the play was excellent, the acting was terrific, and Gray Gordon was probably the most gorgeous, glowing, well-built man I’d ever seen in my life. With his golden-brown hair, clear blue eyes, and tall, lean, muscular physique, he looked like a Greek god (or a Hollywood cowboy hero, take your pick). And his stage presence was dynamic. His voice was strong yet mellifluent, and his fake Southern accent (the play was set in Tennessee, but Abby said Gray was born and raised in Brooklyn) was thoroughly convincing.
Actually, his whole performance was convincing. Assured and utterly believable. The way I saw it, Gray Gordon had been born to play the role of Brick Pollitt—an alcoholic ex-football player who may be more in love with his dead team-mate, Skipper, than he is with his beautiful, sensual, and very much alive wife, Maggie.
When the curtain came down on the final scene, there were a few breathless moments of silence, followed by a thunderous standing ovation. Everybody in the audience (myself and Abby included) jumped to their feet and shouted “bravo” at the top of their lungs. We applauded and shouted until the curtain was raised again and the cast returned to the stage to take their bows. Lots of bows. And most were taken by Gray, who was showered with so much applause and so many bravos I thought he would break in two from the bending.
“This is so fab!” Abby whooped, grinning and clapping like there was no tomorrow. “I think I’m going to die. Gray’s such a good actor! He’s on his way to the top!”
“That could be true,” I said. “All the columnists will be singing his praises in the papers tomorrow. I wonder if Brooks Atkinson is here. He’s the most influential theater critic in the city. If he caught tonight’s performance, Gray’s career will be made in the shade.”
“Critics schmitics!” Abby scoffed. “Gray doesn’t need any help from those clowns. Just look around at the people in the audience. They’re enraptured. They’re madly in love with him.
They’re
going to make him a star.”
She was right. Every face I looked at was euphoric. The entire audience was caught up in some kind of weird religious ecstasy. Billy Graham couldn’t hold a candle to our boy Gray.
“Let’s go backstage,” Abby said, after Gray had taken his final curtain call. “I want to thank him for the tickets and give him my up-close and personal congratulations.” (I knew what that meant: she wanted to give him a tongue kiss so deep it would shock his socks off.)
“Will they let us in?” I asked.
“We won’t know till we try,” she said, “so let’s go find out!” She turned and began inching her way toward the aisle, sticking so close to the line of people slowly exiting our row that she seemed to be attached.
I stuffed my feet back into my shoes and followed along behind her, hoping that we
would
be admitted backstage. I was curious to meet Abby’s gorgeous and gifted loverboy, of course, but I was even more curious to see how long we’d be allowed to remain in the blissful comfort of the air-conditioned theater.
Abby stopped at the end of our row, waited for the aisle to clear, then sauntered over to the side door closest to the stage. “I’ll bet this leads to the dressing rooms,” she said, pulling the door wide and sashaying through it as if she owned the place. I scurried through right behind her, surprised that no usher or doorman sprang from the shadows to turn us away.
The narrow, dimly lit corridor on the other side of the door led to a short flight of steps, which led up to a wider, slightly brighter hallway. And when I climbed the steps and saw that this hallway was full of laughing, chattering, well-dressed people—each holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other—I knew we had come to the right place.
Wriggling her way through the crowd, Abby headed straight for the star dressing room, which actually had a gold star painted on the door. I scooted after her as quickly as I could. Was that where the champagne was being served? Maybe they were handing out canapés, too! I was so hungry I’d have swallowed a fistful of live tadpoles, no questions asked.
But there was no such delicacy in sight. No more champagne, either. Just five empty bottles piled in the trash can near the door.
Jeezypeezy!
I complained to myself.
These show-biz vultures work fast!
There were so many people crammed in the tiny star dressing room I knew we’d never work our way inside. The entire cast was in there, including all five of the child actors (or, as Maggie the Cat had called them, “no-neck monsters”) who had provided the play with some very unruly and annoying moments. Several columnists, reporters, and photographers were in there, too, shouting out toasts and questions and popping flashbulbs to beat the band.
“Gray! Gray!” Abby yelled, standing on her tiptoes and waving her arms furiously in the air. “It’s Abby! I’m over here! Can you see me? Thanks for the tix, babe. You were great! Better than Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant. Way better than Marlon Brando!”
If Gray actually saw Abby waving out in the hall, or managed to hear any of her enthusiastic accolades, it was impossible to tell. He was completely surrounded by fellow cast members and other well-wishers, who were all kissing him and slapping him on the back and sticking to him like glue. (When the vultures sense you’re taking off for the top, they all want to hitch a ride. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I can’t speak from firsthand experience since I’m still squirming around on the bottom.)
“Oh, it’s no use!” Abby said, finally lowering her waving arms and coming down off her tiptoes. “He can’t hear me. Those no-neck monsters are making too much noise. And I’ll never get into that dressing room. It’s packed tighter than an old maid’s hope chest.”
“There’s no more champagne, either,” I whined. “And nothing to eat.”
“Come on then,” Abby said. “Let’s make like a tree and leave. I’ve got some more gin at home and we can grab a pie at John’s.” (She meant John’s Pizzeria, which was on Bleecker, right across the street from us.)
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “But what about Gray? I thought you wanted to give him your ‘up-close and personal congratulations.’ ” My tone was just the teensiest bit sarcastic. I swear.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll hop over to his apartment in the morning, before he has to leave for the theater. And you’ll come with me, you dig? He lives real close to us, just a couple of blocks away on Christopher Street.”
I didn’t say anything. It was sweet of Abby to invite me, but I had no intention of tagging along to watch her give Gray a gooey french kiss (or whatever else she had in mind). Tomorrow was Saturday! I didn’t have to go to work. I didn’t have to hop around all day serving coffee to my demanding male bosses and coworkers. I wouldn’t have to work like a slave to compose all the captions, proofread all the galleys, file all the invoices and photos, rewrite and retype all the head staff writer’s boring and ungrammatical stories, and fend off the oily art director’s offensive advances and annoying jokes about my name.

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