Scene Stealer (11 page)

The room that held us captive served as the theatre's prop, storage and rehearsal space. Sheets of plywood were stacked against one wall; flats painted or gilded leaned on another. Dinette chairs, kitchen chairs and an armchair that leaked stuffing and a spring were scattered about. Lawrence Dunn must have scoured the streets for discarded furniture to service his theatre. Kevin had drawn a picture of Frederick the Fresh Fish in the film of dust that covered a kitchen table. A sketch that would doubtless vex Lawrence Dunn; I brushed it away.

A roll of muslin rested on a dresser. A mattress, dingy with age and scarred by cigarette burns, had, for the present, been up-ended and rested next to the flats that lined the wall; the mattress clearly served as Kevin's bed. I felt my lips pucker in disapproval. If we were forced to spend one more night in this room, I was determined to cover the mattress with the muslin.

Cans of paint, lights and piles of ropes and cords shared the room with black, velour drapes that gathered cobwebs in a corner and bells, buzzers and a telephone lived on top of a bookcase. The telephone, much to my dismay and Kevin's amusement, had proved to be a prop—its wire stripped and discarded.

Yorick's skull, when not being caressed by Lawrence Dunn's nervous fingers, shared its space on a shelf with a large bottle of ketchup and a box of tea bags.

Turpentine and paint fumes pervaded the windowless room; I rubbed my dry eyes. A negligent sort of captor, Dunn had touched up a piece of scenery and cleaned his brushes shortly before deciding to rehearse a scene from
The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

A persistent throb spread from my right temple to include the left. At Dunn's oddly polite request, I had held the prompt book for hours without a true break. Lunch had consisted of Cousin Cora's Chicken Crisps and Cousin Cora's Cakewalks. Dunn was, to my stomach's distress, either loyal to Cousin Cora's fast food or a student of Torquemada. His skills would have been much in demand during the Inquisition.

“How now, Signor Launce! What news with your mastership?” Kevin, playing the part of Speed, launched into the scene; his youthful enthusiasm remained intact despite the situation we found ourselves in.

“With my master's ship? Why it is at sea.” Dunn struggled with the usually comic role of Launce.

I longed for a cup of tea. Something, anything to encourage the brain to function; my thought processes had become mired in the damp and fetid air of the basement, irritated by the near-toxic fumes.

“Miss Weidenmaier, may I have my line, please?” Dunn asked.

“O illiterate loiterer,” I prompted.

“O illiterate loiterer,” Dunn repeated. “Illiterate loiterer…uhh…loiterer.”

“It was the son…”

Dunn picked up the line. “It was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read.”

“Come, fool, come; try me not in thy paper.” Kevin, I realized, had a photographic memory. He scanned a page once and knew his lines. The scene continued.

“Item: She can knit!” Kevin said.

“What…what…” Dunn hesitated. “What need a man care for a sock with a wench…”

“Stock with a wench…” Kevin corrected Dunn. “Stock not sock! Shakespeare wrote stock.”

“I believe I am the authority on Shakespeare. The book, please, Miss Weidenmaier.” Dunn squinted at the passage.

“Perhaps your glasses, Mr. Dunn?”

“I do not usually need glasses, Miss Weidenmaier. Play publishers are using smaller type. Penurious lot.” Dunn checked his pockets. “I seem to have misplaced…”

“They're on top of your head, Mr. Dunn,” Kevin said.

“Yes, of course. Where else would they be?” Dunn placed the steel-rimmed spectacles close to the tip of his nose and peered over the top. “Now where was I?”

“You were checking the line—‘What need a man care for a stock…'”

“Yes. I know. I know. I said stock.” Dunn glared at Kevin. “Miss Weidenmaier is the prompter. If a mistake is made, she will do the correcting. Is that understood?”

Dunn picked up the jeweled dagger that had been lying on top of the bookcase.

“Okay,” Kevin said. “Yes, sir.” He backed away from Dunn.

The child's lower lip trembled. Small boned, a strand of hair flopping over his forehead, jeans drooping under the weight of pockets stuffed with treasures peculiar to little boys; the child appeared younger than his actual age.

“Kindly empty your pockets, Kevin,” Dunn said. He stabbed the air with the dagger. “We of the theatre do not jingle when we make an entrance.”

“Yes, sir.” Kevin unloaded his pockets. A handful of tin buttons bearing the likeness of dancing French fries, hamburgers swinging lariats and hot dogs with cowboy hats were placed on the kitchen table next to my prompt book. The buttons were joined by a couple of pennies, two dimes, a nickel, a Susan B. Anthony dollar and a squashed caramel followed by a marble, several bent nails and, I noted with disapproval, a mini-calculator. No wonder children lost interest in doing their multiplication tables.

When the boy finished he turned and smiled shyly at Dunn.

“Completely empty?”

“Yes, sir, just a piece of Kleenex.”

“You may keep the Kleenex. We will proceed, Miss Weidenmaier,” Dunn said. “May I have my cue, please?” The dagger was tossed onto the armchair.

I stifled a sigh and gave his prompt. How many more times would Dunn want to rehearse this scene?

Dunn continued the speech. He was having trouble memorizing his lines although he claimed that once he “found” his character, the lines would flow naturally.

The room was quiet. I quickly threw Dunn the next line. “To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.”

“I knew that line,” Dunn said. “I was pausing for dramatic effect.”

“Mr. Dunn,” I said. “We have been rehearsing this scene for hours. It is time for a break.”

“We have not found the essence of the characters we are portraying, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Perhaps a strong cup of tea would help you in your search.”

“Very well,” Dunn reluctantly agreed. “You may take a five-minute break. Kevin and I will use the time to find suitable rehearsal attire.”

Dunn began to lecture Kevin on character motivation. Poor Kevin, a captive audience of one, was not getting his break. On the other hand, I had once read that a kidnapper involved with his hostage is much less likely to harm him.

I retrieved the jeweled dagger.

“Five minutes, Miss Weidenmaier,” Dunn called. “No more.”

Heartbeat accelerating, I turned toward him; sure he had seen me pocket the weapon. No. His attention was focused on wardrobe. Dunn lifted a cape from the rack and examined it closely.

I found a saucepan on a shelf laden with kitchen utensils and entered the ladies' room. A faint stream of light drifted above a narrow door next to the enclosed toilet. Upon opening the door my olfactory nerves were assailed by the dank odor of an ancient mop; I was in a makeshift closet. A sink, filthy but functioning, filled the tight space. A dented tin pail, stuffed with dirty rags, sat underneath the sink and a feather duster hung from a hook next to a broom that had lost most of its straw. Close to the ceiling I spotted the source of the light. A small window, its glass panes painted a dark blue, had over the years begun to flake and shed its cover.

Now that Dunn was busy expounding on his acting method, I was sure he would not notice if I took more than five minutes.

The window appeared securely fastened. If the sink was sturdy enough to hold my weight, I could reach the window and try to pick the lock. The sink wobbled; that took care of that idea. Of course if I could lift Kevin…that just might work. The child would be able to wriggle through.

“Miss Weidenmaier! What is keeping you?” Dunn's words, a mix of suspicion colored with impatience, penetrated the bathroom door. Dunn was clearly impatient to rehearse that scene again.

“Just a moment,” I called. “The water is rusty. I must let it run a minute.”

“Forget the water, Miss Weidenmaier. We have something to show you.”

“Now, now, Mr. Dunn.” I emerged with a filled pot. “Actors must keep their throats lubricated.”

Dunn and Kevin stood side by side, splendidly arrayed in capes. Lawrence Dunn had chosen a wrap of vivid carmine and gold brocade edged in fake ermine. Kevin was enveloped in powder-blue velvet. They looked self-conscious and anticipatory; two boys waiting for the teacher's approval.

“You are a sight to behold, Mr. Dunn.”

A black hat, decorated with a cluster of cheery feathers, was cocked at a rakish angle atop Lawrence Dunn's head. He removed the hat and swept it toward me with an extravagant gesture meant to be courtly.

Something about that hat bothered me; I had seen a similar hat before. Where? I pondered that question as Larry and Kevin rehearsed the same scene for yet another tedious few hours. The throbbing in my temples had now developed into a headache that beat about my skull like a drum thumped by elementary-school children left to their own devices at band practice.

“Allow me to compliment you, Miss Weidenmaier.” Dunn finally memorized his lines and as a result became a bit more convivial. He bestowed what I believe was a sincere smile upon me. “You have the makings of an excellent prompter. When the public becomes aware of my gifts as an actor and my talent is as celebrated as Olivier's, I shall, most certainly, offer you a position.”

I murmured thanks, ignoring the fact that I had been, literally, his captive assistant.

“If I had been born an Englishman instead of an American, I too would have a knighthood. I was meant to carry on the tradition of Keane, Barrymore, Drew, Irving. A woman as perceptive as you must have noticed that Olivier and I are much alike. Costume and make-up are an integral part of our technique. The English honor their artists, unfortunately, Americans don't know the difference between high art and cheap commercialism.”

Dunn's resentment of actors who had attained stardom was setting him off again. That poor unstable man, I thought. To always long for something and never achieve it.

“Youth.” He spat out the word, his mood darkening. “Youth and personality are the idols here. It is an abomination.”

The hat. I remembered where I had seen the hat. Norman Bottoms's talk show. The woman who wore the hat; could it have been Lawrence Dunn in disguise? Dunn glared at Kevin now, his face a map of frustration. He moved closer to the child. I stood rooted to the floor, my body paralyzed.

Kevin edged back a few steps, tripped on his velvet cloak and fell.

“Clumsy. For goodness sake, if you are going to perform Shakespeare, you must study movement.”

I clutched the dagger but it proved unnecessary, Dunn's mood had again changed and he helped the child up.

Kevin was fascinated by Dunn's every word. The child's fear had again returned to admiration. Dunn recognized Kevin's feelings and, with a gesture of affection that I believe startled all of us, reached out and rumpled Kevin's hair.

“Mr. Dunn,” Kevin was quick to take advantage of the moment, “could we have pizza tonight instead of chicken? I'm awfully tired of chicken.”

Lawrence never replied. Tap shoes punished the stairs as the would-be star descended, Annalise belting the words to “Tea for Two.” Clearly, the girl had found a dance teacher.

“The silly twit is early,” Dunn said and leapt toward the unlocked door. Too late—Annalise, framed in the doorway, executed a time step, extended an arm holding a stack of pink gelatins and bowed to Dunn.

“Look what I've got; the pink gels you wanted. You'll look ten years younger when I put these on the spotlight.”

“Hi,” Kevin said.

Annalise turned, for once speechless, stared at Kevin, shifted her gaze to Dunn, then me and back to Kevin.

“Hello, Annalise,” I greeted the girl. “How nice to see you again.” An inane greeting considering our circumstances.

“You're the boy in the commercial,” Annalise, the first to regain the power of speech, said. “You're supposed to be kidnapped.”

She looked at me. “What is he doing here? Why are you still here?”

Words failed. I listened to the silence.

“Larry? What's going on? Oh, my God! Did you kidnap Kevin Corcoran?” Annalise turned her attention back to Kevin. “Are you kidnapped?”

“Yes,” Kevin said. He sounded a bit smug.

“Larry,” Annalise said. “What are you doing? You could go to jail. It's the wrong way to get publicity. I'll call the police right now and you can turn yourself in. I'll stand by you, Larry. You can plead temporary insanity. I'll keep the theatre running and visit you while you're in…” Annalise, never at a loss for words, kept talking as she walked toward the door and a telephone. I took Kevin's hand and we followed the girl. He will not dare try anything with her here, I thought, not a young woman who was stronger than he, instead of an old lady and a young boy. This will soon be over.

Dunn blocked the door. His hands gripped Annalise's shoulders; he shook the girl as he recited. “Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet, that the sense aches at thee, would thou had'st neer been born!”

“Larry! You're hurting me. This is no time to rehearse Othello,” Annalise said.

“Impudent strumpet!” Dunn's hands moved toward her throat.

“By heaven you do me wrong,” Annalise croaked.

“What, not a whore?” His grip tightened.

“No, as I shall be saved.” Annalise's voice was a whisper now. “Larry, let go!”

“Stop, Mr. Dunn. Stop.” Kevin's hand gripped mine.

“Down, strumpet!”

Annalise gasped. The girl's body sagged, a study in slow motion, toward the floor. Her mouth searched for a breath of air, her lips mouthed the last words. “Kill me tomorrow! Let me live tonight.”