The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (34 page)

“I didn’t have to do anything gross or ugly to get this part,” he said, thinking of Meyer Rapper. “Honestly. You’re exaggerating. Please tell me you understand my wanting to try it.”

“I dare say I’ll recover. I try to keep my life full of interests. I’ve been seeing a great deal recently of a most extraordinary young man. Very handsome. Stanley Price. I haven’t had a chance to tell you about him. There’s so much I want to do for him. Perhaps I’ll feel free now to nibble a bit at capital. I’ve been guarding it so zealously for you. Of course, Harold has been very pleased with your work for the firm. Too bad. He was planning some interesting things for you after you’d been there a year. We’ve even talked a bit about my investing in the business. No matter. If the theater is to be your fate, so be it.”

“But C. B., there must be something to be said for using whatever talents you have.” He didn’t want to hear any more about the unknown young man, and he was genuinely bored by his future in the publishing house.

“You know what I think about that. The greatest talent lies in making a rich, well-rounded life for oneself. However, you have your Hattie. She doubtless feels you’d drift apart more and more if she went on in the theater alone.”

“We haven’t been drifting apart. It hasn’t got anything to do with her. You said yourself that you’ve known it was inevitable.”

“Yes. As so many sad things are inevitable. Well, I suppose I must drink to your success.” She picked up her glass and did so. He stayed on much longer than he had intended, trying to win an approving smile, trying to provoke her to argument so that he could at least fight back. Her cheerless resignation was worse than angry opposition; it lay on him like a sentence against which there was no appeal. He prayed for the unlikely fluke of success; even she would find some compensating excitement in that.

REHEARSALS started on a blustery day in late winter. The cast, the director, the producer, the author, and a dozen or so nondescript, rather shabby people (Hattie and Charlie were dazzling exceptions) gathered in a peculiar hall in the Times Square area. Charlie couldn’t imagine what it could have been originally intended for. It retained traces of an attempt at grandeur, some curlicues painted on the walls, a dusty glass and metal chandelier, but it was inconceivable that any festivities could have been contemplated in it. It was long and tall and badly lighted. It was full of chairs. They all sat in a row with Andy Mars by himself in front of them and read through the play. This group effort did nothing to brighten the material. Hattie had one reading that made everybody stir slightly with sounds of amusement. Charlie found that the girl he was supposed to be in love with was a mousy little thing with a singularly grating voice. When they had finished, they all stood up and wandered about. Andy Mars approached Charlie.

“Have you started learning your lines yet, Mills?” he demanded, snapping his chewing gum.

“Yes. As soon as we go through it a couple of times so I can get an idea of what the others are like, I probably won’t need my sides.”

“I just asked a question. You don’t have to make a speech. Your reading’s OK, but it’s a reading. I want to see you put some life into it.”

“Sure. Just as soon as we get on our feet,” Charlie said, but Andy Mars had already turned away and was talking to somebody else. Charlie decided there was no need to take offense. He probably had a lot on his mind. Andy Mars began pushing chairs around. These three chairs were a sofa. Two chairs a few feet apart were a door or a window. He chalked off the limits of the stage on the floor.

“OK everybody. Let’s get going.”

People made entrances and read lines. Mars gave them directions. Charlie made his first entrance and read a line. Mars gave him a direction. Charlie moved accordingly and read another line. Mars gave him another direction. Charlie read another line. Mars interrupted him.

“Listen, take notes, will you? I don’t want to give you this stuff twice.”

“I don’t have to take notes. I can remember.”

“I said, take notes.”

Charlie looked at him. Anger stirred in him. He didn’t like his looks or anything else about him. Take it easy, he told himself. “Look, you want me to get rid of my sides. What’s the point of marking them?”

“I didn’t say anything about getting rid of your sides. I said I wanted you to speak like a human being. This isn’t goddamn Shakespeare.” There was a murmur of amusement around them. “Let’s just cut the crap and do what I say.”

Charlie continued to look at him, allowing disdain to creep into his expression. “Make up your mind. One or the other.”

Mars’s eyes glinted. “All right, smart ass. Do you want to be in this show or don’t you?”

“You’re holding things up. I’m not.”

Mars turned abruptly away. Charlie smiled to himself as the rehearsal resumed. By evening when there was a break for food, Charlie was desperate for a drink. Mars was obviously determined to provoke him to the limits of his control. He had adopted “smart ass” as a permanent form of address. He interrupted constantly. He sneered at Charlie’s readings. Yet there was an indirection in it, a failure to meet Charlie’s eye, that made it possible for Charlie to take it. Mars seemed almost to be addressing some inner devil.

“Christ, what a shit,” Charlie exploded as he and Hattie hurried down the street to a bar.

“He may think he’ll get a better performance out of you if he gets you worked up. You do have such a grand manner, darling. He’s probably using psychology.”

“Some psychology.”

He had three drinks while she had one, and began to calm down. “Hell, I don’t care,” he said with a shrug. “It just makes it awfully hard to concentrate.”

She laughed. “Poor Andy. He looks like a tough little tug bumping its nose against a luxury liner. He’ll probably get tired of it in a few days.”

“If I don’t let him have it before then.”

“I think I know what he means about your reading. We can go over it later. I’ll show you.”

“I don’t need to be shown anything.” Mars was bad enough. He wasn’t going to be patronized by Hattie. “I haven’t had time to get started. I’m ready now, goddamn it.” He had time for a fourth drink before they went back to work.

The drinks were a help. He breezed through his lines with ease and authority. Even Mars seemed impressed; at least he devoted some attention to other members of the cast.

The duel wasn’t over, however. It started again the next day.

Charlie had just launched into one of his more important scenes. After a few moments Mars stopped him. “All right, smart ass. I gave you a movement on that line. I told you I wasn’t going to block everything twice.”

“You don’t have to. I know what you gave me. It doesn’t feel right. It’s more natural on the next line.”

“You’ll damn well make it feel right. Who’s directing this play, you or me?”

“Oh, you are. I wouldn’t be bothered, myself.”

There was a shocked murmur around them. Mars stood looking at the floor. Counting to ten? He turned back to his chair. “All right, David Belasco. Let’s see what you’ve worked up for yourself.”

The exchange set the tone for the day. Charlie met Mars’s slashing attack with insolence. He managed to maintain an unruffled exterior, but the effort worked at his nerves. He needed a drink. He seized a moment to rush out and have one during the afternoon. It simply made him want another. In the evening break, he tossed back five while Hattie watched with speculative, protuberant eyes.

“You may have found the right way to handle him,” she said. “I think you have him on the run. But be careful, for God’s sake. You’re playing a tricky game.”

“It’s all so damn silly,” Charlie said, feeling the alcohol loosening his taut nerves. “If he’d leave me alone and do his job right, we might make something of this ridiculous play.”

The next day, he carried a briefcase to the rehearsal hall. There was a bottle of whiskey in it. He left it in the small anteroom. Whenever he had a free moment, he went out and took a quick swallow. It made everything much easier. Mars’s attack simply bounced off him. He let himself be bullied and insulted. He laughed cheerfully in the director’s face. He caught Mars’s suspicious eyes on him several times when he thought Charlie wasn’t looking. The day passed much more quickly than usual.

He had his briefcase with him the next day. Mars came up to him as soon as he arrived. “All right, smart ass. You said you wanted to get used to working with the others. Is three days enough? I’m trying to be patient, but when are we going to be favored with this great display of histrionic ability?”

“What’s the matter now?”

“Plenty. The comedy scenes aren’t bad, but your love scenes stink. Couldn’t you possibly give the impression of at least being alive?”

“It takes two to make a love scene.”

“Oh, God. Wouldn’t you know. I’ll take care of Stella. I’m talking about you.”

“OK. Let’s work on it. Just tell me what you want.”

“Don’t worry. Meanwhile, you might find time to go over that scene in Act Two with Stella. You seem to like it out there in the hall. Take her with you.”

The day’s work began. His access to the bottle limited by Mars’s instructions, Charlie found it dragging painfully. He went over the scene with the girl in the anteroom, eyeing the briefcase all the while. Mars began to load him with small extra business to strengthen the relationship with the girl. It was nagging and painstaking work. The afternoon was coming to an end when they got to the scene in Act Two. They started into it. Before they were halfway through, Mars leaped up out of his chair.

“Good sweet Jesus. You’re in love with her. You think she’s going off with another guy.” He shoved Charlie roughly out of the way and rattled off his lines with ludicrous intensity. “There. I know this makes demands on your imagination. She’s a girl. You’re supposed to like her. Christ, these Park Avenue faggots. You’re—”

Charlie took a quick step forward and swung his fist. Andy Mars dropped in a gratifying heap at his feet. He rose slowly, rubbing his chin. He stood uncertainly for a moment and then withdrew to a safe distance.

“All right, Mills. Get out. Get out and stay out.”

“Who the hell do you think you are? I’ve got a contract.”

“Then why don’t you go home and read it? Everybody here is on trial until the end of the fifth day of rehearsal. That’s tomorrow.”

Charlie had vaguely heard of such a clause, but it had never occurred to him that it would ever be invoked. He couldn’t imagine being fired. “Fine,” he said with an admirable show of insouciance. “I never wanted to be in your idiotic play anyway.”

“Or in any other, I hope, for your sake. Equity will have a report of this. Drunk at rehearsals—I know what’s in that briefcase—assaulting the director. I don’t think you’re going to be deluged with offers.”

“You terrify me. Just watch who you call a faggot. Equity would be interested in that, too.”

“All right. Enough of this chitchat. Out. You’re holding up my rehearsal.”

Charlie turned to Hattie. “Are you coming?”

Her eyes blazed at him. “Are you out of your mind? I’m working.”

He turned on his heel and left. It was inconceivable. Here he was out in the street without a job. His theatrical career had come to a premature and at least temporary end. Of course, he hadn’t really been fired; hitting Mars had been one way of saying that he had had enough. He was glad to be out of it, he assured himself, swinging his briefcase. A ninth-rate tank-town production. It probably wouldn’t run for more than one night. Poor Hattie. She’d go on grubbing away at it, nursing her dream of stardom. It was all so pathetic, really. Not worth a moment’s regret. Panic crept under his guards. He quickened his pace. He wanted to get home and wash away the grime of that awful rehearsal hall and forget it.

Once home, a drink seemed more urgent than a shower. He had several and began to feel safer. At least he could examine his circumstances with a certain degree of detachment. His life seemed to be falling apart. He had quit what had been about to turn into a very interesting job, he had no money, their debts were still piling up. The season was just about over; there was little hope for anything in the theater till summer. How were they supposed to get through the next two months? He’d missed only a few days at the office. Perhaps he could go and explain that he’d made a mistake and was ready to return; they’d been sorry to see him go. Except that Hattie would never speak to him again, or become so insufferable at his immediate capitulation that they wouldn’t be able to go on living together. C. B. had been right again; the theater was pretty nasty. First Meyer Rapper. Now this. How could anybody with a shred of self-respect work with a cheap little bastard like Mars? Yet he was generally regarded as a bright new talent. Cheap and shoddy. He stood up abruptly and poured himself another drink and took a long swallow of it. Better. Look at it in perspective. That was important. It was all Hattie’s doing. There was no doubt of that. Hattie, who had come between him and Peter, Hattie, who had talked him into quitting his job, Hattie, who had finally alienated C. B., Hattie’s debts, Hattie’s litter that made it impossible for him to be comfortable in his own place, the smell of Hattie those ghastly days every month when he felt he would choke on it. He drained off his glass and poured another drink. What was he going to do about it? Do about what? Forget it. He was safely beyond panic now. He could contemplate being penniless for two months, being unemployed, even being unable to get a job in summer stock with complete indifference. What did any of it matter? Nothing in life was worth making a fuss about. Wisdom at last. He would talk it all over with C. B. and let her straighten it out. He ate odds and ends from the refrigerator and continued to drink. He settled in the living room with a bottle at his side. He dozed.