Amanda Matetsky - Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

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.