Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

“We’ll need everybody, ” Merriwether said, glaring at Dawson Armstrong, who had taken advantage of the diversion to squat on his haunches and drift into a doze.

Mrs. Thedford left, and the director clapped his hands for attention, as if he were orchestrating a cast of hundreds. “All right, Dawson, you know the routine. Tessa, my sweet, while you have no lines for this particular scene-we’ll rehearse your other scene later-it is vitally important that you lie absolutely limp in the old man’s arms. I suggest that you let the arm facing the audience droop-like this-and your head should be tilted back so your beautiful, long tresses hang down to almost touch the floor, and you can let one slipper dangle from your toes, and contrive to let it fall just as Lear moves from his ‘howls’ to his speech.”

“Must I wear Thea’s costume?”

“I think not. We’ll try something gauzier that will let your figure show through-in a modest way, of course. Thea’s figure, alas, has to be disguised wherever possible: that was the point about her age I was attempting to make.”

“I do hope Thea won’t be too upset. She’s a very nice woman.”

“Dawson! Wake up and take your place!”

Armstrong glared at Merriwether’s knees, got up, and strode manfully back into the shadows upstage. Tessa padded after him. Clarence Beasley came and stood as close to Merriwether as he dared, anticipating the action to come. A moment later, Lear began his escalating sequence of howls.

Marc felt a chill down his spine. Lear’s cri de coeur was heart-wrenching: a deep animal howl bred in the flesh and bone of love and loss. Armstrong might be old, but he was not past his prime as a tragedian. Slowly the howls came nearer and the ruined old king staggered forward with the hanged Cordelia in his arms and floating, it appeared, on the cloak. Tessa looked lifeless, one arm adroop, the body arched but limp, the hair lifting and falling with the cadence of Lear’s step, as if something of her was yet living and not ready to die. Marc was moved deeply, and braced himself for the speech he knew by heart.

It was at this critical point, and just as Cordelia’s slipper struck the floor like a severed appendage, that Dawson Armstrong staggered, careened, and toppled sideways. Then, in a pathetic effort to maintain his balance, he dropped Cordelia upon the boards with an ugly thump.

“What the fuck are you doing, you goddamn moron, you drunken pig, you stinking excuse for an actor!”

Marc leaned forward in alarm, as did Rick and Jenkin.

But having spewed this venom at the toppled Lear, who lay semi-comatose where he had fallen, Merriwether dashed to Tessa’s side, almost colliding with Clarence Beasley.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Tessa said, whipping her dress down over her prettily exposed knees and scrambling to her feet. “I fell on my derriere.” She giggled, and gave that part of her anatomy a reconnoitring rub. “An’ there’s nothin’ much to hurt down there!”

Beasley insisted on taking her hand, as if she were still on the floor, and giving it a gentlemanly tug.

Tessa rewarded the effort with a dazzling smile. “What’ll we do now?” she asked Merriwether.

“First, I’ll drag this intoxicated sot into the wings, where he can sleep it off. Then you and I will do this scene properly.”

“I’ll see to Dawson,” Beasley said. He went over to the old man, spoke softly into his ear, then helped him over to the wings on the left, where he collapsed peacefully.

“We better wait for Annie,” Tessa said nervously.

“I’m the director, love.”

Just then Mrs. Thedford returned. “Well, Jason, you were right. He’s found a bottle somewhere and downed it. I’ve searched his room, but when he sleeps this off, we’ll have to watch him every minute until the show opens at eight-thirty.”

“He’ll never make it,” Merriwether said.

“Now, you know he’s an old pro. If he’s awake and no more than half drunk, he can outact any of us.”

“Jason says he’s going to play Lear tomorrow night,” Tessa said with just a hint of little-girl mischief in her voice.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now I’m more concerned with Dorothea’s health. She’s taken a tisane to help her sleep. She insists she’ll be ready for the farce tonight. And I believe her. She made no objection when I told her Tess was going to play Cordelia-to lessen the load on her till she’s feeling herself again.”

“Oh, thank you, Annie. Thank you!”

“So, whether Dawson does Lear tomorrow night or you, Jason, Tess needs a couple of run-throughs right now. Clarence and I will observe.”

“Just remember what I told you a few minutes ago and you’ll be fine, sweetie,” Merriwether said to Tessa as they walked back into the shadows, Merriwether looking very Promethean beside the slight, five-foot figure of the girl-woman.

“They’ve edited out the other parts, so there’s just Lear and Cordelia,” Hilliard whispered. But Marc’s attention was riveted on the stage.

There was a collective intake of breath in expectation of the five howls. Out of Jason Merriwether’s mouth they came, but this time they were more bellowed than uttered, more impressing than impressive. From the upstage shadows emerged this other octogenarian with the rag doll of his daughter draped across his outstretched arms. Merriwether was nothing if not the consummate actor, for, despite his height and imperial bearing, he looked now the bowed and broken monarch, his every wearied step a defeated trudge. Moreover, his hunched bulk rendered the slender, unbreathing Cordelia that much more vulnerable and pitiable. And when he laid her down and began his great speech of self-insight and contrition, there was no anomalous thump, only the cadence of the bard’s pentameter. But, scarcely noticed except by the quickest eye, the old king’s left hand, as it slipped Cordelia’s lower half stageward, lingered a split second more than necessary on the curved clef of her buttocks and, just possibly, gave them an impertinent squeeze. The girl herself gave no sign, not even a blink.

Marc heard the rasp of Rick’s breath and felt him rising from his chair. With well-coordinated movements, Marc pressed him back down with one hand and placed the other over his mouth in time to throttle the cry of outrage there.

“They’re only acting,” he hissed, and Rick reluctantly sank back.

Someone else had noticed the king’s incestuous touch, for Marc saw Mrs. Thedford’s eyes widen in disbelief, then fix upon the girl while Merriwether completed his series of lamentations over her prostrate form, and made a fine, rhetorical demise. Beasley began applauding, but Tessa turned her newly opened eyes upon Mrs. Thedford and smiled-knowingly, Marc thought. Owen Jenkin began to clap as well, and when Tessa rose to take her bow beside Merriwether, Rick joined him lustily. Marc felt obliged to clap politely, but Annemarie Thedford did not.

Well, well, Marc thought, the acting business hasn’t changed much since I dipped my toes into its roiling waters five years ago.

The next hour and a half unfolded less contentiously. The company showed a predilection for death scenes, with the demise of Antony, Cleopatra, Romeo, and Juliet being added to that of Lear. All of this gloom was leavened only by the razor-keen repartee of Annemarie and Jason as Beatrice and Benedick from Much Ado About Nothing . As far as Rick Hilliard was concerned, and he made his concern quite vocal, Tessa as Juliet (standing in, for today only, in place of Thea Clarkson) was the show-stopper, despite a less-than-satisfactory Romeo (Clarence Beasley), whose Yankee twang nearly ruined the balcony scene and certainly depreciated the glowing iambics of the beloved above him. And while all of the actors essayed some sort of approximate English stage-accent, Marc detected a trace of genuine English dialect in Mrs. Thedford’s speech, even when she wasn’t in character. Her performances as Gertrude and Lady Macbeth, opposite Merriwether’s Claudius and Macbeth, were the highlights of the afternoon.