Chet Williamson - Reign

He still didn't really know why Dennis wanted to reprise the role of the Emperor one final time, but he suspected that it had something to do with what everyone discreetly referred to as "the tragedies." Whether or not it symbolized (along with his infatuation with Ann Deems) a return to happier times for Dennis, a time before the accidents and suicides and murders, Curt didn't know. There seemed to be more to it than that. There was an intensity in Dennis that Curt had not seen for a long time, almost a need to prove something to himself.

But what? That he could still act? He had finally proven that in the past week of rehearsals, though it had been touch and go until the outburst at Quentin. Curt had been startled by it and amazed at the results of it. Yet, even with the remarkable change in Dennis's acting, Curt felt as though there was still something missing, and he didn't know why, or what, beyond the feeling that it still seemed like artifice, no matter how precisely presented, like a photo-realistic painting masquerading as a photograph, or a brilliantly conceived and built robot aping real life.

Whatever it was, it felt fragile, like a house of cards about to tumble. Curt hoped it wouldn't take the rest of the theatre along with it.

He walked to the call board to make certain that everyone in the company had checked in. They had. Everyone was there.

Everyone.

The air of backstage was filled with vocalizations, notes both high and low. They came from every dressing room, from Dennis's, closest to the stage, all the way up to those of the chorus members unlucky enough to have to tread the wooden steps to the fifth floor. The intercoms, or "squawk boxes," in each dressing room were checked to make sure that the company would be able to receive their calls several minutes before they were due on stage for their various scenes. Hair was put into place and sprayed heavily. Faces were twisted and distorted to ease the application of makeup. These things accomplished, costumes were donned, muscles stretched, hands shaken, prayers said, dozens of simple and arcane ceremonies observed. Those who were ready queued up to read the telegrams and mailgrams that strewed the bulletin board, hiding the call sheets and the boilerplate Equity notices no one had read in the first place. They remarked over names, laughed over witty messages, had cups of coffee, waited.

Evan Hamilton imagined that he smelled the audience shortly before he heard it, long before he saw it. Even over the heavily cosmetic scent of foundation makeup, the biting sting of spirit gum, and the vomitous reek of liquid latex, he could sense the eternal smell of the theatre. It was the scent of many people gathered under one roof, a clean scent of freshly washed and perfumed bodies, the smell of people ready for pleasure.

But there was something else, a headier aroma, a ripeness of anticipation. It must have been such an odor, Evan fancied, that hung about the perfumed citizens of Rome as they waited for the circus to begin, for blood to flow.

Now he heard it through the thickness of the curtain, heard the sound of the audience, the low, dull buzzing of the faceless mass, like a hive of threatening bees. This sound, which he had heard and which had frightened him when he was a child, was like no other, and affected him like no other, and he closed his eyes as he felt the channels through which blessed air came in and out of his body begin to constrict, and he whispered a curse in his head, and felt like dying, and someone took his hand.

He opened his eyes and saw that Terri had come out of Kelly Sears's dressing room and was with him again. "Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded, took a deep breath. "The crowd. I was remembering."

"Don't," she said. "Forget it. It can't hurt you. Everyone's here. How could anyone hurt you?" She smiled and gave him a kiss. "Let's see if Dennis is all right."

They walked across to stage right, down the short flight of stairs to Dennis's door, behind which they heard him singing his first song, "The Awful Thing About a King." They listened for a moment. His voice sounded full and strong, and even in the warm-up, the mocking humor of the lyrics shone through. When he finished the first chorus, Terri knocked, and Ann opened the door.

"Hi, mother. Is everything all right? Dennis's costume all set?"

"It's wonderful, Terri," Dennis said, getting up from his chair in front of the mirror. "Frankly, I'm glad the original one got lost. This costume feels fresh and new and ready." He laughed and put an arm around Ann. "Just like me. Reborn. You've really done a wonderful job. And of course," he added slyly, "the fact that I had the best dresser in the business helped…"

He stepped aside, and behind him Terri and Evan saw Marvella Johnson standing in the corner. She smiled at Terri dryly. "You did okay, girl," she said in her low, rumbling voice.

"Marvella!" Terri pushed past an amused Dennis and ran to her mentor, who held out her arms for an embrace. "You came!"

"How could I miss your professional debut?" Marvella said, nearly crushing the girl with a bear hug. "And how could I miss the boss's last star turn?" She held Terri at arm's length, and her smile faded, her mouth straightening into sadness. "But I'll just stay down here. I won't go upstairs at all. I'll just stay in the audience and watch. I've been backstage too many years."

"All right, Marvella," Dennis said. "For tonight anyway. But as for the future, I still want you to be part of it."

"We'll see, Dennis," she said, and Evan thought his father would have his work cut out for him if he wanted Marvella to resume her old position.

"Half hour, Dennis," came Curt's voice over the squawk box.

Dennis pushed a button. "Thanks, Curt."

"Well," said Marvella, "I'm gonna head out front. See who I can meet."

Dennis kissed her cheek. "I'm glad you came. Thank you."

"I'm glad too, Dennis. Love you, as always." She gave Evan a peck on her way out, and he felt a tremendous wave of love and sympathy for this woman who had always treated him so kindly, starting when he was a lonely little boy roaming his father's theatre, for back then every theatre Dennis Hamilton played was his theatre.

He turned and looked at his father, and it seemed that time had turned backward. Dennis looked tall and strong, young and handsome. The last time he looked like that, Evan had felt only a little love, and a great deal of fear. Now those emotions were reversed, for while he loved the man, he felt a bit of fear as well. Though he knew that it had not been his father who had actually threatened him with death, it had been his near double, and the two were hard to separate in his mind. Still, they were separate, and he took his father by the hand.

"Break a leg, Dad. I know you'll do great."

Dennis's features quivered with emotion, and he drew Evan to him so that the boy could no longer see the man's face. "Do you know," Dennis whispered, "how proud I am of you?"

He pushed Evan back then, and blinked tears away. "What's this? Can't have my makeup ruined, can I?" He laughed. "Save my emotions for the stage, yes?"

Evan smiled and nodded. "Yeah, sure. You go get 'em, huh?"

"I'll do my best."

He looked at Ann. "You staying backstage?" She nodded. "Well, take care of my old man."

"I will." She smiled so serenely, seemed so calm and confident, that Evan thought her own acting ability might outstrip his father's.

"Come on," Terri said to Evan. "I'll walk you out to the lobby."

"I'll go out with you," Ann said, "and see how John's bearing up. Oh, here's your ticket, Evan." She handed it to him. "You're sitting with Cissy Morrison."

"Oh no," Evan said, partly dismayed and partly delighted. "That woman treats me like I was her dear little nephew."