Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

Still, to be honest, I must admit that, compared to the average girl you meet, I’m really quite complex. Intelligent and well informed too; and a good conversationalist.

( Indignantly, as over her shoulder, she sees someone looking in at her. )

Well, for heaven’s sake! Honestly, some people!

( She pulls down an imaginary window shade and the scene is blacked out, her voice coming out of the darkness. )

And my looks are nothing to be ashamed of, either. I have a neat little figure and my legs are really very nice. Of course, my nose is sort of funny, but my face definitely has character — not just one of those magazine-cover deadpans.

( With a yawn )

Oh, I never seem to get enough sleep.

( The lights come up as she raises the imaginary shade. She is dressed now in her shoes, stockings, and slip. She seats herself at her dressing table, facing the audience, and brushes her hair. )

If I could only stop lying awake for hours, dreaming up all the exciting things that could happen but never do. Well, maybe this is the day when things really will begin to happen to me. Maybe Wentworth and Jones will accept my novel. They’ve had it over a month now, and all the other publishers turned it down in less than two weeks. It certainly looks promising.

Igor, standing at the back of the loft, saw Gillian hesitate for a moment, falling instantly out of character. Her recovery seemed complete in the space of ten seconds, but he had seen the sudden puzzled look that crossed her face, and he frowned now as she picked up the scene again, the frown deepening when he realized she had not returned completely, had not fully recovered the intricate characterization she’d been building.

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful!” Gillian said. “With a published novel, I’d really be somebody.” She paused. The pause was a long one. Igor began walking slowly from the back of the loft. Had she forgotten her lines? No. Gillian Burke never forgot lines. And then he realized she knew the lines only too well, she was listening to each separate line as it left her mouth. She sighed deeply now and said, “Reviews... reviews in all the book sections...” Again she paused. She wiped her hand across her lip. “Royalty checks coming in.” And again the long deadly pause, as if she were suddenly understanding the words, suddenly allowing their meaning to penetrate to her secret heart. “Women nudging each other at... at... Schrafft’s and... and... whispering... and... whispering: ‘Don’t l-look now, but that girl over there — the one with the smart hat — that’s... that’s... that’s Georgina Allerton, the... the...’” She stopped again. She turned to the class. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a terrible headache,” and she walked off the stage.

Igor caught her as she was entering the cloakroom.

“Where are you going?” he said.

“Home.”

“Why?”

“I have a headache.”

“An actress doesn’t go home when she has a show to do.”

She looked up into his face. “Igor,” she said slowly, using his Christian name for the first time in four years, “Igor, I don’t have a show to do.”

Igor grasped her shoulders. “You have a stage, you have an audience, you have a part to play. That is a show.”

“Igor, I have a creaking platform, and a roomful of kids, and a part played by Betty Field on Broadway last year, that’s what I’ve got. Not a show, Igor. Please, I want to go home.”

“To cry?”

“Yes, damn it, maybe to cry. Can’t I cry? Is it against the rules to cry?”

“You may cry,” Igor said. “I was only concerned that you would be alone. Stay here if you must cry, Gillian.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Thank you, Igor. But... I... I’d like to go home. Thank you.” She fumbled into her coat, and then looked around the cloakroom dazedly. “My bag. I guess I left it inside.”

“Gillian?” he said.

“Yes?”

“You will come back tomorrow evening?”

She hesitated for a long time before answering. Then she simply nodded and went into the loft for her bag. She walked rapidly toward her chair near the wall. Tad had gone to the front of the loft, preparatory to doing his scene. The boy David sat alone in the row behind her vacant seat. His eyes picked her up as she entered the loft and followed her as she moved toward the chair. She met his eyes with her own, and he turned away as if embarrassed. For no reason on earth, she said to him, “My bag.”

“What?”

“I left it here.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me,” she said. She took the bag from the seat of the chair. He was staring at her again. She looked at him, puzzled. “Yes?” she said. He shook his head. “What is it?”

“You... you were very good,” he answered. His voice was tentative, almost frightened.

“Thank you.”

“The scene you just did.”

“Yes.”

He continued staring at her. He wet his lips. It seemed he would speak, and then something claimed his eyes and he shrank deeper into his chair and said nothing. She looked at him a moment longer, nodded, and then walked rapidly to the door. Tad had already begun his scene. Igor was standing beside the platform, one arm across his waist, his other elbow propped on it, his hand supporting his chin. She tiptoed past the platform and started down the long steps to the street. She was halfway down when she heard the voice behind her.

“Miss?”

She turned. It was David. He stood on the landing above her, looking down at her solemnly, nibbling at his lower lip.

“Shhh,” she said. “Tad’s doing his scene.”

“I... I don’t know your last name,” he said.

“Burke.” She paused. “Why do you want to know it?”

“I... I thought I... I thought I might call you.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“Are you Jewish?” she asked.

“Why?”

“David always sounds to me like a Jewish name.”

“Yes,” he said suddenly. He brought his shoulders back. He seemed to have made a decision, seemed in that moment to have decided he would not call her, would not even speak to her any longer. “I’m Jewish. Does it matter?”

“No. Why should I care what you are?”

“Well, then I’m not Jewish,” he said.

“All right.” She looked at him curiously.

“May... may I take you home?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly.

“May I call you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you in the book?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you.”

“I have to go now.”

“I’ll call you,” he repeated.

She had been home no more than ten minutes when the telephone rang. She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear, and said, “Hello?”

“Miss Burke?”

“Yes?”

“This is David.”

“Who?”

“David Regan.” He hesitated. “We met just a little while ago. At the loft.”

“Oh. Oh yes.”

“Well,” he said. “I see you got home all right.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“I’ve been trying the number for the past half hour.”

There was a long pause on the line.

“I thought you might like to meet me for a cup of coffee,” he said.

“Do you mean right now?”

“Yes. It’s only a little past eleven. I thought...”

“I was getting ready for bed,” Gillian said.

“Oh. Well, okay, I just thought...”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh sure. That’s all right.”

There was another pause.

“Can I see you tomorrow night?” David asked.

“What’s tomorrow?”

“Friday.”

“I have a class.”