Carl and Jesse sat in the shed with a single large growler of beer between them and a fire burning in the small wood stove in the corner; the evening was cool. Carl was patching a balloon tire inner tube. Jesse scratched his chin.
“See Miss Tess again yesterday, did you?”
Carl nodded as he roughed the tube surface with a little tin gadget in preparation for applying the cement.
“Pretty serious about her, are you?”
Carl looked up. “I guess I am, yes.”
“Speak out plain. You in love with her?”
Carl looked up. “Since you ask, Mrs. Nosy, yes.”
“She feel the same way?”
“I think so.”
“She want to marry up with you?”
“What the hell is this, a police investigation?” He shook his head. “Someone already called the plant today, asking where I live.”
Jesse frowned. “Who was it?”
“Some phantom from the Employers’ Association. Wouldn’t say why he wanted to know. Ford’s doesn’t give out that kind of information without a reason. Let’s get back to the subject. Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Just having a friendly talk. You listen to me a minute.”
Carl’s eyes narrowed down. He took up the growler, drank some of the warm beer, passed the can to Jesse, and waited.
“You marry that girl, for the rest of your natural life you’ll be marrying one of those time clocks you hate so much. That is, if you want to do right by her.”
“Would I do anything else? Don’t make me sound like a damn criminal.”
“Trying to tell the truth, that’s all.”
Carl scratched the palms of his hands. Jesse was pushing him to face an issue he’d consciously run away from. His voice dropped. “And?”
“I just want to know, Carl. You got it in you to be a steady husband, with a steady job? I’m not against folks marrying. I wanted to marry Grace Williams like I never wanted anything, but she wouldn’t have me. So I’m not against folks marrying, no sir, but I’m against them marrying and then making each other miserable. Life’s mean enough the way it is. You’re my friend. Maybe the best friend I ever had. White men at the foundry, they don’t bother to spit on this nigger ’less they want something. Want me to speed up work, mostly. You’ve got a lot of good stuff, Carl. So be careful. Don’t leap too quick. There’s lots of other white girls who—”
Carl’s brown eyes flashed. “Shut up. There aren’t any like Tess.”
Jesse sighed. “Figured you might say something like that. Wasted my breath, did I?”
“Yes.”
But he’d planted a seed.
24. Rehearsal for a Tragedy
Places!” Simkins clapped as he crossed from the prompt side to the o.p., opposite prompt, side like a fussy mother. “Clear the stage, ladies and gentlemen. Places for act one. Dress rehearsal is already an hour behind schedule. Mutt?”
A trap dropped open behind the witches’ cauldron set center stage. Above, lights tinted by colored gels dimmed to the proper levels. The prompter, Mr. Entwistle, fussily arranged himself at his table behind the proscenium opening stage right. Hobart marched up to Fritzi. He rubbed his thumb under her right eye.
“You’re a highland enchantress, not a red Indian. Try a number four stick, even a three. Let Miss Whittemeyer help you. Please don’t come on looking so florid.”
Hobart’s costume was stained with simulated mud and blood. He sweated fiercely under his powder and grease paint as he inspected one actor after another. In the wings Simkins shouted, “Where’s Mutt?”
“Not down here,” yelled the scene shifter in the trap. He lit his smoke pots and turned on the electric fan that blew smoke upward behind the cauldron. Fritzi thought the effect cheap and pathetic. She adjusted her straggly wig.
Ida Whittemeyer fanned herself. “Sally had better get up here or Manchester will flay her.” Sally had arrived late, puffy-eyed. Fritzi looked stage left, to the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms.
At that moment Sally screamed:
“Stop him, someone, stop him. Thief!”
A man bolted up the stairs, ran toward the artists’ entrance. The actors milling on stage were agog. Fritzi gasped. “Mutt!”
Sally kept screaming. Mutt reversed himself suddenly. Pop Foy appeared behind him with a fire ax, blocking Mutt’s retreat. Mutt ran on stage. Sally came up the stairs. “He stole my money!”
“Simkins, call the bobbies,” Hobart bellowed. He pulled his prop claymore from its scabbard, whirled it over his head with two hands. “Hold right there, sir.”
Mutt cursed and charged him. Hobart swung the prop sword sideways and down. Mutt leaped in the air, and the painted blade passed under his boots. The momentum of Hobart’s swing, though, whirled him like a top. Mutt slammed both hands into Hobart’s back, dashed up the ramp to the stage left rostrum. Mr. Gertz and Mr. Seldon chased him. Mutt jumped from the rostrum, a leap that landed him on stage a foot from Fritzi. He grabbed her, spun her, choked her with his elbow. He pushed her toward Hobart. “Chop her, you fat fraud.”
Mutt dodged between the actors like a football runner. He overturned the prompt table, and Mr. Entwistle. He vanished in the wings but reappeared chased by Simkins, now armed with a short two-by-four.
Mutt grabbed the proscenium, pivoted around it, and jumped into the orchestra pit without looking. He vaulted over the rail and ran up the aisle and disappeared.
Fritzi took deep breaths, rubbing her throat. Eustacia Van Sant pulled Hobart against her bosom. “Bravely done, Manchester.”
“Athletic bugger,” Hobart panted. “Fritzi my girl? You all right?”
“Yes.”
The cast and crew swarmed up both aisles and out the glass doors to Forty-eighth. The street shone with reflections; rain blew under the marquee. The thief was gone.
In the foyer, Sally broke down, huddled in Fritzi’s arms. “I walked in on him. He’d pulled my purse out of the drawer and was counting the money. When I told him to stop, he threw a chair at my head. Then he hit me, here.” She rubbed her breast. Tears made her eyeliner melt and run.
“How much did he take?” Ida asked.
“All that was left of this week’s salary, twelve dollars. I can’t believe he’d steal from me. I was with him last night—all night, in his room. The bastard.”
It took an hour to calm Sally and get her into her costume, ready for the dress rehearsal. During that time the police arrived. Three officers searched the theater and nearby streets and alleys, without result.
At a quarter of ten in the evening, Simkins again called places. The witches found their marks behind the cauldron. Fritzi straightened her wig again. Mr. Entwistle flipped to the first page of his prompt book.
Simkins called cues into a speaking tube. Red and amber gels went on above the cauldron. The cheap fan whirred in the trap. A flood in the wings spilled green light on the witches. Smoke rose. Fritzi crossed her fingers.
The curtain puller worked his rope, and they began.
Fritzi agreed with Mrs. Van Sant that the rehearsal was draggy, not to say dreadful. Of course, one rather lost one’s perspective in a dark theater at half past one in the morning, listening to notes from a director as weary and nervous as his actors. How could one expect better of Hobart, or any of them, after the shattering excitement of a robbery?
Hobart said, “That concludes notes. Let me say in summary, it was a damn poor show. So take heart. We all know that a botched dress rehearsal means a flawless opening night. Please rest yourselves and come in refreshed. You are dismissed.”
“Line rehearsal tomorrow at three,” Simkins reminded them. “The evening call is thirty-five minutes before curtain. Five before seven.”
Conclusion of the ordeal had a remarkable restorative effect on Fritzi and the others. Mrs. Van Sant and the witches agreed that they needed a bowl of oyster stew and a libation. Fritzi fairly flew through the cold-creaming of her face, and
the four ladies hurried along largely empty streets to an oyster palace on Forty-third, near the Grand Central terminal. By twos and threes the company drifted in, excepting Manchester, Launcelot Buford, and his repellent mother, and the other boy actor. The oyster house had hours until four, but patrons were scarce in the early morning—just a straggle of drinkers at the long mahogany bar. The manager turned on lights in a private dining room which had a piano. Lethargic waiters served oyster stew with little yellow globules of butter floating in it, bowls of crackers, steins of beer, and cups of coffee. Fritzi ordered coffee. Eustacia drank two gins in short order. “Eases the torture of the corset stays, don’t you know?”
Old Mr. Allardyce, wide awake despite his age, rolled up his sleeves and played a succession of popular numbers. Members of the cast, singly or in impromptu pairs and trios, rose to warble the lyrics and receive tipsy applause. Soon everyone was having a fine time, roistering in a way that would hurt damnably in the morning but, for the present, warmed the soul. These little parties in which actors forgot their wounds and fears and inhibitions were among the greatest joys of Fritzi’s life in the theater.
At three a.m. Mr. Allardyce showed no sign of flagging. More trays of drinks arrived. The waiters looked slightly more perky, anticipating tips. They didn’t know actors, Fritzi thought.
Soon she felt her eyelids drooping. Another half hour had gone by. Eustacia sat with her stocking feet resting on a vacant chair. She held out a full tumbler of gin. “Care for any? I can’t swallow another drop.”
Fritzi shuddered. “Oh, no, thanks. I must go home. I don’t want to be completely exhausted tomorrow night.” She gathered up her wrap and purse. “How do you suppose the opening will go?”
Eustacia stifled a huge yawn. “Given a smidgen of luck, we’ll get through all five acts with no one dead or maimed. Beyond that, I am not sanguine.”
Fritzi wanted to be brave, exuberant—confident. But she wasn’t. Murmuring goodbyes, she and Eustacia left the oyster house in search of taxis. Fritzi’s wan and weary face perfectly masked the doubt and anxiety churning within her.
25. Tragedy
Fritzi arrived at the Novelty a whole hour before curtain. A drizzly rain dampened the streets. She felt wretched. Not only was she tired from the late night at the oyster house, she had cramps. They were no less painful for being familiar.
Eustacia whispered that she’d seen Hobart. “His eyes are standing out of his head big as eggs. Simkins told me the little worm encountered a funeral procession on his way to the theater. Should have kept to the alleys, the fool. Dear Lord, what next?”
Making up, Fritzi couldn’t remember her first line. This had never happened before. She searched among the pots and tubes and sticks until she found her crumpled side for I-i. She folded it and tucked it under the frayed rope that belted her ugly dirt-colored smock. Another cramp attacked her. She hugged herself with her eyes shut until it passed.
Some actors traditionally gave small gifts on opening night. Though she could scarcely afford it, she had nickel cigars for the gentlemen, rose petal sachets for the ladies, and cheap penknives for the two surly boys. Mr. Denham received his cigar while fingering worry beads. Mr. Gertz showed her a Roman Catholic medal with a likeness of St. Genesius, the actor’s patron saint reputedly martyred by the emperor Diocletian. She discovered her friend in her dressing room with hands clasped and head bowed in front of an engraving of a person in a periwig.
“Eustacia, who on earth is that?”
“David Garrick. Some say he’s lucky. It can’t hurt.”
A cold sweat of terror bathed Fritzi then.
Pop Foy mournfully told them the rain showers had become a downpour. The audience arrived sodden. People sneezed and complained. Listening behind the curtain—only amateurs peered out to count the house—Fritzi despaired. Some audiences generated an electricity that excited and inspired actors, but others had, as it were, dead batteries. Audiences like that applauded limply, if at all. They always laughed in the wrong places.
At twenty past seven Manchester called the company together on stage. He did indeed look queasy and shaken. “I am delighted to report that the house is more than three quarters subscribed.” A few strained expressions lightened briefly. “But with great regret I must announce that earlier today, Mr. Entwistle sprained his back when thrown from his chair by that cur Mutt. The prompt table will be empty this evening. Mr. Simkins will hold the book, but you must remember he will be extremely busy calling cues. I am sure all of you will surmount this small problem with no difficulty.”
Fritzi felt bilious, dizzy. Her teeth chattered. She’d experienced symptoms of stage fright many times before, but never so severely. She unfolded the side but couldn’t read it under the dim lights.
Simkins called places. Fritzi touched the curtain for luck. Ida Whittemeyer quickly hugged each of her weird sisters. Fritzi held up crossed fingers. Sally Murphy squeezed their hands and said, “Break a leg,” which was supposed to insure that you wouldn’t, and everything would go swimmingly.
The curtain rose.
The tragedy began.
In the first scene the cheap electric fan in the trap shorted. With a squeal the blades stopped revolving. Smoke immediately thickened behind the cauldron. Ida Whittemeyer was convulsed by coughing. For nearly half a minute she was unable to continue.
Making his first entrance on the blasted heath, Hobart ripped his cloak on a nail. The sound, unfortunately loud, resembled a bodily function. It caused titters throughout the audience.
In Hobart’s dagger speech, the follow spot sputtered, sizzled, and expired.
One of the murderers fell off a ramp. It wasn’t a graceful tumble but a pratfall. In the wings, Fritzi cringed at the laughter.
By the time the curtain rose on act three, everyone’s timing was off. Lines were delivered at locomotive speed, or dragged out unendurably. Mrs. Van Sant went up. She stood slack-jawed, staring at the prompt side of the stage. Simkins lost his place in the book. Mrs. Van Sant snarled, “Line, you blithering ass, line!” Those in the front rows heard, and laughed.
Simkins found the line. She recovered and delivered it. The damaged play rolled on like a cart with a wheel missing.
In Launcelot Buford’s scene with Miss Whittemeyer, he slipped her a live goldfish. She shrieked and threw it away. Unfortunately, many people saw the fish flopping on the stage, with predictable mirth. One of the murderers broke up in laughter and had to exit.
In any large production there was usually at least one actor drunk, and tonight was no exception. It wasn’t Mr. Allardyce, however, but a hired super, a Birnam wood marcher who waved his branch so vigorously that he knocked the helmet off the man next to him. The helmet rolled off the apron and fell in the orchestra pit, onto the snare drum. Hobart had engaged a two-piece orchestra, violin and drum—not an ideal combination for a classical play, but cheap.
The helmet bounced on the drum. After several impromptu tara-diddles, it bounced out of the drummer’s reach and concluded its performance by striking the floor like a Chinese gong. The entire audience howled, entertained at last.
In the climactic duel Macduff’s tin-plate sword nicked the edge of a rostrum and bent like taffy. Completely thrown, Mr. Denham dropped the sword twice as he attempted to straighten it. Hobart tried to cover by staggering about, indicating pain from a wound. Since Macduff hadn’t touched him yet, it looked more like an attack of indigestion. The audience hooted and whistled.
Hobart’s prop claymore was made of stouter stuff: wood. When he finally struck a defensive blow, the claymore snapped in half at the hilt. In the stunned silence Hobart could be heard to say, “Oh, my gawd.”
Hilarity reigned everywhere but on stage.
The audience fled the theater after one curtain call, which included a good many boos and catcalls. Fritzi wanted to weep. Their Scottish play was not a tragedy but a farce. The three-wheeled cart was pointed downhill and accelerating madly toward the graveyard of all s
uch misbegotten vehicles, the morning reviews.
The New York Rocket was first on the street. Mrs. Van Sant rose and read the notice aloud in a private room on the upstairs level of Charles Rector’s swanky Broadway restaurant. The cast had gathered for a party that had the appearance and atmosphere of a wake for victims of an earthquake.
“‘Mr. Hobart Manchester’s production at the Novelty suits the venue, as it is so novel, so unique in its particular badness, as to numb even the most insensitive devotee of the Bard, and wring floods of pity from any compassionate Christian who has the misfortune to attend. Ill-conceived and miserably acted by a company of almost amateurish awfulness, it quickly descends into unintentional comedy and never recovers. Further, I have seldom if ever seen a more tawdry’—so on and so forth,” she muttered, skipping down the columns. “‘Evidence of penny pinching is everywhere evident. Costumes appear to come from a rag bag, except for those worn by the English actress Mrs. Van Sant, which are more appropriate to the runway of a vaudeville house.’ Bastard!” She threw the paper on the floor.
“Can you imagine a human being devoting his life to dispensing such cruelty? He must be sick. If I ever meet this man, he’ll be a bloody eunuch before I’m through.”
The actors applauded, but Fritzi noted a lack of enthusiasm. Ida Whittemeyer said, “I’m sure our valiant director and star echoes that sentiment. Where are you, Hobart?”
“Hobart! Hobart!” They stomped and clapped and looked around until Simkins said from the back of the room, “He sneaked out five minutes ago.”
26. Closed
Simkins posted the closing notice before Thursday night’s performance. Late Friday afternoon, Fritzi went uptown to the Novelty. The rain had let up only sporadically since Monday. The streets were dark, rank from garbage rotting in pools of water.