When Harriet noticed Avril and I watching, she left the Variety reporter in midquestion, holding open her arms to embrace us. The mood felt like those last days of high school’s senior year when everything you do is for the last time. The reporter moved closer to our circle with her microphone.
“Harper, people are talking about awards for you and Avril for your performances in Apartment 19. How would you explain the show’s success?”
“People want to credit its acting, its direction, or its playwright, but after watching audiences these last six weeks, I’ve come to the conclusion there were a lot of people in New York who needed something special, and somehow an unexpected play became that for them. It’s just that simple.”
Closing night arrived like the last pages of a book you hope will never end.
Ben had a bouquet of red roses delivered to my dressing room, something he hadn’t done on previous nights because the act reeked so much of what he’d gone through with Helen Payne.
At the closing curtain, the entire cast joined hands at center stage. Ben waved on the backstage crew, and together we all took our last bow.
The applause thundered in my ears, and I closed my eyes, burning the moment into memory.
At the cast party in Ben’s apartment, Tabby approached me, appearing stress free with nothing left to manage but a glass of red wine.
“You did good, Harper,” she told me in the kitchen when the two of us were alone. “You should be proud of yourself.”
In the living room I heard Marshall banging away at the piano, running through a medley of Rodgers and Hammerstein songs while the cast belted out what words they knew, making up the rest. Outside the apartment, the Manhattan skyline pulsed with the lights from a million windows.
“I’d rather be your friend than proud,” I said, since the night felt like a time for saying things. They were the last confrontational words I’d ever speak to her. “Is that even possible?”
“Why is that important to you?”
“Because I hate thinking the only thing we’ve accomplished over the past seven weeks is entertainment. There’s meaning in everything if you look for it, and I can’t think of a single reason why we shouldn’t be friends.”
“I think this cast has accomplished more,” Tabby said. “But I don’t know what you’re looking for. You and I couldn’t be more different. I don’t see you coming with me to the next scotch tasting party, and I’m not planning to go to church with you on Sunday.”
Marshall’s piano music quieted in the other room. I recognized the opening strains of “If I Loved You,” the ballad from Carousel, and the dedicated few still singing knew all the words.
“Maybe not, but for me this production was about things coming together. I guess I’m looking for some kind of closure. I don’t want to leave things unsaid.”
Tabby’s cell phone lit up on her belt clip. She glanced down, tilting its face at an angle so she could read the caller’s name, and decided uncharacteristically to ignore it.
“Life’s not that simple, Harper. Things don’t always resolve themselves like a half-hour sitcom. You see the world in black and white, but I see gradations. You want everything to tie up neatly with a bow, but I think that’s just painting a happy face on things. I just came in to say ‘a job well done,’ and nothing more. This doesn’t have to be a bonding moment.”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but one of the advantages of living in a world of absolutes is always knowing where you stand. I want to be someone who reaches out. I think it has its own rewards, and it’s the right thing to do.”
Tabby sipped her wine, saving her rejoinder until after she finished her swallow. “That’s very noble, just as long as you can accept that not everyone is going to reach back.”
Harriet appeared from around the corner. “I’m reaching out, friend. In fact, I’m taking you home with me,” she said.
I felt Harriet’s arms wrap me up in another of her world-class hugs. She held and rocked me like a baby she’d never let go.
“You say that like you’re getting ready to leave,” I said.
“I am. This is later than I typically stay out. I have got to get back home and see my Darius,” Harriet said, breaking off our embrace, nodding good-bye to Tabby.
“I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet him,” I told her. “I would have loved to watch Animal Planet with the both of you.”
“You will, you will,” Harriet said. “As long as you can find Brooklyn, and like to eat microwave popcorn, you’re welcome anytime.”
Harriet gestured for me to follow her to the front door. “Come walk me out. I want to tell you something.”
I followed Harriet out of Ben’s stainless-steel kitchen, glancing back at Tabby one more time before we abandoned her. She’d taken out her cell phone and was reading her text message. I hoped it was from someone who loved her.
Harriet made her way through the crowd, handing out a second round of good-byes. She lifted her coat off the rack by the door and hurried herself into it.
“God brought you here, and you brought God here with you,” she said, once our conversation could be more private. “You weren’t ashamed of Him, you were bold for Him, and see what He did for you? That made it easier for me, being here,” Harriet continued, tears welling up in her eyes. “I have to earn money, and this is what I do, but this is not my crowd. You lifted Him up, and now He’s lifted you up.”
Despite our promises to never part company, Harriet and I hugged once more, and she left to hail a taxi back to Brooklyn.
I followed the music back to where Marshall and George sat on the piano bench singing a duet of “Edelweiss.” Ben approached me, opening his arms, loose with wine and song.
“Harper, I feel like we’ve packed a year’s worth of life into the last six weeks together. I’m not sure I want it to be over.”
He ran his hand through his hair, a familiar nervous gesture. “I hope the flowers I left in your dressing room conveyed the right message—a great big thank-you for all you did. No matter what was going on in my private life, I could always come in to the theater and escape. You helped make that possible for me.”
“What’s next for you, Ben?”
“I told my business partners I had to take some time off. I called Denise to say I was willing to try. We fly to the south of France this weekend to give it a month together and just see how it goes. Wish us luck.”
“Do you mind if I pray for you both?”
“No, I don’t mind at all,” Ben said and embraced me again.
“Then I’ll be praying for you and Denise. Give my regards to Paris.”
The audience had gone home, the critics were writing their final reviews, and the cast party was breaking up for good. Like a wonderful dream, Apartment 19 was over. The masks and the stages, the make-believe and props all put away. The characters we portrayed went back in some hidden box for safekeeping, and the emotions we acted out vanished into thin air.
Avril and I fell into a cab on the Upper East Side and I asked the driver to take us down West Forty-fourth Street on our way back to the Village. I leaned back and peered out the window as the taxi drove past the Carney Theatre one last time. The ghosts of our memories clowned beneath the brightly lit marquee that read:
Apartment 19
Final night
Lights fell on Broadway like stars from the heavens. Our cab merged into traffic, and I watched the bright theater marquee grow smaller and dimmer until the title was a blurry line surrounded by a nostalgic moon. Then the buses, cabs, and cars hustled by us until even that was swept away from my vision.
~ Twenty ~
The New York Theater Society threw a gala fund-raising dinner in Ben Hughes’s honor the night after Apartment 19 closed. Traditionalists at heart, the Society relished the opportunity t
o boast the play’s success as an example of the classics still having the power to pack out a theater, if given the creative juice and financial backing they deserved.
It was rumored that Helen Payne, still the beloved diva of Broadway and longtime member of the Society, would be there, but it turned out to be nothing more than a rumor.
Under a grand chandelier in the red-draped ballroom at the LaPierre Hotel, the cast was treated like royalty by the upper stratum of Broadway luminaries. Directors, actors, producers, entertainment reporters and theater critics, choreographers, dancers, and cherished guild members gathered to raise money for the Society and to shake our hands.
It was the New York Theater Society director Miriam LoRosh who introduced me to Joseph Hagen, the famed Hollywood director. He looked as dashing in real life as he did in his photos. A man in his mid-sixties, he had a Californian’s sun-tanned face and sapphire eyes.
“Harper, I have someone here I’d like to introduce you to,” Ms. LoRosh said, guiding the director toward me and handling formal introductions.
“Harper Gray, meet Mr. Joseph Hagen. I’m sure you both must have heard of each other but haven’t had the pleasure of meeting face-to-face. Joseph has won so many awards it’s rumored he keeps his Oscars on the west wing of his house, and his Tonys on the east, closest to Broadway.”
Joseph Hagen bent his head toward me in a bow.
“Joseph was just telling me he’s seen Apartment 19 twice in the past two weeks, so I’m sure the two of you will have plenty to talk about,” Miriam said before gliding off to her next introductory duty, something she did rather well.
“Miss Gray, I don’t say this often, but I fell in love with your portrayal of Audrey Bradford. I had the privilege of meeting Arthur Mouldain in London when I was a young actor. That chance encounter had a profound effect on my life and is responsible in part for my becoming a director.”
“He must have possessed an extraordinary charisma.”
“Mouldain was the sort of playwright who couldn’t squeeze enough ideas into his plays. He was like a classical composer. Once he had a main story line, he wove layer upon layer of subplots and themes into it. I think he would very much appreciate what this cast has done with his play.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hagen. That’s very kind of you to say. I believe Ben Hughes deserves much of the credit for the production’s vision.”
“Yes, I agree, but there are some things a director can’t do. Mouldain would say your performance ‘fiddles at the edge of his fingers,’ meaning he could half picture it, but he left the last pieces of his work to be completed by the ensemble.”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Hagen. Your commentary on our work is a high compliment indeed.”
“Well deserved, Ms. Gray. Tell me, where do you go after this? What project are you working on next?”
“A trip to LA is the only thing on my calendar. I’ll spend a week or so with my agent in Malibu. Sydney Bloom, do you know her?”
“No, I do not. Does she represent you in her own agency?”
“Sydney Bloom Talent,” I replied, the name unexpectedly sounding like a mom-and-pop charm school in the presence of Joseph Hagen.
He nodded. “Well, I hope that we shall meet again sometime, Miss Gray. It is Miss Gray, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I answered, thinking, For thirty-one consecutive years.
“I wanted to meet and tell you how much I sincerely enjoyed your performance.”
“The honor’s all mine.”
Joseph Hagen walked away, bringing to mind all those old black-and-white movies with fancy Hollywood cocktail parties and debonair movie moguls in ascots who always spoke in clever one-liners and were perpetually on the verge of breaking out in a dance routine on polished floor or wall. Some part of me expected Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart to walk in next.
But it wasn’t Bogey who entered my sight line at the far end of the ballroom. It was Avril. She wore a baby blue gown looking like a battered Cinderella at the ball. Matured by love’s betrayal, she had fallen down private rabbit holes, and I feared she might fall down one in front of everyone.
“Are you all right?” I asked, meeting her in the center of the ballroom. She practically floated to me. “Avril, honey, you look so frail.”
“I feel light,” she said, striking a smile that chimed with a hollow cheeriness.
“Let’s go home, Avril, and make some pasta. This gossamer world isn’t a place for us.”
Avril closed her eyes and opened her mouth to let out a roar of laughter, but nothing came out. There was no genuine humor inside her.
I poured Avril into a taxi that transported us back to the Village. Once we’d climbed three flights of stairs, I helped Avril inside the apartment and put her to bed. She was in no condition to be left alone, a matter that weighed heavily on me that night as I confirmed my ticket online to Los Angeles.
I’d need most of the next day to pack and ship my belongings. It wasn’t like I was moving West, but when I tried to picture my future, I couldn’t see myself coming back to New York.
I needed to say good-bye to Katie and David, and more than anything I wanted to have a long conversation with Luke.
Avril awoke around 11 p.m., and I coaxed her into eating some veggies and cottage cheese with me on the living room floor.
“Avril, I want you to come to California with me. You’re due some beach time. It will do you good.”
“I’m too tired to fly. It’s so far away.”
“We can both stay with Sydney. You don’t have your next acting gig lined up, which is a blessing because you need a vacation.”
“I’m slipping away, Harper,” Avril told me. It was the first time I considered that that might actually be true.
“In New York, yes. But when you come back home to California you’ll feel strong again.”
“What if I never come back, Harper? What if there isn’t any me to come back to?”
“I never told you this, except for what you heard that night at church, but last year my life fell out from under me. Sam left, I was out of work, out of money, and I was so down I even thought of taking my life. But there was this girl, a friend named Bella, who invited me to go to a church with her. You know, I was never that way, religious, churchgoer, whatever. But I believed the message the pastor told, and I prayed for God to rescue me, and He did.”
“I can’t go on like this,” she whispered, raising her knees to her chest.
“I know. I’m trying to get you to take one small step. Just come with me to California for a couple of weeks. You’ll see. It will do you a world of good.”
~ Twenty-one ~
The next morning I didn’t feel like going through the usual routine, coffee at Vibe, chatting with Luke online, especially since we’d moved on to cell phones. Call it nervous energy, but my head was spinning with things to do on my last day in New York before flying to the West Coast.
I ate breakfast at the island, sketching out a preflight to-do checklist and wrote out a check for next month’s rent, tucking it into the wicker organizer Avril dutifully kept on the granite counter. After taking care of my dishes, I packed up everything I owned into travel bags and took a quick shower.
I left the brownstone before Avril had roused, fighting my propensity to worry over her situation and weight loss. Instead, I walked down Bleecker Street to the nearest FBNY bank branch and closed my checking account, wiring the balance to my main bank in Anaheim, California.
What a difference in my financial picture. After coming to New York with nothing more than a maxed-out credit card, I now had almost eighty thousand dollars.
I called Katie’s cell number to see if she could meet me that afternoon for coffee. We’d seen each other at church every Sunday morning for the past six weeks, but I wanted to talk to her befo
re leaving New York. She didn’t pick up, so when the system bumped me over to voice mail, I left a message.
“Hey Katie, it’s Harper. I’m flying to Los Angeles tomorrow, maybe for good, and just wanted to know if you had time today for coffee. Give me a call.”
At the newsstand, I stopped to browse, thinking I’d pick up a magazine or paperback to read on the plane. I heard the muted ringing of my cell phone stuffed into my pocket and pulled it out to look at the number. It was local, but it wasn’t Avril or Katie. I placed the phone against my ear, turning away from the street noise to answer.
“Hello?”
“Harper Gray?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“This is Maureen Burns, I work for Helen Payne. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
I’d never been introduced to the steely woman, but I remembered the cold shadows she’d cast on the night she’d visited the Carney. “Yes, I’ve heard of you.”
“I expect you have. First, let me say congratulations, Harper, on your performance. Few actresses achieve that pinnacle of success in a lifetime. I’m sure it’s like having a crown placed on your head, isn’t it? Helen wanted you to know she has no hard feelings toward you for what happened. You were just doing what you were contracted to do.”
Talking to Maureen Burns felt like being questioned on a witness stand. I’d been on the phone with the woman less than a minute, and already I had a creepy feeling I’d regret it.
“How can I help you, Ms. Burns?”
“Cutting straight to the point. I like that. You understand time is money, so I’ll get to my point without wasting any of our time. Helen Payne would like to see you. She asked me as her agent and friend if I could get in contact with you.”
“Why does Helen want to see me?”
“I think that’s a private matter between the two of you. I’m sure I don’t know. Would you be free this evening?”
Screen Play Page 17
