She stood there, stupid with nerves. Her hands clenched in front of her chest as if ready to catch her heart if it leaped out of her rib cage.
“Hello, Miss McNeal,” Hettie Longmere said warmly, a smile creasing her round face.
“Welcome back,” Andrew chimed in.
Reg didn’t say anything.
Addie’s insides contracted. She’d really thought he’d be happy to see her. Why wasn’t he? For a moment, she couldn’t remember anything she’d been about to say.
Thankfully, Meg Turner interjected, “I’ve asked Miss McNeal to make some suggestions for the scene. If you don’t mind?”
Andrew shrugged. “Fire away. Anything goes at this point.”
Addie's gaze jumped to Reg and away again. His face was emotionless. What was that about? Did he still think she was someone from a vaudeville house trying to worm her way into his mother’s theater? Ignore him, she told herself. Concentrate. She stood up straighter, gathering her nerve. “All right.” Her voice sounded strange to her. “I think ... that is, you need—you need to think more about where Peer has just found himself. He’s in the underworld, the kingdom of the trolls, where nothing is what it seems.”
They listened politely, but they already knew all this. Of course they did, she thought. They were professionals. Professionals would know the script.
She forced herself to continue. “So when you’re in this scene, it’s like ... everyone is living sort of this delusion.” God, I barely sound literate! She made herself slow down and speak in full sentences. “Every troll has a mote in his eye that lets him taste the sour wine as sweet, see the troll hags as gorgeous maidens, and the trolls’ disgusting behavior as ... I don’t know ... court etiquette.” She could feel herself gaining momentum. “But Peer’s human. He’s able to be fooled, but he’s also got the ability to question. So he should be half hoodwinked and half aware.” She dared to look around at the actors, fearing their boredom. But then she caught a glimmer of interest in Reg’s eye, and she said, more decisively, “I think the trolls really have to be trolls. You look too nice, all of you. Too smooth and polite. Trolls need to be much more...”
She was going to say gross, but she knew it wasn’t a word they’d understand.
“Offensive?” Reg suggested.
Addie looked away quickly. “Maybe. Disgusting? Abrasive? I mean, Reg should laugh at his own jokes, slap his thigh and guffaw like a buffoon. But a threatening one.” She turned to Andrew. “And Peer should join in. He can mug to the audience to show he knows how obscene it all is, but then be sort of seduced by it, too.”
She turned to the piano player. “And you need to make that waltz wilder.”
“Wilder?” Peter plunked out a faster version of the same music. “Like that?”
“Maybe.... Try it and see, but the dance has to change. Andrew and Miss Longmere are dancing too well. Do you know what I mean? You should ... you should sweep along gracefully—that's when Peers hoodwinked by the enchantment of the trolls, and sees you as a beauty—but then, Andrew, you can blink and see her as she really is. Then, Miss Longmere, you need to slow down and plod awkwardly, right? He’s just discovered you’re not a princess, you’re a troll!”
“Men always discover that about me,” the actress joked, and Addie instantly loved her for it. “So I dance like a princess, and then a troll, and then back again? Can you show me?”
“Well ... I’m not very good.” But when she glanced over at Meg Turner, she knew she had to.
Andrew held out his arm. Gritting her teeth, Addie stepped into position. “All right!” she cued Peter, who turned back to the keys and swooped into a waltz.
Andrew spun her around and she did her best to float along with him. She’d never waltzed, but it took surprisingly little effort. “Okay,” she called over her shoulder to Hettie. “So, three turns like this, and then”—she hunched her shoulders and slouched against Andrew—“look disconcerted,” she stage-whispered, and Andrew pulled a terrific face that made Addie laugh. “Now hustle me back up into princess form.”
“You mean, pull you up...”
“Jerk me to my feet. You can make it funnier as you practice it.”
Andrew yanked her up by the waist. Addie flopped over his arm like a rag doll.
“That’s it!” she cried, pleased.
Hettie Longmere clapped her hands.
They stopped. “What do you think?” Addie called out to Meg in the audience.
“Brava!” Meg called. “Now what?”
“Well—” Addie looked up and saw Reg watching her. His expression seemed a fraction warmer. Maybe because he could see she was serious about this, not a fake or whatever he had been thinking. She returned his look and found herself smiling, just because it was so good to see him.
Slowly, he smiled back. Addie looked away to hide the color that shot into her cheeks. Then she turned to the rest of the actors with a sudden burst of confidence. “The music should get wilder, and the whole cast should join in. Doesn’t Peer have a line soon about a cow strumming a lyre, and a cat, or a—”
“A sow,” Reg broke in. Even he was starting to sound enthusiastic.
“That’s right. A sow dancing! So the whole scene should get out of control, and Peer should get scared. It’s real troll land now.” She frowned. “I’m not sure the waltz is right for that. Any other ideas?”
“A mazurka?” Peter suggested.
“What about the Grieg I’ve got?” Meg called from the audience, waving the score. “It was written for Peer Gynt, after all.”
Peter frowned. “No. Something Scandinavian.”
“Grieg is Scandinavian!”
“But his music is so ominous! I mean more like a folk dance. Something from a peasant wedding.” He plunked out a chord or two. “Needs a fiddle,” he complained. He attacked the keys again, stopped, thought a moment, and then snapped his fingers. “All right. Try this. Ready?”
“Sure,” Addie said. Peter swung into a wild polka, and she and Andrew launched themselves back into the dance. But it still didn’t work. They were lagging, and the music was accelerating.
“It’s better, but still not right.”
“We can go faster,” Andrew suggested.
They tried to speed up, but Addie stumbled, and not to bring out the troll nature of the princess. It was a real stumble.
“Too many beats?” she asked in frustration.
“Possibly,” Peter said.
“I think I know,” Reg broke in suddenly. “Let me show you. Do you mind, Andrew?”
Reg was smiling at her, really smiling now, as he took her hand out of Andrew’s and pulled her other arm around his waist. Then the music began again and he spun her across the stage, half jumping, half twirling in time with the wild melody. Addie raced to follow. At first she felt hopeless, like a klutz, but then she caught the rhythm of it and she was able to match his steps, heart thumping, feet flailing.
Both of them were laughing simply for the joy of it. Under the bright worklights, Addie noticed how blue his eyes were, as blue as the lake on a day of sun and wind. It felt as though the only thing anchoring her to the stage was his hand firm on her waist, pressing the thin fabric of the dress. It was the most wonderful feeling—the breathlessness, the warmth where their hands met, the slap as their feet touched down on the beat and flew up again.
Out of the corner of her eye, Addie saw Andrew grab Hettie and swing her into the dance. The others joined in. The whole stage came alive with the thumping of their feet. And the harder they thumped, the better it sounded. In her mind’s eye, Addie could see the set swirling with dancers, could hear the stage ringing with stamping feet, and she knew this would be the scene everyone remembered.
The dance crashed to a conclusion. She and Reg whirled one last time and came to a halt, his hand still on her waist, their raised hands still clasped.
And then there was a burst of out-of-breath laughter and clapping, and Peter spun around on his bench shaking his
long hands and crying, “Ow! That’s stretched my poor fingers more than a week of ragtime!”
Meg Turner had climbed up onto the stage with the rest of them. Addie dropped Reg’s hand and met the director’s long, considering gaze.
“Not bad.” Meg Turner nodded.
“Thanks,” Addie managed to say, catching her breath.
Meg cocked her head. “You’ve got a job, if you want it. And if you work hard, Miss McNeal, someday you’ll be sitting in my spot.” She grinned as wickedly as ever. “But remember: I don’t intend to give up my place at the Jewel until they put me in the ground!”
21. Tin Lizzie
They fiddled around with Peer Gynt for another hour, and then Meg declared that she needed to rest before tonight’s rehearsal. As soon as everyone started to disperse, Reg grabbed Addie's arm. “Come on, lets get out of here. You need to breathe something that isn’t actors’ hot air. That can be lethal.” He put a hand to her forehead in mock concern. “It’s affecting you already. You look dazed.”
“I’m not dazed!” Drunk with excitement, maybe. Dizzy with delight. She was so happy she hardly knew what to do with herself, and yet she suddenly felt she could do anything. Without a second thought, she followed him down the stairs and along the corridor to the back door.
Reg opened it and let her through first. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
Her head felt light. She paced back and forth on the loading dock, peering up at the nearly century-younger sky. It must have rained earlier. The air seemed washed and dazzling, and there were just a few tattered clouds lingering in the east. Even the alley smelled different, no longer reeking of pee and stale beer. The bins were piled high with garbage. She could detect rotting cabbage, coffee grounds, and a faint, delectable smell of baking wafting from the kitchen in the apartment. And beneath it all, the pungent smell of horse manure.
Reg emerged from the theater and handed her a greentinted glass. “Early-crop cider. You’d better drink it before you get brain fever from all that dancing and pontificating.”
Addie sank down onto the top step and gulped the cider, surprised at how thirsty she was. “I wasn’t pontificating!”
“Isn’t that what directors do?” Reg asked innocently.
She ignored his teasing. “Listen, I’ve just realized something.” And it came to her that of all the people in the world, Reg was the one she had to tell this to.
“So have I.” He lowered himself onto the step below hers. “But tell yours first.”
She put her glass down. “I’ve realized—” She stopped and gave him a quizzical look, suddenly struck by the oddness of his appearance. He’d thrown on a jacket and buttoned one side of a collar onto his shirt and then forgotten about it. The other side was springing out at a right angle to his neck. “Do you know your collar’s sticking up?” She made as if to button it for him. He slid closer to her, and she dropped her hands, suddenly shy.
He met her eyes in amusement and buttoned the collar himself. “What have you realized, Addie?”
It was the first time he’d called her by her given name, she realized, astonished by the rush of pleasure she felt at such a small thing. “I auditioned for a part in Peer Gynt with ... a nother troupe. And I didn’t get it. Did I tell you that?”
“What part?”
“The troll king’s daughter.”
“Ha! You’re joking. The Green-Clad One? Wraithlike creature of the shadows ... Why in the world didn’t you get it? You’d be perfect.”
“Yes, but the director didn’t think so.” She turned it over in her head for a moment. “And it really gnawed at me. I felt like I’d been cheated out of something. But, now I think ... I wasn’t. Not really.” She hesitated, not wanting to remind him of the mirror. But it couldn’t be helped. She wanted to explain. “Do you remember the first time I saw you acting? In Macbeth? I knew then. I just knew I would never be as good as you were.”
“What are you talking about?” He sat up straighter and somehow it was as if he’d moved away from her.
“Come on, Reg!” she exclaimed. “You’re a real actor. You must know that. Everyone else does.” Her voice softened. “I do.”
“Maybe,” he said uncomfortably. He picked up her empty glass and rolled it between his hands so it caught the light. “Though it’s too ... easy. And even if I am,” he gave his head a dismissive shake, “why would it mean you’re not?”
“Don’t you see? I thought I was. But I don’t anymore. Because when Meg put me in charge just now”—a rush of excitement caught her. “I belonged there!” The echo of the words from her dream of the troll king made her laugh in sudden delight. “I’m a ... director.” She said the word softly, tasting it in her mouth. Then, more firmly, added, “That’s what I am.”
“A director?” He craned his neck and pretended to scrutinize her from different angles. “Ah yes, I can see it, now that you mention it. Commanding. Dictatorial...”
“Oh, thanks!”
“You’re welcome.” He bowed slightly and put the glass down on the concrete. “So, now that you’re Meg’s disciple, what’s next? Long scarves? Painting your face?”
“She’s just dramatizing herself. Maybe I’ll do the same when I’m in her position.”
“Don’t bother with the face paint.” He put his head to one side. “Why try to improve what nature did right the first time?”
That shut her up.
After a moment, she reached out and lightly touched the lapel of his jacket. Her fingertips brushed the rough interlocking tweed. She wanted to touch his smooth black hair, his earlobe, the warmth of his neck, but the moment was too delicate. She held back, savoring it, wanting only to be anchored in the here and now, not aware of any other time.
He reached out and took her hand, curling his fingers around hers. She looked away, and the desire to tell him absolutely everything was suddenly overwhelming.
But then he let go of her hand and the moment was gone. “Can I ask you something?”
“Maybe.”
“Why do you disappear and reappear all the time, like Hamlet’s father’s ghost?”
“I—” What had she told Meg? Oh, she didn’t know. Somehow she felt he wouldn’t buy some made-up excuse.
He frowned. “It shouldn’t be that hard to answer. You were here when the police came, and then suddenly you were gone. No one knew where. And I still have no idea where you live.”
“I told you where,” she protested, but she knew she was being disingenuous. He deserved some sort of explanation.
“Do you live with anyone? Other than that fellow you mentioned?”
“What fellow? Whaley? I’m not living with him like”—she groped for a phrase he’d understand—“like living in sin or something. He’s more of a ... foster brother.” All right, she thought. If she was careful, she could tell him at least some of the truth. “I have a real brother, too. A lot younger. He’s ten. And a father. He runs a bookstore,” she added, as if this would make him more real to Reg.
“What about your mother?”
“She died a long time ago.” Oh, it felt strange to tell him this. It flashed into her head that her mother hadn’t even been born yet. From this point in time, she still had her whole life to live.... Oh, my God. She caught herself, too scared to continue that train of thought.
“Me, too. My dad died when I was twelve.” Reg looked away, his dark eyes focused on something at the other end of the alley. “But he’s still here, all the time. Still real to me.”
For a few seconds neither of them spoke. But it was a good silence. Not awkward.
Then, after a moment, Reg said, “Last question. What about that mirror of yours?”
Addie pressed her hands against her temples. “No. I can’t answer that. I barely know myself. But I’m not ... I’m not a charlatan or whatever you thought I was. You can see that, can’t you?”
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. That was pretty caddish. I’m just not used to occult visitat
ions.” He grinned. “Unless that’s what you are. Then maybe I could get used to it.”
She smiled back, then the memory jolted her. “Occult visitations! I ... I think I had one. At the jail.”
“The jail? What were you doing there?”
“Trying to get Whaley out of the lockup. There was a demonstration against the war—”Oops.
But Reg only looked amused. “Why is everyone I meet nowadays some sort of mad radical?”
“I’m not! I just don’t believe in this war.” She paused. “You’re not still going to go fight, are you?”
Reg shrugged. “It’s out of my hands, isn’t it? The conscription bills already in the House. I expect I’ll be hearing from Uncle Sam soon enough.”
Addie stared at him. Conscription? A draft? That hadn’t occurred to her. No one got drafted anymore, she thought. No one even talked about it.
“Though I still might enlist under my own steam,” he added. “But that’s neither here nor there. Tell me what happened at the jail.”
A black crow swooped down into the alley, cawing, and perched on the edge of an open garbage can. Addie watched it, uneasily. “I was there for ages, waiting to bail Whaley out. And I had this ... dream. About you.”
“You dreamed about me?” He took a lock of her hair and rolled it between his fingers. Addie pretended not to notice, though for a moment it felt as if her whole being was concentrated on the slow twisting of his thumb and forefinger on that one coil of hair.
“It’s my turn to ask the questions.” She pressed on, trying to keep her focus. “Did you interview those men in jail?”
“Yes.” He glanced over his shoulder. “It was true what Gustaf said. The sheriffs men fired first. The fellows in prison confirmed that. The dockworkers in Everett did, too.”
Now Addie looked over her shoulder as well. Behind them, the kitchen window in the apartment was cracked open. The yeasty smell of baking was even stronger than before. She dropped her voice. “What will happen to Frida’s dad?”
“We’re going to have to move him. It’s not safe here.” He looked thoughtful. “Actually, I think Peterson might have made a mistake, running. His buddy’s trial is going to end soon—Tom Tracy’s. If he’s convicted, the other fellows are likely to be as well. But the IWW lawyer is pretty good. People are talking acquittal. Even if the other fellows get off, though Gustaf can’t come out of hiding and get acquitted with them. I think he’s shot himself in the foot, really.” He shook his head. “All we can do is make sure he gets safely out of town.”
The Jewel and the Key Page 21
