by Connie Lacy
“Sam…”
But he kissed me again and began unbuttoning my shirt.
“Sam…” I protested.
But there was no resisting him.
*
“What do you mean, I have to audition?” I asked.
“It’s just a formality.”
We’d walked from the apartment to an Ethiopian restaurant around the corner called Desta, which Sam explained meant “happiness.”
“But I thought I’d already been cast.”
“You have, you have. Wipe that furrow from your brow,” he said, scooping his food with his flatbread.
“Annelle?”
“Shelby.”
“I thought you said you wanted me for the role of Annelle.”
“Well, at first I did. But this other girl auditioned and she was just perfect for Annelle. So you get the lead role. You’re not complaining, are you?”
“Shelby,” I said, and sipped my wine. Shelby was the character the play was centered around – the one who had diabetes, got married, had a baby and then died. It was a big role. A meaty role. It would look great on my resume.
“You come in tomorrow afternoon, you run through some lines and I make my choice official. Simple as that.”
He scooped up more of his Fish Tibs and pumped his eyebrows at me.
*
The Lyric Theatre was only about five blocks from the apartment in a converted brick elementary school from the 1940s, along with some non-profit organizations and a little art gallery. The stage itself was on the floor, with seats rising from it in a semi-circle. No curtains. No proscenium. Very intimate.
Two caskets sat at odd angles onstage, along with several flower arrangements and a small church pew. Funerals would wrap up the week before Steel Magnolias opened.
“You’ll love the set design for Magnolias,” he said, ushering me to the stage. “Pink. Lots of pink.”
“Do we have to use fakey southern accents?”
“Realistic southern accents would be better.”
“And do I have to wear big 1980s hair?”
He laughed loudly and called out to someone sitting in the third row.
“Barbara, this is Jenna. Jenna, this is Barbara McLeod, founder of the Lyric. She’s directed a lot of plays on this stage and acted in a good many of them too. And she’s the one who hired me as Artistic Director.”
She was a slender woman with short, silver hair, rectangular purple glasses and a matching purple outfit. Probably about seventy.
“So this is the young actress you delayed auditions for,” she said. “Better be worth it, Sam.”
“Don’t worry,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, smiling as friendly a smile as I could muster.
She ignored me, holding her phone to her ear.
“She’s here,” she said into the phone.
And then another woman appeared out of nowhere, tucking her own phone in her pocket.
“All righty then!” she bellowed, bounding onto the stage as Sam headed into the seats to sit beside Barbara.
“I’m Judy Phillips and you must be Jenna,” she said, shaking my hand vigorously.
She was a little taller than me, at least thirty pounds heavier than me and old enough to be my mother. Her long brunette hair was pulled up into a loose, messy chignon, with strands of hair dangling around her face. Her red lipstick matched the red top she was wearing over a pair of tight jeans.
“I’m M’lynn,” she explained, handing me a script and keeping one for herself. “We’re doing the ‘thirty minutes of wonderful’ scene. Page…”
“I don’t need the book.”
She wagged her head and gave Sam and Barbara a skeptical look.
But I was ready. Sam had prepped me and I was a quick study. So I turned away, closed my eyes and focused on all the frustration, confusion and pain I’d been feeling ever since my mother died. I thought of Dad, Meg, Tia and Alex. And I thought of little Daisy. I remembered all the depressing things I’d seen when I looked into their eyes. And I allowed myself to wallow in self-pity for a moment.
“Okay, let’s go,” Sam called out.
I faced Judy and nodded, keeping my eyes closed for a few more seconds. And then we ran the scene. I was feeling Shelby’s urgent need to convince her mother to support her choice to have a baby, to support the choices she wanted to make for her own life. And when I came to the line that defined her character, about how she’d rather have a few minutes of joy than a mundane life, tears rolled down my cheeks.
Judy’s eyes teared up looking into mine and then she hugged me.
“All right, all right, you get the part,” Barbara called out, like she’d been hoping I’d fall flat on my face. Then she said something to Sam in a low voice and made a quick exit through the lobby.
Sam joined us on the stage, beaming with satisfaction.
“I told you, didn’t I?” he said to Judy.
“Yeah, you told me, mister smart-ass. So, are we finally startin’ rehearsals?”
“Tomorrow night, seven o’clock sharp.”
“And don’t you worry about Barbara,” she said to me. “She played Clairee in the first production they did here way back whenever the hell it was, and then she directed another production of it ten, fifteen years ago, so she thinks she’s the be-all, end-all authority, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you know you’re missing an earring?” I said, pointing to her naked left ear.
“Shit,” she said, grabbing her earlobes. “These are the sand dollar earrings Hank gave me.” She looked around the stage for a moment and we did too. “Lordamercy. I coulda lost it at the mall, for all I know! Might have to go on eBay and find another pair so he won’t know. Damn!” And she zoomed out the same way she came in, calling over her shoulder, “Hasta ya’ll’s vista!”
Sam grinned.
“She’s a hoot,” he said, nodding in her direction. “Always losing something. Now, let’s go get some grub. What’re you in the mood for?”
“Well…”
“How about the best pizza this side of Jersey!”
I smiled as he grabbed my hand, guiding me toward the exit. It was a nice moment of inclusion, warmth and triumph. But unlike Shelby, I was positive I didn’t just want just “thirty minutes of wonderful.” There had to be more to life than that
16.
Heights had never bothered me. But then, I’d never climbed sixty feet in the air and crossed a flimsy, hanging footbridge before. And I’d never zoomed along a zipline or walked along a high wire from one tree to another. But that was Sam’s idea of a fun date. Of course, he didn’t tell me where we were going ahead of time. If he had, I would’ve told him no way. So he kept me in the dark as we drove west of Charlotte to an eco-tourist park overrun with Scout troops, families and young couples who wanted to be outdoorsy without having to train, buy supplies or travel to actual wilderness areas without guides to babysit their every move. But even with those babysitters helping us along, I was nearly paralyzed with fear.
Sam said it would be a great way to spend our day off from rehearsals, which had become tiresome. It’s not that the play was difficult or that my scenes were too challenging. It’s that Barbara insisted on being there. And she had an opinion on every scene, sometimes every line. She wanted to talk about each character’s feelings and motivations and back story. Judy said she was always like that, which is why the previous director left. I overheard Judy telling Sam one night as we were leaving our cramped rehearsal room that he should stand up to the “uppity old bitch” but he waved her off. Which meant rehearsals went on and on, and it took us forever to run our scenes. So getting away from it all was a good idea, although I would never have chosen a canopy tour.
“Come on!” he called out from the next platform.
Easy for him to say. He’d already traversed the swinging rope bridge, hardly pausing, unafraid of falling, unafraid of looking down.
“You do know you’ve got a harn
ess on, right?” he shouted.
True, but we were so high off the ground, it was dizzying. I stepped gingerly onto the first step, grasping the vertical ropes that held the bridge up. Sadly, I wasn’t the only one making the crossing. There was someone behind me and with each step he took, the whole contraption shimmied. Why had I let Sam talk me into this?
I forced myself to move forward, one step at a time. Unfortunately, I had to look down to find the next plank. I could feel the person behind me getting impatient with the slowpoke in front. Sam was laughing as he waited on the platform ahead of me. When I finally reached it, he pulled me to him, chuckling at my distress.
“God, you’re so timid up here,” he said. “And so gutsy on the ground.”
Just then a little girl reached the platform, looking proud of herself. She was maybe eight or ten years old. Unbelievable – that’s who was behind me. Her mother clambered onto the platform a moment later and listened as her daughter raved about how much fun it was and how she almost fell at one point. It was a high-pitched blow by blow, delivered with maximum enthusiasm.
“You ready for the zipline?” Sam asked, pulling me around the tree trunk to the other side of the platform.
One of the guides attached the hook from the little girl’s harness to the overhead wire and she leaped into the air, squealing with delight as she glided down the long wire to another platform in a distant tree. Her mother clapped her hands and hooted beside me, which only made my knees shake more. After the mom took off, Sam stepped forward.
“I’ll go first,” he said.
As he zoomed away from me, he leaned back for a moment, looking straight up into the branches above him, obviously soaking in the sensation of flying through the treetops.
We spent a couple of hours going from tree to tree on wires, ziplines and hanging bridges until my muscles were so sore I could hardly move. It’s not that I was out of shape exactly, although I admit workouts were few and far between the last couple of months, but I was so tense, my muscles were in knots. At any rate, when we finally descended again to terra firma I struggled to keep Sam from noticing I was a little gimpy.
“Was that a blast or what?” he gushed as we took our seats at a riverside restaurant.
I laughed.
“Makes me want to do the real thing, you know?” he said. “A canopy tour in Costa Rica. Whaddya think?”
“Mm-hm. Definitely.”
And he laughed, amused at my discomfort.
We had burgers and beer. Which helped, since I was starving. I ordered a second beer, the first one was so good. As we headed to the parking lot I thought maybe he should drive so I tossed him my keys.
“I’m not driving,” he said, tossing them back.
“Well, I’ve had a couple of beers and …”
“I don’t have a license.”
“You let it expire?”
“I’ve never had a license.” He shrugged and grinned. “I never learned how to drive.”
I stopped walking and stared at him.
“And I have to admit it kind of scares me,” he said.
“But you’re so ‘gutsy’ up in the air.”
“Good one. By the way, what’s with that banged up bumper?”
I groaned at the memory of backing into Dad’s car at the gas station. I kept meaning to have the damage repaired but couldn’t seem to find the time.
I drove us home, considering the irony. Sam, the fearless one, the thrill-seeker, was scared to drive a car. It was hard for me to imagine being fearful of driving. I didn’t even think about it. My body seemed to drive the car automatically, my foot and leg adjusting the gas pedal and brake instinctively, my hands turning the steering wheel without my having to think about it. In fact, the car was like an extension of my body, which was an extension of my brain. How could a grown man be intimidated by driving? A man who was obviously not a timid person in any way.
“What’s it like living in New York?” I asked.
“You’d love it. Lots to do. Always lots to do.”
“And you take the subway everywhere?”
“Or the bus. Or just hoof it. Or take a cab. You’ve heard of taxis, right?”
I chuckled.
“Seriously, you ever taken a cab?” he said.
“Of course, I’ve taken a cab.”
“When?”
“Well… when I visited New York when I was in high school… from the airport to the hotel.”
“Impressive.”
I shot him the bird.
“So you want to get back to New York?” I said.
“Yep. Just building my resume, looking for opportunities. I’m flying up in a couple of weeks to meet someone at a theater in Brooklyn. It’s what they call ‘way the hell off Broadway.’” And he laughed.
“But you’ve only been here…”
“It’s not a sure thing. I may be here a while. But if there’s an opportunity in New York…”
My eyes were on the road but I could feel him watching me.
“Maybe you might wanna come too,” he said.
Which was a scary thought.
*
The night of dress rehearsal, we were all a little nervous except for Sam. Barbara only stayed a few minutes because she had to go to some kind of gala. She made a few quick suggestions about our costumes and makeup and hurried off, wearing an expensive, sparkly black dress. It was a relief to see her go.
The scenes flowed nicely, I thought. We were all getting into character. I figured the opening night adrenaline would fill in the rest. Having an audience made all the difference for me. We ironed out a couple of minor kinks and wrapped up about 11:30 to applause and whistles from the front row. That’s where Sam was sitting.
“I’d say we’re ready,” he said. “Great show, ladies!”
“Don’t you call me no lady,” Judy shot back. “No need insultin’ me like that!”
Everyone laughed.
Sam and I were both in high spirits on our walk home. I was feeling the vibe of our little section of town – the music oozing from the country bar, the spicy aroma wafting from the Ethiopian restaurant and the conversation of people sitting at the outdoor tables as we walked by.
“You know what I’m hungry for?” he said, putting his hand on my waist.
“God, you’re insatiable,” I said, giggling as he kissed my neck and squeezed my butt.
As soon as we were inside the apartment he kissed me as he dropped my top on the floor, leading me to his bedroom. He unhooked my bra and tossed it to the other side of the room and tugged my pants down. Then he pulled me onto his bed, making quick work of his own clothes. It was like he was trying to consume me. It was not romantic lovemaking, that’s for sure. And when he was finally spent, he threw himself on his back, panting.
“God, you are like a fresh, tree-ripened peach in July,” he whispered.
I rose from the bed but winced when something on the floor poked the tender arch of my right foot. It was small and shiny, reflecting the light from the bedside lamp. I reached down and picked it up. It was a sand dollar earring.
17.
Hammering. I covered my ears but the thudding continued. It was Sam beating on my door. I forced my eyes open and squinted at the clock. It said 2:34 and I wondered what the hell he was doing waking me up in the middle of the night. But sunshine was filtering through the curtains and I realized it was 2:34 in the afternoon. He was shouting now, asking me if I was all right. I remembered locking my door when I came to bed because I didn’t want him sneaking in my room while I was asleep. I’d brought the bourbon, the mixer and a glass with me.
“Jenna, I’m calling the paramedics if you don’t answer me,” he yelled, rattling the doorknob.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled. But my voice caught in my throat. I tried again: “I’m okay.”
“Well, unlock the damn door, how ‘bout it?”
I sat up slowly, knowing my head would swim. And it did. As much as I didn’t want to, I was going
to have to make a dash for the bathroom. I pulled on my blue kimono and opened the door, not bothering to look at him as I hurried to the john. I threw up first, peed second, brushed my teeth third and then took a long shower.
My emotions were all jumbled. I cared and I didn’t care. Part of me was jealous. Finding Judy’s earring in Sam’s bedroom infuriated me. It was kind of like discovering a revolting worm in a juicy apple when you were halfway through eating it. And imagining them together on the same bed made me feel low class. Had they continued having sex after I got here? On the other hand, why should I care? One of the things that drew me to him, ironically, was that I didn’t love him. And every time I felt like I might be leaning in that direction, something happened to help me maintain my emotional distance. I never had to worry about seeing his future when I looked in his eyes. And it was a relief being able to talk with him and look at him. But there was a part of me that wanted to love him. Or, at least, wanted to love someone, to have an emotional connection with someone who loved me. I missed having someone truly care for me. Because I wasn’t sure how Sam felt. He liked being with me. And he sure as hell liked having sex with me. He told me I was a good actress and even talked about taking me with him to New York. And sometimes that was enough. But sometimes, like right now, I craved so much more.
*
Peeking through the peephole before the show, I could see lots of grey hair in the audience. Which made me think Barbara might be onto something in her eclectic choices – something for everyone. Probably helped with donations and support. The next show was a bittersweet, offbeat comedy. Sam said I should audition for the role of the Goth girl who falls for a teenage Elvis impersonator.
I’d gotten into costume and makeup quickly, fixing my long wig so the brown locks hung on my shoulders. I positioned myself at the other end of the dressing room from Judy. Suddenly, she wasn’t funny anymore. Her homespun, country girl persona now seemed like a total put-on. I hadn’t decided what to do with her earring. Maybe it was better not to mention it at all. Like she said, she could get another pair so she wouldn’t have to tell her husband she’d lost it while screwing her young director.
