They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I—I can’t do it, Laura.”

  “Of course you can. Let me help you dress.”

  I stood up like a zombie, and Laura took down the exquisite ball gown Dulcie had done up for Cora. It was pale pink satin, overlaid with a paler pink tulle embroidered with delicate white and silver flowers. I stepped into it and put my arms through the puffed sleeves, and Laura fastened it up in back. The bodice still didn’t feel right. It felt loose on the left side. Dulcie had let it out twice. The last time she had let it out too much, I thought. My bosom was half-exposed, and the cloth didn’t cling to my left breast as it should have done.

  “The dress doesn’t fit,” I said.

  “If fits fine. You look positively glorious.”

  “If Cora is so sweet and virginal, why would she be wearing such a low-cut gown?”

  “For the paying customers, love. Here, let me put your hair up. Sit down and hand me the hairpins. Really, Dana, you should already have done this. If Jason knew you weren’t ready he’d have conniptions.”

  “He’ll have conniptions anyway when I ruin his rotten play.”

  “It is rather rotten, I’ve always said so, but the yokels do love thundering melodrama. There. Perfect. Let me just fasten this spray of white flowers above your temple.”

  “What—what’s that terrible noise?”

  “The audience, love, applauding the end of Act One. They adored it. Carmelita was so grand and affected you wanted to boot her backside, but they like her that way. Michael was good—I hate to admit it, love, but he really is good, he really can act. I was marvelous, of course, and you should have heard them hissing Billy.”

  “Was he that bad?”

  “He was that good. They always hiss the villain. He’s in fine form tonight, has three local belles meeting him at the stage door after the show. I have no idea how he’s going to manage all three.”

  “He’s young,” I said dryly.

  Laura stepped back, looking at me admiringly. I stood up and tried to adjust the bodice of my gown. It didn’t look wrong, I saw in the mirror, but it still felt loose on the left side.

  “You might apply just a touch of lip rouge,” Laura said, “You don’t need any other makeup. Dark pink. Here, use this.”

  I applied it, feeling like death. She wasn’t going to let me get away. I finished rouging my lips and looked at her with stoic resignation.

  “We’d better get out to the wings,” she said. “I have plenty of time to change. I don’t appear again until the middle of Act Three when Hugh discovers I’m double-crossing him and stabs me to death. How’s the stomach?”

  “Still doing cartwheels.”

  “You’ll be fine once you go on.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We left the dressing room and moved down the narrow, dusty corridor toward the wings. I was still numb with terror. Marie Antoinette must have felt like this on her way to the guillotine, I thought, stepping over a coil of rope. My heart seemed to have stopped beating. I seemed to be walking in my sleep. The backstage area was dimly lighted. The curtain was down, and on the stage several brawny crew members were quickly, efficiently moving scenery and pulling up a new backdrop showing the antechamber in Lord Roderick’s castle. Jackson was supervising things, a cigar clamped between his teeth, and Jason Donovan was in the wings, talking to our leading lady in a low voice. Neither of them looked up as Laura and I approached.

  Carmelita was tall and statuesque—just short of stout—with very glossy pale blond hair and heavy-lidded blue eyes and a small, petulant mouth. Rather lovely with her high cheekbones and straight nose and creamy smooth complexion, the thirty-seven-year-old actress born in Biloxi, Mississippi, had the hauteur and arrogance of an English duchess. She kept herself aloof from everyone else in the company and was disliked by all, but, as Laura grudgingly admitted, she was a strong drawing card. Begowned now in pale gold satin, false pearls about her throat and woven through her elaborate coiffure, she told Jason in no uncertain terms that she would not abide something or other and then stalked grandly past us and across the stage, almost colliding with a crewman who was setting up one of the towering “marble” columns. Her dressing room, the only decent one, was on the other side of the theater. Jason looked as though he longed to whip out a gun and shoot her in the skull.

  “Problems?” Laura asked sweetly as he came over to us.

  “She wants curtains and a carpet in her dressing room. I told her we were only going to be here four nights and it was out of the question. She says she won’t go on tomorrow night unless she has them.”

  “So where are you going to find the curtains and carpet, love?”

  “Jackson will see to it. He always manages somehow.”

  “One day you’ll get smart and get a new leading lady instead,” Laura told him. “She’s not that big a draw.”

  Jason ignored her and scrutinized me carefully, looking for flaws. I felt the same resentment I had felt toward him from the first. The man didn’t like me and treated me like I was a pariah whose presence he was forced to tolerate. He hadn’t spoken a civil word to me in all this time. Come to think of it, he had hardly spoken a civil word to anyone. Quirky black eyebrows hovering above those intense, critical green-gray eyes, his mouth curling up at one corner, he finished his scrutiny and gave an exasperated sigh.

  “You look scared to death,” he rasped.

  “I am,” I said.

  “An actress with your extensive experience should be accustomed to opening nights.” There was undeniable sarcasm in his light yet guttural voice. “They aren’t going to stone you. Even if you botch it, they’ll get their money’s worth just looking at you.”

  “I have no intention of botching it,” I said icily.

  “Good. You do and I’ll stone you.”

  He marched off then, leaving me incensed. I longed to whip out a gun and shoot him in the skull. It was a good thing Michael kept his six-shooter safely packed away. Laura observed my anger and smiled.

  “Jason does have a way of riling people when he’s under pressure,” she remarked, “but he’s much nicer once we’re really under way. Don’t let it get to you, love. He did pay you a lovely compliment.”

  “That was a compliment?”

  “They’d get their money’s worth if you didn’t do anything but stand out in front of the footlights. He knows it. He admitted it. Even if you couldn’t act, you’d still be an asset to the company.”

  “If I’m going to do this, I want to do it well.”

  “And you will, love. Just remember what Ollie taught you.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Ollie inquired, joining us in the wings.

  She was still wearing the plum velvet gown and glittery paste diamonds she wore in Act One as Lord Roderick’s imperious mother. A paste tiara was affixed atop her blazing red coiffure. Her sagging old face was vividly painted, rouge covering the withered cheeks, heavy mauve shadow on the paper-thin lids.

  “I’ve only a moment,” she said. “I have to change. I go on again right after Billy abducts you, and that black lace ball gown is hell to get into. You look sublime, duckie.”

  “I feel wretched.”

  “Perfectly natural,” she informed me in a crisp voice. “I’d be worried if you weren’t nervous. You were excellent last night at dress rehearsal, just a mite too self-effacing. Make them aware of you, duckie. Presence! That’s the key.”

  “Presence,” I said.

  “Remember to speak in a natural voice but loud enough for them to hear you in the last row of the balcony. Project your voice. Fascinate them, duckie. Make them love you.”

  “That should be a snap,” I said.

  Ollie chuckled and gently patted my arm. “And remember, duckie, it’s only a silly melodrama in a backwater town, and no one out there is going to know if you’re good or not. These simpletons actually believe Carmelita can act, and we all know she’s a deplorable ham. Give it your best, duckie. You’re going to dazzle them.”

&nb
sp; She gave me a tight hug and then moved off toward the dressing rooms. The crew had finished setting everything up, and the backdrop was in place. Beyond the mothy old purple velvet curtain with its tarnished gold fringe the audience had returned to their seats and were making restless noises. Jackson came over to us, looked me up and down with stern eyes and then nodded his approval. Removing the cigar from his mouth, he told me I was going to be fine, just fine.

  “Thank you, Jackson,” I said.

  “Carmelita would like to see you fall flat on your ass.”

  “I know.”

  “Disappoint her,” he ordered.

  “I—I’ll try.”

  Billy joined us then, looking very unlike Billy in dark makeup, black wig and sinister black mustache, but his brown eyes were as merry as ever. A grin spread on his lips as he looked me over.

  “Hey, you look scrumptious in that gown. Why didn’t I notice last night?”

  “You weren’t noticing much of anything last night,” Laura told him. “You were preoccupied with your belles.”

  “Charmin’ lasses, but I’d throw ’em all over for you, Dana. Why don’t you and I forget this wretched play and slip off and make mad, passionate love?”

  “If I believed for one minute you were serious I’d actually take you up on that offer.”

  “My irresistible charm has finally gotten to you?”

  “I’m terrified,” I confessed.

  “No need to be, poppet. I’ll be there to help you out. Three minutes before curtain. I’d better take my place.”

  He sauntered blithely across the stage in his handsome formal wear and the long, swirling black cape lined with white satin, gave us a wave and stepped behind one of the four fake marble columns. They were turning down the lamps out in front. The audience grew quiet. Jackson gave a curt nod. One of the stage crew stepped over to the huge ropes, ready to lift the curtain. I froze. Laura gave my hand a tight squeeze. This is it, I told myself. I can’t remember a single line. I can’t move. I’ll never be able to do it. The man began to pull the ropes. The curtain slowly raised with a creaking rumble. The stage extended out in a semicircle, footlights burning brightly, revealing the backdrop and the huge columns and Billy crouching behind one of them. Laura let go of my hand.

  “Good luck, love,” she whispered.

  I couldn’t move. She gave me a little shove. I walked onto the stage and I was aware of the flickering footlights and a large moth fluttering around one of them and the yawning blackness beyond filled with small, blurry moons, faces, people staring. I stopped. I was going to faint. I could feel the force of hundreds and hundreds of eyes on me and I heard whispers. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the moth singe itself against the hot glass and drop. Time stood still. You can’t let them down, I told myself. You can’t. You’re not Dana. You’re Cora, pure and virginal, and you’re in the antechamber of your father’s castle. Move your ass. You’re Cora. My heart was pounding, but I moved slowly past the first column, pure and virginal, just back from the convent. Billy stepped out from behind the second column, long cape swirling, and I managed to look surprised.

  “Who—who are you?” I inquired.

  Project your voice. Make them aware of you.

  “Are you one of my father’s friends?” Cora asked.

  Her voice was mildly curious, and it could be heard in the last row of the balcony. Presence. Presence. A curious transformation came over me. I could feel the magic happening. I was Cora. Fear melted. Confidence came. Billy stroked his waxed black mustache and gave a deep chuckle.

  “I’d hardly say that, my beauty,” he rumbled.

  Cora stepped back, vaguely alarmed by his manner. She was as innocent as a lamb and as naive as they came, but she sensed something evil in this man and trembled slightly. Hugh moved closer, stroking his mustache again. The audience hissed.

  “I—I’d better join the others,” Cora said tremulously.

  “Not just yet, my little beauty. You and I have an engagement.”

  He told me who he was and what he planned to do and I told him he was mad, told him he would never get away with it, and Dana was entirely forgotten and I was Cora, feeling what she felt, reacting as she would react, and Billy grabbed my wrist and he was the evil Hugh and I cried out and tried to pull away and it was going beautifully and I felt cloth slipping, sliding and my left breast was suddenly exposed, full and firm and bathed with light, the nipple extended like a small pink rosebud. I heard gasps from the audience. Billy turned pale beneath his makeup. I thought he was going to faint. There were more gasps and a titter of laughter and, from the back of the house, a loud whistle. I looked at the audience, shook my head and calmly tucked my breast back into my bodice. Silence. Then thunderous applause filled the theater.

  “You’ve got ’em, poppet,” Billy whispered. “From here on out, they’re in the palm of your hand.”

  The applause died down at last and Cora struggled and Hugh overpowered her and she pleaded and Bartholomew came rushing onstage as Lord Roderick’s butler and shouted, “Unhand her, you villain!” and Hugh shoved Cora aside and delivered a powerful blow to the butler’s jaw and the butler reeled and almost fell, then recovered and delivered a blow himself. Cora leaned against one of the columns breathing heavily as the two men fought. The audience seemed to be more interested in her breathing than in the fight. The butler was finally felled with a vicious kick and Cora cried out and tried to flee and Hugh caught her and slapped a palm over her mouth and drug her off the stage.

  “Good show!” Michael whispered, grinning broadly.

  He was standing in the wings with Laura and Jackson and Jason and Carmelita and a horrified Dulcie. He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and then hurried out onstage to discover his fallen butler and sound the alarm. Carmelita was glaring daggers at me. She started to say something, but Jason gave her a warning look. She was wearing peach satin now, false diamonds in her hair and around her throat. She fumed and drew herself up and then moved grandly out onstage to ask her fiancé what all the commotion was about. Jason gave me a long, thoughtful look but made no comment. Billy gave a sigh of relief and wiped his brow, than hugged me so tightly I thought my ribs would crack. Dulcie and Laura led me away to the dressing room, Dulcie clucking and fussing and telling me she’d have to take at least three more tucks in the bodice.

  I removed the ball gown and stood in my petticoat while Dulcie made the necessary tucks and Laura changed for her next scene. I felt a curious sense of triumph. I had done it, I had become Cora, and there had been an accident and I hadn’t fallen to pieces, I had handled myself with aplomb. The audience hadn’t turned on me, they had been on my side, and I had felt their approval pouring over the footlights along with the thundering applause. I could do it. I could act. Ollie rushed in to congratulate me and said Carmelita was in a rage and vowing to get me, and Dulcie helped me back into the ball gown, and Ollie hurried back to the wings for her next scene.

  “I wonder how Carmelita intends to ‘get’ me?” I inquired.

  “The last act,” Laura said, “the final scene when you have been rescued and you and Angela are in the antechamber and you give your little speech telling her all your reasons for deciding to return to the convent. She plans to upstage you, love. She’ll pull every trick in the book.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’ll do everything she can to distract the audience. They’ll be watching her and won’t hear a word you say.”

  “We’ll see,” I said grimly.

  The audience applauded when the curtain rose on Act Three to find me wringing my hands and pacing up and down in a basement room in Hugh Northcliff’s London house. They hissed and booed when Hugh came in with a tray of food which I refused. Hugh stroked his mustache and leered and I pleaded with him to let me go and he laughed and leered some more and told me I was a tasty little beauty, he just might have himself a bonus. I turned pale, realizing what he meant to do. I told him about the convent and my life there and told hi
m there was good in everyone and there must be good in him too and he must give up his evil ways and not do this. He laughed and lunged at me and said the world was wicked and I might as well stop prattling and give in. He caught me up in his arms, swung me around and kissed me and I pounded on his chest with my fists and he carried me over to the single cot and threw me down and loomed over me and the basement door burst open and Lord Roderick came charging in with a pistol and Hugh tried to wrest it away from him and it went off and Hugh crumpled to the floor with a dramatic swirling of his cape. Lord Roderick folded me to him and I sobbed and he led me out the door and into the wings.

  “Fantastic, sugar,” Michael said. “Real tears, too. You’re a natural. I knew you could do it.”

  “It isn’t over yet,” I said dryly, thinking of Carmelita.

  Onstage the wicked Hugh writhed on the floor and finally managed to stand up just as Lorena came into the basement, a triumphant smile on her rouged lips and the Manners-Croft rubies around her throat. She informed him that Sir Roderick had given her the rubies in return for telling him the whereabouts of his daughter and said she planned to live a life of luxurious sin on the Continent. Hugh staggered and spluttered, calling her a treacherous hussy. Lorena laughed and then widened her eyes in horror as Hugh pulled a dagger out and stumbled toward her. She screamed and died quite dramatically and Hugh stood over her and reeled back and forth and then fell to the floor beside her as the curtain came creaking down.

  Laura and Hugh hied themselves offstage, and the cot and tray of food were quickly removed and the backdrop yanked up and the antechamber backdrop pulled down. Michael and I stepped aside as a crewman hurried past us with one of the huge columns under his arm. The scene was changed in less than three minutes, and Michael hurried off to change into his elegant smoking jacket and Carmelita joined me in the wings, wearing a gray silk morning gown trimmed with blue velvet ribbons.

  “You treacherous slut!” she whispered. “I saw what you did. You did it deliberately! No pie-faced little upstart is going to steal a play from me, I can assure you. I’m going to destroy you.”