Backstage Nurse

by Jane Rossiter

  "Thank you," the producer said quietly. Removing his coat and hat, he put them on a chair and followed her to the bedroom.

  Oliver Craft sat up in bed and extended a frail hand in greeting. "It's good to see you, Abe," he said. And then, "But what brings you so far from Broadway?"

  Abraham Rothstein chuckled. "Business! What else?"

  The old actor lay back on his pillows. "We've been doing very well, Abe. I imagine your office has last week's returns."

  "Wonderful! Wonderful!" the producer said. "That's why I'm here."

  "I don't follow you, Abe," Oliver Craft said.

  "I've been worried about you, Oliver, for one thing." The producer spoke earnestly now. "Before I flew out here, I had a long talk with Dr. Trask. He thinks you're taking too much of a chance. He'd like to have you in the East for treatment."

  "In time. After the tour."

  "That's it." Rothstein beamed. "I've fixed it. In a way I know you'll approve of. The tour is finished with this stand. I'm canceling next week, Philadelphia and Pittsburgh!"

  Shirley was shocked at the rotund producer's blunt announcement. It seemed so callously cruel to end the tour after what Oliver Craft had gone through to make it possible. Surely the producer appreciated the star's gesture of loyalty.

  Oliver Craft took the situation calmly enough. "You plan to cancel the rest of the tour?"

  Rothstein glanced at Shirley's distressed face and chuckled. "Let me make myself clear. The tour ends, but the play goes on. The Belasco Theater is open for a show until Christmas week. I can book The Cardinal in right away for a second limited Broadway run. Four weeks in New York. How does it sound?"

  The star sat up and stared at the producer. "Do you think it's a wise move, Abe? We did rather poorly there in the spring."

  "That's just it." Rothstein was enthusiastic. "We opened at the wrong time. Our office has been getting letters from people complaining that they missed the play and asking if it could be brought back again. They want you, and I think you should do it, Oliver."

  Oliver Craft smiled faintly. "Broadway is very tempting. I would like to finish the run there. What about the managements in the other cities? Can you honorably get us out of our commitments?"

  "The Guild has some open time on their new comedy and they are willing to take over the three weeks we have definitely set. Everyone will be happy."

  Shirley could see that the prospect pleased Craft. And she was glad that it would give the old man a final chance to return to his beloved Broadway. She was certain that Dr. Trask had told Rothstein that this would be his star's last play. And Oliver Craft would be able to get better medical care in New York. Dr. Trask would only be an hour's flight away.

  The star looked at her and asked, "What do you think of it, Shirley?"

  "It sounds like a wonderful idea." She smiled.

  "Go ahead with it, Abe," Oliver Craft said. "We'll post a bulletin for the company tonight."

  "Fine!" Abe was full of the idea. "It will take next week to get into town and have the show set up. We'll open a week from Monday. I'll give the go-ahead to my office right away to start publicity in the New York papers."

  He went on explaining the other details to Oliver Craft as Shirley stood silently in the background. Then it came to her. If they were not going to Philadelphia, all Roger's plans would be upset. There would be no opportunity for her to meet his mother, no necessity for her to arrive at the decision she had been worried about. She was both relieved and saddened. Relieved because she was still not certain about herself and Roger; saddened because she liked Oliver Craft's grandson and there was a chance this delay could mean the end of things between them.

  Roger seemed to take this point of view when he phoned later in the day. "Not coming to Philadelphia," he said. "I don't believe it."

  "It's true," she told him. "It will probably be in your local paper by tomorrow."

  "But Shirley, I counted on it!" Roger's tone was plaintive.

  "I know." Shirley felt genuinely sorry. "But it does seem best for your grandfather. We can work out things later."

  "I'm not so sure. I have an idea you weren't too keen on facing Philadelphia, anyway."

  This was so close to the truth that Shirley hardly knew what to answer. She said, "You can come to New York any time."

  "You can depend on that. You'll see a lot of me," Roger promised.

  At the theater that night, the company was generally enthusiastic about the news. It meant a second New York exposure for them in parts which were now perfected, and since they would be looking for jobs in a few weeks, it gave them the added opportunity of scouting the various agents' offices while the show was still playing.

  Lyon Phillips grinned at Shirley as they chatted before curtain time. "After next week, I'll have no more worries about sets arriving in time and fitting them into theaters built for half or twice their size. How's the Chief?"

  Shirley glanced toward the corridor. "As good as he's been any time lately. He and Mr. Rothstein are talking now. I felt in the way."

  "Good old Abe!" Lyon said. "I'll bet he pulled plenty of strings to arrange this. It's the way it should be. The Chief will give his farewell performance before a Broadway audience."

  "It doesn't seem possible that this will end. Sometimes I feel it will go on and on." Shirley hesitated. "I don't dare think what's really happening to him. I feel so bad."

  "Don't," Lyon advised. "Just accept it day by day. Oliver is occupied by the challenge of all this. The hard part will come for him when he can no longer face an audience. In a way, I'd like to see him go before that happens."

  Hugh Deering came up to them, handsome in his uniform of the Communist aide. "On to Broadway," he said. "Does that suit you, Nurse Grant?"

  She shrugged. "It's all the same to me. I think it will be better for the Chief."

  "Agreed," Hugh said. "Likely Trask will send him to Memorial Hospital for a check."

  Shirley hadn't thought too much about where Oliver Craft might go for actual treatment in New York. But what Hugh suggested made sense. The Memorial Hospital for Cancer and Allied Diseases was one of the leading institutions of its kind in the country. Its Sloan-Kettering Institute was always in the vanguard of new treatments, and possibly they might have something that could be tried on the grand old man.

  "I've never been there. Have you?" she asked the ex-doctor.

  "Yes." He looked slightly embarrassed. "One of my classmates is on the staff there. He took me through the place. It's really something."

  Lyon Phillips called for places, and the conversation ended. The curtain rose on a capacity house, and again the play was well received.

  Abe Rothstein stood in the wings with Shirley watching the rising climax of the final third-act scene between the Cardinal and the Communist, played by Malcolm Dennis.

  Moisture glazed the bald man's eyes as, without turning to Shirley, he asked, "Is he really as bad off as they think, Miss Grant?"

  "Yes," she said softly. "I'm afraid so."

  "It doesn't seem possible! We've been together for nearly thirty years! He's like a brother to me."

  "Doing this show has been a wonderful thing for his morale," Shirley told the producer. "It is very good of you to take the chance you have. Not many managements would have been so understanding."

  Rothstein's eyes never left the stage. "With Oliver, it was no chance. He's never let anyone down."

  Onstage, the star gave his last line and after a second's pause the curtain fell to the usual roar of applause. Shirley and Rothstein stood together watching the cast take curtain after curtain, ending with Oliver Craft standing alone before the enthusiastic audience.

  "He's the last of them," Rothstein said reverently. "The last of the really great ones."

  Shirley felt that the producer was right.

  It was an unseasonably cold November in New York, and Shirley made the purchase of a smart mink-trimmed coat. Little Charles Victor hadn't worn his Australian fur model a
s yet, but he had arrived at the Belasco Theater many times, cold and shivering, in his winter cloth coat. Oliver Craft and Shirley were in a suite at the Algonquin Hotel, just a block from the theater on Forty-fourth Street.

  Hugh Deering and some of the other members of the cast had rooms at the Royalton Hotel, also on Forty-fourth Street, and opposite the Algonquin. Joy Milland had an apartment uptown and Charles Victor rented a room somewhere in Greenwich Village.

  The management had agreed to omit all midweek matinees and so it was only on Saturdays that Oliver Craft faced the grueling task of doing two shows. Advance sale of tickets was good, as Rothstein had predicted, and the company was in a happy frame of mind.

  The change of scene seemed beneficial to Oliver Craft. Even though his strength was visibly failing, he seemed to take on a renewed vigor that Shirley hoped would see him through the run of the play. Since the Lambs' Club was just across the street from the Belasco Theater, many of his show-business friends dropped in on him from time to time. Several of his cronies were also living at the Algonquin, and this allowed other short talks.

  Shirley tried to hold them to short periods of time. And even though the conversations were tiring in one sense, they helped the star in another. Caught up in theater small-talk, he temporarily forgot his own plight. Dr. Trask arrived on the third day after they came to New York, and they went up to Memorial Hospital, as Hugh had predicted.

  After Craft had been thoroughly examined, Dr. Trask talked privately with Shirley about his condition.

  "Has he complained much of pain lately?" the doctor asked.

  "Not much. I seem to be giving him less and less sedative."

  Dr. Trask nodded. "I suspected that. Of course his condition is so much weaker it's not likely he will require as heavy a dose of drug to give relief."

  "What do they think here?"

  "It could be a matter of weeks. We'll do another short series of X-ray treatments now. Later, when the show closes, I'd like to try a more experimental form of X ray. It's something new they're doing here."

  "But in the end, it will be the same?"

  "That is certain." The doctor sighed. "But we owe it to him to give our best. And if the new treatment eases his condition and gives him a little longer, it will be our best. It will also place Oliver in a position to help the Institute's research. A link in their battle to find a cure. I think he'll appreciate that."

  Shirley felt some hope. "Yes," she said eagerly. "That would give him something to sustain him after the show is over. I've been frightened that he might give up when the play ends."

  Dr. Trask smiled. "You have become involved with your patient, haven't you?"

  "He's such a wonderful old man, I don't think anyone could help it. If he feels he's playing a part in research, that the treatments you will be giving him will have value for others in the future, I'm sure he will accept what happens with the same courage he has shown in finishing this play."

  "A reason for living. He's always had one. We won't rob him of that now," Dr. Trask assured her.

  Shirley felt better after their conversation. She had promised Oliver Craft to stay on with him when the play ended, and she didn't want the old star to end his days in hopelessness. Now there seemed a chance to give meaning to his ordeal.

  Several times during the week before the opening, she had lunch at the Algonquin with Hugh. Oliver Craft ate very little now and had his food sent to his suite. But he insisted that she take some of her meals down in the dining room. "Get out and have a little fun," he told her. "And bring some of it back to me."

  Hugh made a joke of the Algonquin prices. Actually they were not high for the excellent food and surroundings, but they were a bit out of line for the everyday patronage of an average-paid actor. Shirley tried to persuade him to eat at the Seymour, or one of the other modestly priced restaurants, but he refused.

  "These lunches with you are occasions," Hugh smilingly informed her across the table. "They demand a rich atmosphere. And we have it here."

  After they had ordered, she asked, "Have you found another play?"

  "Not yet. I have an offer to do a documentary film that I'll probably take. After that, I'll worry. I understand our Joy has a bid for a leading TV series."

  Shirley was genuinely surprised. "You don't mean it? Doing what?"

  Hugh shook his head. "I can't imagine. She's being very mysterious about it. But she and Charles Victor have the same agent. I heard them talking this morning."

  "I wish her luck." Shirley gave a despairing smile. "If talent is a necessity, she really needs it."

  "In this business, it's all luck," Hugh assured her. "What are your plans?"

  "I'm staying on with Oliver."

  "I'm glad," he said. "While you're still in this town, why don't you have another try at show business?"

  "Not this gal!" She laughed. "If and when Oliver no longer needs me, I'm heading back to sedate Boston and the Eastern Memorial."

  His eyes were serious as they met hers. "That will mean we won't see each other again."

  She wanted to keep it light. "Oh, you'll play a tryout in Beantown some September, and I'll come and applaud and applaud."

  "That could be a long, long time from now."

  "I still promise to be there."

  He studied his plate. "I'm not sure that's enough for me."

  "That doesn't sound like the Hugh I know," she teased. "You told me you didn't care for anything."

  "I didn't used to," he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers again.

  Their lunch arrived, and Shirley quickly changed the subject to the problems of the opening night. "Will they do reviews again?" she asked him.

  "Sort of a follow-up coverage," Hugh said. "Likely refer to the original performance and compare it with the show now. I know one thing —they'll like Dennis better than Jeffrey Sayre."

  Shirley nodded. "I agree."

  Hugh left immediately after lunch as he had an appointment about the movie job he had been promised. When Shirley went upstairs, she found Oliver Craft sitting up in bed reading "Variety", the weekly theatrical paper. He put it down and smiled at her.

  "How was lunch?" he asked.

  "Liver and bacon. Excellent," she told him, and began mixing his midday medicine.

  "Roger called from Philadelphia while you were out," he said. "He's coming in for the show Monday night."

  "Fine." Shirley smiled, and hoped the old man wouldn't notice that she was blushing.

  He took the glass with his medicine and eyed her with interest. "You like my grandson?"

  "I'd say he was one of the nicest boys I've ever known."

  "That all?"

  She hesitated, and then, going back to the medicine tray to hide her confusion, she added, "And he's also the grandson of one of my favorite people."

  "Indeed!" Oliver Craft chuckled. "Turn around, young woman. Don't try any of those theatrical tricks on me. I know them all."

  She faced the old man with polite defiance. "Anything to please my patient."

  He waved an impatient hand. "Let's forget about our patient-nurse relationship and stick to Roger. Did the young scamp ask you to marry him?"

  She gave a sigh of despair. "Well, there's no keeping secrets from you. Yes, he did."

  "Be a fool if he hadn't. And what was your answer?"

  "I didn't give him any."

  "Oh?" Oliver Craft raised his eyebrows.

  "I hadn't made up my own mind."

  "Have you now?"

  "I think so." It was true. All at once, Shirley knew how she would answer Roger's question when he brought it up again. Funny, how mixed up she had been until a few minutes ago. Now it seemed very clear.

  "Well," Oliver Craft lay back on his pillows and studied her, "I'm glad you have. I don't like young people who can't arrive at decisions. Too many of them to make along the way of life to shy from them."

  She smiled. "I suppose you want to know my answer?"

  "No. I'll surprise you,"
Oliver Craft said. "Anyway, it's none of my business. Just be sure it's the right one. Marriage is too important to make mistakes."

  Shirley stepped forward with her thermometer. "And now that we've settled all that, I'd like to take your temperature."

  Craft gave a quiet laugh. "I'll bet yours would be more interesting."

  The opening performance at the Belasco played to a full house and the play had never been better received. There was a more responsive reaction to the subtleties of the play than Shirley had ever noticed before. The curtain fell on a triumph.

  When Roger had arrived at the theater with Oliver Craft and Shirley, Hugh had been standing in the corridor talking to Malcolm Dennis. She had seen the expression on the young ex-doctor's face become cold and remote in an instant. After a curt greeting to them, Hugh had hurried away. All during the rest of the evening, he avoided her; and after the show, he left the theater almost at once.

  Shirley went back to the Algonquin with Oliver Craft, and after giving him his evening medication and seeing him to bed, she went back downstairs to the lounge where Roger was waiting for her. The place was filled with after-theater diners, and Roger had to make his way across to the elevator.

  "How about some quieter spot for dancing?" he suggested.

  "Sounds like fun. Though I daren't stay too long." Shirley smiled.

  He led her out to the street and raised his arm for a taxi. "We'll try Peacock Alley at the Waldorf. The music is good and they have no floor show so the place isn't usually crowded."

  Roger's prediction proved correct. The headwaiter led them through the quiet elegance of Peacock Alley to an intimate corner table. After Roger had ordered and they had enjoyed a pleasant dance to the beat of the excellent band, they faced each other across the table.

  "The show ends the week before Christmas," Roger said. "How about your filling in your personal date in Philadelphia then?"

  "I've promised your grandfather I'd stay on with him as long as he needs me."

  Roger's serious young face registered frustration. "But surely you can come down for a weekend?"

  Shirley smiled. "That depends on my patient's condition."

  "I don't think you want to come."