"Is it so terribly important?"
"It is to me," Roger said quickly. "And for reasons that you know. I don't think this is the time or place. But I haven't had an answer yet to a certain question I asked you back in Cleveland."
"That seems an age ago," Shirley mused.
"When do I get my answer, Shirley?" He leaned closer to her.
She spoke softly. "I can give it to you now."
He looked at her without speaking for a moment. "I'm not certain that I'll like hearing it."
She reached across and touched her hand to his. "I don't like telling you this, Roger, but I can't marry you. Not now, and probably not ever."
"Why?" His tone was pleading.
"That's the odd part of it. There's no real why. I like you and I'm lucky to have someone like you ask me to marry him. But just liking you isn't enough. Not for marriage, Roger."
"We'd be happy. I'm sure we would. If you'd just come down and meet Mother—"
"That's another thing. Your background is so different from mine," Shirley reasoned. "That alone could make it difficult for us. I don't think I'd be happy in your kind of life. I'm not the type of person to enjoy idleness. And you wouldn't want me to go on nursing, I know."
He looked miserable. "But there are all kinds of club work. And you could do charity work at the hospital. It's a matter of adapting yourself."
"That's what worries me," Shirley said. "Could I? Or to be plainer than I like being, do I care enough to want to?"
They talked for a long time and had another dance. Then Roger settled their check and they returned to the Algonquin. He saw her up to the door of the suite.
"I'll come to New York to see Grandfather," he told her, "but I won't bring this up again unless you do."
She looked at him. And all at once, he seemed so young and unhappy, she found her eyes filling with tears. She did like him. And it was hateful to have to hurt him this way. But it would be more hateful to lead him on thinking that she felt more deeply than she did.
"You've always been wonderful to me, Roger," she said softly.
"I have an idea you'll change your mind," he said. "And I'm not going to give up hoping." He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips and, without another word, walked away.
As she let herself into the suite, the tears that had brimmed in her eyes ran down her cheeks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Roger kept his word. During the month's run of The Cardinal at the Belasco, he came in to New York every week to visit with his grandfather. On a couple of the visits, he and Shirley had lunch together, but although his manner to her was unchanged, he didn't mention anything about her reconsidering his offer of marriage.
Shirley had been busy even though the weeks involved no traveling. Almost every afternoon, Oliver Craft played host in his room to several of his friends in the theater. At these intimate gatherings, she acted as part-nurse and part-hostess. And since the old man's strength seemed to drain a bit each day and the tranquillizers he took before the performances were becoming less effective, she had to insist that his callers keep their visits to an hour at most.
The star smiled up at her one afternoon after she had politely given a hint that had sent his visitors on their way. "Is this how old men end their days?" he asked. "Sleeping away the hours that are left to them?"
She patted the pillow behind his head and placed it to better advantage. "Yes. If they persist in staying up most of the night, as you do."
He chuckled. "You're very good for me, my dear. You make my days almost bearable. What is the word on Dr. Trask?"
"He's coming down for a meeting on Wednesday. And he's going to stay the rest of the week. Until you begin your treatments at Memorial next Monday."
"That will mean I'll enter the hospital as soon as the play ends," Craft said. "We'll have to notify the hotel and get them to give you a single room."
She looked at him. "You're sure you want me to stay on? They'll have plenty of nurses at Memorial."
The gaunt old face became determined. "This is my luxury. If I'm going to be a guinea pig for those fellows, I intend to enjoy it."
In a way, Shirley was glad the old man wanted her. She had become very much attached to him during the weeks she had been on the case. And although she knew that he must die, she wanted to help him as much as she could. When Dr. Trask came on Wednesday, he briefed her in his dry New England drawl.
"I'll want him to go up to the hospital right after the show on Saturday night," he told Shirley, as they sat together in the downstairs lounge of the Algonquin Hotel.
"Just what treatment are you planning to give him?"
"New variation on nitrogen-mustard. They've used it already on several terminal cases in which operations were out of the question. That's the situation we face with Oliver now."
"Has it really helped?"
"The men at Memorial haven't had time or enough patients to make a sure statement yet. But they seem to think it's the most hopeful drug available. And at this point, we have nothing left to resort to but medication."
Shirley nodded. "I understand that. Do you expect any side effects?"
Dr. Trask pursed his lips. "Quite likely. That's why I didn't begin the treatment while he's doing the play. There could be some nausea, a rise in temperature, even a possible period of coma."
"I hope it's worth while." She sighed. "He's been so brave."
"He understands." The doctor rubbed his forehead. "He knows that in doing this he is primarily helping others who may get the benefit of the treatment before their cases become as serious as his. And he's satisfied to go ahead with it."
Things went on normally until the Friday before the play closed. Roger Craft was coming into the city for the final show on Saturday night. All the members of the cast except the star had a party arranged in Malcolm Dennis's room at the Royalton Hotel. Hugh had invited Shirley as his special guest. And since Oliver Craft would be going directly to Memorial Hospital after the performance, she had accepted. She was glad she was staying on in New York for a time. She wouldn't lose touch with the people in the company who had become her friends. And even if she didn't want to admit it, the most important one was Hugh. She so hoped that things would go well for the cynical young man in the future.
On Thursday night, the radio and television weathermen had given repeated warnings about a storm that would sweep into the Eastern states from the Midwest. The weather in the city had been colder than usual all along, and on Friday morning, snowflakes began to swirl down. By noon, there was a thick coating on the streets that made them treacherous; auto traffic was moving at a creeping pace. Pedestrians, muffled in winter clothes, braced themselves against the driving storm as they scurried from taxi or subway to their various destinations.
Midafternoon came, and still the snow fell. Now the flakes were so thick that visibility was cut to a few feet. Driving was dangerous and many cars remained parked by the curb, heavy layers of snow building on them until they became grotesque in outline. With the coming of deep snow, a silence settled on the city, broken only occasionally by the dismal, loud clatter of a snowplow.
Oliver Craft stared out of the window at the storm for a minute and then moved wearily back to his chair. "This is bad," he told Shirley. "If it continues like this, we'll see precious few at the theater tonight."
Shirley knew it meant a lot to the star that his final evenings be successful. It seemed a miserable twist of fate that the weather should have changed as it had.
"It probably will ease up before night," she suggested, trying to cheer him.
He shook his head. "Not according to the latest weather bulletin. And even if it does ease off, I'm not certain but that it's too late. A lot of people who had planned to be in the city tonight will have changed their plans."
Glancing out at the driving storm, Shirley knew that the old man was right. She wondered what was happening at the theater.
Oliver Craft must have read her thoughts. "Why don't you go down to the B
elasco and see what's doing?"
She smiled. "All right. Since you're so curious."
As she left the hotel and braved the storm for the short walk to the Belasco, she knew that the snow would last a good while longer. It was beating down as though it had just begun. When she pushed open the glass door of the theater and let herself in out of the wet, driving snow, she was out of breath. A forlorn line of people was waiting to exchange tickets. From the opposite end of the lobby, Hugh Deering came over to her.
"I thought you might turn up," he said, smiling. He was wearing a lightweight gray coat, with a fawn scarf knotted around his neck, and an English-type gray cap. He looked boyish and charming.
"Oliver was anxious to get a firsthand report on what was happening here." She shook the snow from her kerchief and patted her hair in place.
"The old warhorse still breathing fire?" Hugh glanced at the line. "He's a wonder. But that line-up spells headaches."
"Have there been cancellations?"
"Dozens of them. If this weather keeps up, the Chief will wind up his career playing to empty seats."
Shirley frowned. "But that would be dreadful! It just can't happen!"
Hugh nodded at the line. "I'm afraid it is."
"But can't they change their tickets to tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow night has been sold out for two weeks."
"The storm has just got to stop," Shirley said, looking out at the swirling flakes, her pretty face quite dismal.
But it didn't. She had a lot of trouble getting a cab to take Oliver Craft the short distance to the theater. The cabby who took them was full of news about the storm.
"Bad all over New England," he said, peering through his windshield as the laboriously working wipers tried vainly to clear the fast-accumulating snow. "Connecticut is worse than it is here. Lot of the local trains delayed. The hotels in Times Square are jammed with people who've missed trains."
"You see." Oliver Craft turned to Shirley.
"That means that the traffic coming in will be tied up as well."
Backstage, the players stood around in gloomy little groups. Craft greeted them with a nod and went straight to his dressing room. "Ask Lyon to check the house at quarter-hour and let me know," he instructed Shirley.
At eight-fifteen, Lyon came to the door of the star's dressing room. "It isn't good," he said. "The house is just about a third full. Phone has been ringing all day with cancellations."
Oliver Craft sighed. "I'd say we were lucky to have that many. It might be wise to hold the curtain a few minutes for possible latecomers."
At eight-thirty, Lyon Phillips returned, but this time he was smiling. "You won't believe it, sir," he said, bursting with his good news, "but the house is filling up."
The star turned to him, the gaunt face showing surprise. "But how? Who?"
"People who are stranded in town, mostly. The word got around that there were plenty of empty theater seats and they've got the night on their hands. So it looks as if we'll do a sellout business." The stage manager hurried off.
By the time the curtain rose, there wasn't a seat vacant from orchestra to top balcony. Shirley, watching the play from the wings, sensed the special something that both actors and audience contributed to the evening. She had learned in the weeks that she had been with the show that the mood of the audience played a very real part in the way a performance went. Tonight, there was enthusiasm on both sides of the footlights.
But she couldn't help noticing one exception in the company. Charles Victor, the character man, seemed nervous, and his voice wavered several times during his scene with Hugh Deering.
When he made his exit, Shirley went up to him and, seeing that he looked shaky and that his eyes had a glassy expression, asked anxiously, "Are you all right?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine now." He went over to a straight chair near the wall and sat waiting for his next entrance. He looked up at her. "I had to take a pill during the scene. Did you notice?"
"No," Shirley said. Now she really began to worry. Since the night on tour, weeks ago, when he'd had the heart attack on arriving at the theater and she had helped him, she hadn't known the little character actor to be ill. And although she had wondered about him, she had kept his secret, as she had promised. Now it seemed certain that he was in serious trouble again.
"I had a bad time getting to the theater tonight," he said, speaking very slowly. "I thought I'd never make the two blocks from Forty-second Street."
"Are you well enough to go on?"
"Fine now." He gave her a quick smile. "The crisis came out there a few minutes ago. Now that it's over, I feel better."
But Shirley didn't think that he looked or sounded quite himself. She stood nervously in the wings as he went on again and played his second scene in the play. He seemed to manage quite well.
She didn't want to worry Oliver Craft about the little man's illness, but she had to talk to someone. During the opening of the second act, Hugh Deering had a short wait offstage. She took the opportunity to speak to him.
"Did you find Charles Victor shaky in the opening scene?" she asked.
Hugh looked puzzled. "So you noticed it, too. Yes. I wonder what happened to him?"
"He had a heart attack. Or at least a warning pain. He has a chronic condition. Takes nitro pills. I've known for a long while, but he didn't want anyone else to find out."
"So that's it!" Hugh drew a deep breath. "Fine situation! With Oliver like he is. Do you think he'll get through the evening?"
"I think so," Shirley said, although it was more a hope than a certainty. "He took a pill and he seems better."
Then Hugh had to go onstage and she was alone again. Roger Craft had phoned that, due to the storm, he wouldn't get to the city for the closing.
The last curtain fell, and Shirley drew a sigh of relief. Not only because Oliver Craft had managed this show, but because Charles Victor had also made it safely. With some difficulty, she located another taxi and got the star safely back to his hotel.
Only the hurdle of the final performance faced them now. And with the snow still falling, she wondered what kind of situation they would meet in it. She hoped that Charles Victor got safely home through the storm. Or if he was wise, perhaps he had found a room in one of the nearby hotels. Wherever he was, he would be alone and frightened on this snowy night.
Early the following morning, the snow began to ease. And by noon, the sun had come out brightly and snowplows were finished with the main avenues and beginning to clear the side streets. Traffic and pedestrians were moving at a normal rate and the clamor of the city resumed its familiar level. This meant they could count on a capacity house for the closing night.
All day, Oliver Craft was fidgety and anxious, quite unlike his usual self. In the afternoon, Abe Rothstein came and talked for a long time with the old man. Shirley took the opportunity to do most of the star's packing, as he was going to the hospital from the theater. The bags were to be sent ahead that afternoon.
They arrived at the theater earlier than on the previous evening and only Lyon Phillips was there to greet them. He smiled at Oliver Craft. "This is where we wrap it up, Chief."
The star nodded, an expression of sadness on his ascetic face. Shirley mixed his glass of tranquillizer and then went out while he made up.
Lyon was waiting for her. He said, "You missed Joy's big scene last night."
"Really?"
"You bet. She's told everyone in the company but you her success story. She's to do a featured part in 'Meet The Warrens' on the ABC network."
Shirley vaguely remembered the TV show. "What part is she playing?"
Lyon chuckled. "She doesn't think we know, but Charles Victor has the same agent and he told Victor all about it. She's doing the bit part of a comedy maid. Won't be in more than a few half-hours. But that's not the way she tells it."
"I can imagine," Shirley said dryly. "Luckily, she's been avoiding me lately."
"She'll be at Malcolm's p
arty tonight. Maybe she'll tell you then."
"I could miss her performance," Shirley said.
They had all expected the final show to be one of the best, and it was. The house contained many people who had been loyal followers of Oliver Craft for a quarter-century or more. When he came to his last line and said, "Yes, I am going to die, but everything about me you want killed will live," there was the usual hush as the curtain dropped. And then the burst of applause.
On this night, it continued beyond all reason, even when the star took repeated curtain calls alone. Finally, he raised a thin hand to ask for quiet, and in his firm and resonant voice said:
"On behalf of myself and the others who have made this play possible, I thank you. Especially I thank you for giving your support to a play of this type. I hope you will continue to do so in other theaters with other players."
"I like to think that some of the things we of another era value will live on. Decency, humanity, and moral courage among them. These qualities are part of this play, and that is why my company has so enjoyed doing it."
"Acting is a thing of memories. There is little permanency to our profession. We draw on memories to build the characters we play. If we are successful, we imprint an image on your memories for a time. And so, we, in turn, rely on our memories of your appreciation for a far greater part of our pay than you can guess. The reception you have given me this evening will be a treasure that will gladden me as long as memory remains."
The old man gave a courtly bow and the curtain fell for the last time. Shirley knew there were tears in her eyes when he stepped offstage. But he was quite unshaken. He smiled at her. "Now, my dear, on to Memorial and the beginning of a new adventure."
As they walked down the corridor, she knew it was a night she would never forget. As she would never forget this wonderful old man and his courage—this ordeal that he called his "new adventure."
When he had removed his make-up, the members of the cast came to his dressing room and waited in line to take turns at shaking his hand and wishing him well. Even Joy Milland stood back quietly for her turn, and when she passed the nurse, Shirley saw that there were tears in the strange girl's eyes as she smiled at her. There could be no hard feelings on this night. Shirley returned the smile, feeling sorry for this girl who hurt herself so much more than she did others.
Backstage Nurse Page 13
