Steve was enchanted. Sometimes the gods were kind. He said, “Haven’t I seen you around here the last few days?”
“Possibly,” she acknowledged.
“Do you live here?”
“No.”
Coolness in the syllable. He was going too fast. He shifted to a better subject. “Your little one seems to like architecture too.”
“Yeah. A great kid.” Beaming down at the baby snugged against her breast, the young woman’s smile was as radiant as Susan’s. “She’s helping me in my research.”
“Are you an architect?” Her clothes and the briefcase she was now retrieving from the scaffold looked professional.
“No. But we’ve got an old brownstone we’re fixing up. They were kind enough to put up this scaffold, so I thought I’d take a look at the decoration up there. Reminds me of our mantel.”
“Yeah, it’s interesting, isn’t it? Some friends of mine up in the Village have been working on their place for years. Love it. And I may be in for the same thing. I’ve just rented a pied-à-terre in an old factory they’re converting around the corner here.”
“Good for you. A cast-iron building?”
“Yes. Not as fancy as this one, though, and the apartments are pretty straightforward. But it’s what I need. Your baby’s so cute! A girl, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Mine too. My little Muffin. She’s two and a half.”
“Sarah’s five months.”
“Well, she’s the cutest! Except for Muffin, of course. Listen, good luck with your brownstone, Miss—um, Mrs.…”
“Maggie.”
He approved of her caution; friendly yet reserved, no last names broadcast to strangers. He said, “My friends call me Buzz. Nice to meet you, Maggie. See you around, maybe.”
“Maybe.” She smiled that vivid smile again and left him standing by the scaffold.
The gloom was lifting, he was sure.
“Last stanza, Edith, Larry’s death, right?” said Derek.
As Edith pulled her thick little body up to its full five foot two and began the verse for the last tableau, Nick saw a young woman slip into the rehearsal loft. A liquid fall of blond hair, strategically tight flare-leg jeans, leather jacket. She glanced at the scrawny teenager and eased into a folding chair next to her by the flaking side wall, listening to Edith’s words and watching as Larry rose gracefully, pulled on the black gloves, clicked his heels and bowed as he had on first meeting Victoria, and backed slowly into the area that would be in darkness when the final lighting was in place. A pause; a choked sob from the crumpled Ramona; and then the pounding dirge from chorus and piano.
Ramona straightened slowly, as though lifting a crushing weight, and pulled a black shawl about her. The chorus moved back with measured steps, leaving her solitary in the center of the stage. The music modulated, and very quietly she began to sing “The Widow of Windsor.” For the first time that day she did not have to worry about new dance steps or new movements, and she invested the words with a powerful emotional energy. “Alone,” she sang, “in the crowds, still alone; among the princes, alone; forever alone.” Nick, standing in the silent chorus, felt his throat tightening. The small isolated figure, the husky beauty of the voice that shimmered on the edge of tears, communicated a human truth that transcended history, geography, wealth, gender. She bound them all into Victoria’s grief.
The last chords faded.
Then the stage manager cleared his throat and said, “Blackout,” in his flat twang.
The spell was shattered. Derek exclaimed, “Super! But you know that, Ramona. On to act two?”
“Let’s stop a minute early today, Derek. It’s been a long afternoon.” Ramona, drooping, pulled the shawl from her shoulders, then noticed the blonde onlooker for the first time and stiffened. “Well! So Larry’s evening revels have begun already. Though the brunette that came for him yesterday was prettier. Treat him well, sweetie.” She winked at the young woman. “Your competition is formidable.”
The few words reawakened the sizzle of rage in all of them. Derek dropped the piano lid too hard, and Nick repressed an appealing image of his own fist connecting with Ramona’s famous chin. Larry himself, jaw set, tossed the gloves to the sideline and scooped up his own jacket and street clothes. He swept the lithe blonde from the room, murmuring reassurances. Ramona lit a cigarette and watched them go, her expression unreadable. Behind her back the teenager stuck out her tongue at her, but at a curt, almost terrified gesture from Daphne she again put on a polite face. The other actors were preparing to leave, but Ramona walked over to talk to Edith and Jaymie, who were handing the stage manager their rehearsal props. All three tensed as she approached.
Nick, in no hurry, stripped off his soaked sweats to don jeans and turtleneck. The other actors had scrambled into their street clothes quickly, but Ramona had removed only her rehearsal skirt and was still in her dark tights and pink leg warmers. She left Jaymie and, appointment book in hand, walked over to Derek at the piano. A trim figure for forty, thought Nick. Very trim. He sat down on the edge of the platform to wait.
Most of the actors left in a subdued clump. Daphne joined Derek, however, and they bent over the book at the piano as Ramona approached Nick.
“Still hanging around?” she asked.
“Waiting for Maggie,” he said cautiously, hoping he wouldn’t inadvertently reignite her rage.
“As usual.” She stood looking down at him a moment, then sat beside him, laid her cigarette carefully on a used Pepsi can next to her Italian bag, and began to pull the leg warmers from her elegant ankles. She smelled of jasmine and smoke. She said, “Don’t know what you see in a bony kid like her, Nick, when you could have a sexy little tiger like me.”
“Guess I’m kinky.”
She laughed and rolled up the leg warmers carefully. Derek and Daphne, their consultation finished, put on their coats. Daphne waved good-bye, said, “C’mon, Callie,” to the teenager, and hurried out with her. Their clog shoes rang on the old stairs. Derek paused at the door.
“How about a drink right now, Ramona?”
“I’m having one in half an hour. It’s in my book.” She tapped the appointment book that lay on her bag and picked up her cigarette again.
“And the book is sacred. I know! Well, we’ll talk soon. See you later, then. Bye, Nick!” Nick could see that he was still upset, though he went out bravely humming “Nine Children.”
They were alone now in the cavernous loft. Ramona turned to Nick again. “I wasn’t kidding, Nick. I like you.”
“Of course. Us big, bald woolly mammoths are irresistible. Best-sellers from Fisher-Price.” He stood up, wondering uneasily if he should wait downstairs and hoping the faint noises he heard were footsteps coming up the stairs.
But Ramona was laughing. “Nick, you’re never serious! Pay attention!” She bounced up, locked her arms around him, snuggled her dark, jasmine-scented head against his chest. She felt good. Hot blood begets hot thoughts. Unfortunately Nick had other commitments. Gently he put his hands on her shoulders.
“Look, Ramona—” he murmured, coaxing.
The door banged.
“Jesus, Nick!” It was Maggie, the baby strapped in the carrier, the briefcase clutched in her hand, the blue eyes darkening as she took in the scene.
Ramona jumped back guiltily. “God! Your wife!” She wasn’t quite able to keep the satisfaction from her voice, though, and Nick realized without surprise that she’d deliberately set up this awkwardness.
But he was more interested in Maggie’s urgent words. “Nick, I got your test result from Dr. Rank today!” She sounded alarmed, too alarmed to have noticed Ramona.
Dr. Rank? Of course. Nick’s tone echoed hers. “My test result? Was it … favorable?”
A slow shake of her head. “Still positive! Certainty!”
“Absolute certainty?” groaned Nick.
“Yes. Oh, Nick, sleep well!”
Ramona was bewildered. “Test? C
ertainty?”
Maggie’s eyes, blue pools of anxiety, turned to her for the first time. “Hepatitis,” she explained in a tragic tone.
“Hepatitis!” Ramona sprang back in dismay.
Maggie nodded. “Infectious,” she added helpfully.
Ramona wasted no sympathy on Nick. “Hepatitis! Damn, Nick, you’ve exposed us all! How could you be so goddamn selfish?” She was still backing away from him.
“Oh, it hasn’t been all that bad for him,” soothed Maggie.
“Not bad! Are you kidding? Hepatitis lays you flat! I had a friend who was in bed six months! And her skin turned yellow! My God, Nick, why didn’t you say something? That’s about the lowest … You’ve been rehearsing with us a week! And God, why didn’t you make me stop horsing around just now? Why didn’t—” She stopped abruptly, back against the wall, staring at him, then added slowly, “You’re not yellow. And you’ve been bouncing around …” Her big eyes switched to Maggie. They revealed a war of disbelief and rage and laughter. “You knew?”
“Oh, shucks,” said Maggie, grinning at her. “She’s found us out, Nick.”
“My God!” Laughter won and Ramona hooted in giddy relief. “Hepatitis! God! I’ll have to remember that if I ever meet Simon’s tart! Nick, you clown, I ought to can you! Lucky for you you’re a damn good Gladstone and Prince of Wales. And you make me laugh. And so does your goddamn wife.” Still giggling, she turned to Maggie. “Hey, are we even now?”
“All even. You gave me a bad moment too.” Maggie had expertly unbuckled the baby carrier and was helping Nick strap it on. Nick the kangaroo. Best-seller from Fisher-Price. His tiny daughter opened drowsy dark eyes, noted his presence and Maggie’s, and crumpled again into sleep against his chest. Balm of my age, most best, most dearest. Effortlessly she had seized control of his life.
Maggie turned back to Ramona. “Did Nick do something bad today?”
Under the friendly searching gaze, Ramona grew abruptly serious. “You mean, to deserve such a mean joke?”
“Sure, I deserved it,” said Nick. “I was pretending to be a woolly mammoth and almost knocked her down.”
But Ramona’s mood had shifted. “No, she’s right, Nick. I’ve been doing the great bitch-star routine today. I always thought I was too grown-up for that game. Haven’t been this childish since I was sixteen! It’s just that everything—No, you didn’t deserve it. Nobody deserved it. It’s nothing to do with the show, nothing to do with you. It’s just Simon.”
“Is there some way we can help?” asked Maggie.
“You? Mr. and Mrs. Happy Wedlock? Salt in the wound,” said Ramona bitterly. “Still goddamn soul mates, aren’t you? I’d forgotten what it’s like.”
So had I, thought Nick, till Dr. Rank. No time these days for souls. Or bodies, for that matter.
Maggie was hugging Ramona. “God, it must hurt!” Ramona let herself relax in the lanky arms a moment. Maggie could have that effect on people, Nick knew. Her vitality and lively compassion had often in the past been a source of strength to him too. But in a moment Ramona drew a deep breath and objected, “You can’t know, kid. You’ve never been divorced, right?”
“Not in a law court, no. Even so, I’ve been totaled a couple of times.”
“But you’re not forty.”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that makes it worse when your marriage is disintegrating. If yours lasts that long, you’ll see. Oh, some days I’m almost glad it’s ending. Glad to get out and conquer the world before it slips by. Other days I feel worthless. Old. Jealous of people like you. Wondering where all our magic went. What I did wrong.”
Maggie patted her shoulder. “Nothing, probably.”
“I know that with my head. He’s crazy. But inside, you know, you’re suffering and you think, ‘I must have done something to deserve this.’” She moved away, started pulling on her flame-red pantsuit and stylish Italian stack-soled boots. “When I was young and dumb and about to throw my life away, my best friend shoved me into a room and locked the door. I yelled and screamed. In the morning she came in and told me I was a good kid, but she’d had to slap me on the wrist because I’d forgotten. And then she gave me cocoa and everything was okay.”
“You’re a good kid,” said Nick, “but I’m afraid we forgot to bring the cocoa.”
Ramona looked at him in surprise. “God! You’re right! It’s the same stupid game I’m playing, isn’t it?”
“We play all kinds of games when we hurt.”
“Mm.” She adjusted the flared pant legs over her boots before glancing back at him. “Someone said Maggie was your second wife.”
“Yes.”
“You must know what it’s like, then, Nick. Divorce.”
“Not exactly. My first wife died.”
“Oh, I’m sorry! That’s different.”
“Yeah, maybe. But anytime you’re rooted psychologically in another person, any kind of end has to hurt.”
“You don’t say.”
“Sigmund F. O’Connor, part-time shrink, at your service,” said Nick cheerfully in a thick Viennese accent. “In your case, madam, I prescribe cocoa.”
She was laughing again. “Clown!”
“Insight of the day. Free introductory sample.”
“But you’re right, you know. I’ve got to stop taking it out on you people. This business of ours is hard enough on the ego. One day you’re applauded, the next you’re on welfare. All your self-doubts thriving like leeches. And then this thing of Simon’s.” She shook her head fretfully.
“You won’t have to worry about welfare, Ramona. You’re still famous.”
She stubbed out the cigarette, lips thin. “Still famous. Yes, indeed. Let’s get out of here.”
Nick held her wrap for her, a cape lined with blond fur. “Where’s your date?”
“Not far. We’re meeting at L’Etoile on Spring Street.”
“Mind if we come along partway? We’re going to Canal.”
Ramona locked up and they descended the metal stairs of the old factory building and walked out into the dusk. It had stopped drizzling but was still damply unpleasant. Nick adjusted the flap around his sleeping daughter’s head. Maggie, curious as always, asked Ramona, “What did you mean in there? About still famous?”
In the dim light Ramona looked downy, her dark eyes and dimples youthful in the frill of pale fur. After a moment she said, “Well, kid, Nick might remember. You’re too young. But in ’fifty-five everyone loved me. A new Garland, they said. An elfin Merman. Et cetera. I was famous. Turned down lots of great parts becauseDevil ran two and a half years. After that there were TV specials, and one film. It would have done better but the cutesy photography didn’t work. Hell, I could have done better with a Brownie! Anyway, on to more TV, a splashy tour for the GI’s in Saigon, a couple of nightclub spots. And somewhere along the line I slipped from ‘famous’ to ‘still famous.’ The next step isn’t hard to see.”
The truth of her analysis was too obvious to debate. Maggie said, “So you bought yourself this show.”
“Right. All that’s left of the film money. I was very prudent, you see, investing it for my favorite charity or for retirement, in case Simon had a reversal or something. But then my agent brought me an offer for a frozen-food commercial. My God, that’s what I was doing in ’fifty-four!” She gave a short harsh laugh. “And here I am, parading around like the great bitch-goddess. What kind of goddess sells frozen peas?”
“The Jolly Green Midget?” offered Nick.
“Yeah, laugh if you want. But I decided if I was ever going to have decent parts again, I’d better get to work and create my own luck. This is it. Ramona’s big gamble. I’m betting it all.”
“Scary. But necessary,” said Maggie, impressed.
“It’s a great part,” said Nick.
“Yeah, Victoria from birth to death. It’ll prove I’m not just a decaying ingenue. I can play a wider range.”
“Good idea.”
“Derek
’s idea of doing it music-hall style is cute, I think. But of course everything seems to be rock these days.”
“The Fantasticks is still going strong.”
“Well, if I win, we’ll all be set for a while. And if it flops, I suppose we’ll meet again in the unemployment lines.”
“The true New York Actor’s Club.”
“Right. Well, that’s show biz. Here’s my corner.” Ramona indicated the lighted restaurant sign at the end of the block.
“We’ll walk you down.”
“Absolutely not! You’ve done enough. Slapped me on the wrist and listened to me.”
“Next time we’ll bring the cocoa too.”
“No next time. I’ll reform. Last thing I want to do is hurt this show!” She shook her head soberly. “God, I’ve got a lot of fences to mend.”
Nick remembered the pulsing rage in the atmosphere and had to agree. “We all love the show. People won’t be difficult.”
“Hope not. Well, see you tomorrow, Nick.” She grinned suddenly. “And congratulations!”
“On what?”
“On your quick recovery from hepatitis.”
They laughed and parted. Maggie peered at her daughter, nestled against Nick’s chest. “How’re you doing,chouchoute?”
Nick looked down at the baby and observed proudly, “She’s sleeping.”
“Amazing child! What will she think of next?”
“A prodigy, all right.” He put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “Risky, that hepatitis bit.”
“So was everything else. Ignoring it would have insulted her, right? As for acting hurt and jealous—well, that might be what she wanted tonight, but she would’ve hated herself tomorrow.”
“That’s true. Up until today she’s been pretty reasonable. Put the show first. I haven’t seen this cruel streak before.”
“Yeah, you always said she was a good sport. So I decided to risk it. Hey, we’re pretty good, aren’t we? The old improvisation team.”
“You’ve missed it too?”
Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) Page 2
