Ben, Anna Maria, Paul, and a smattering of invited onlookers leap to their feet, clapping and hooting, making as much noise as their small band can make as we take our curtain calls. The plan was we would come from the aisles, gather as a line, break into smaller lines, and bow to each of the four compass points of the stage, so each of us would get a bow to each segment of the audience.
We finish, and Ben looks at us as we sit on the small stage. He smiles. Says nothing. He’s a proud papa whose kid has just popped from the womb and is a perfectly formed little human.
Finally. “That, my children, was amazing! We, all of us, were blown away.” The rest of the audience shouts out their agreement. “I thought the show was set. Friday night’s rehearsal was perfection. Or so I thought. But tonight, there was electricity on that stage. I watched in awe, trying to figure out what changed.”
One of the guys on stage shouts, “So were we. At intermission, we were all trying to figure out who or what was gassing us up.”
“You know what?” Ben says. “I think it was Dewey. Randy was different tonight. A much fuller character. There was a heart and soul that hasn’t been there before. An understanding Randy hasn’t had. Dewey”—he points to me—“you’ve been great before tonight, but what we just witnessed was inspired.”
As I sit, blushing, there is a cast cacophony, agreeing with Ben’s assessment.
Lulu shouts above the rest. “I know exactly what this is all about. Dewey learned something this weekend. Something monumental. We were talking about it before we started tonight. It’s….”
Ben cuts her off, holding up his palm like a stop sign. “No, Lu. We don’t need to hear it. Everybody was finally playing off Dewey’s Randy. That’s exactly as it should be. And if we hear a lecture about why, we risk losing the emotion of it all. Let’s keep it like it is. I guarantee that the magic will continue.”
One of the cast members—I don’t even know his name because he is one of the “extras” who just joined us last week—says, “I’m new here, so I probably have no right to say this. But if this thing all hinges on Dewey, why doesn’t he get a star curtain call?”
Ben speaks. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Donnie, but this is an ensemble show. We’ve always felt—Anna Maria and I—since the play is about a protest group and the opposition they face, no character is more important.”
“That’s all well and good, Ben,” Donnie counters. “I see your point. But, like you just said, everyone is playing off Dewey and his character. That’s my definition of a star.”
“But there are no stars here.”
LuLu’s hand shoots up in the air.
“Okay, LuLu, without telling us what Dewey told you earlier, what point do you want to make?”
“I think Donnie’s right. There truly is a main character in this play. And that is Randy. His death is the climax, the thing that pushes the message home. And now that we are finally playing off Dewey’s interpretation of the character, we need to acknowledge Dewey is the star of the show.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this. Her performance is just as good as mine. Everybody’s is. I’ve got to put a stop to this. “No, LuLu, we’re all in this together. Each one of us on this stage has a story to tell, a point to make.”
“DewDew, I agree with that to a point. But Randy dies. A good death scene is a surefire way to win a Tony, an Oscar.”
Everyone laughs.
“I’m not trying to be funny here, guys,” LuLu says, a tiny bit annoyed. “I’m trying to make a point.”
A clamoring babble erupts from the cast and crew. A good clamor, like they are agreeing with LuLu and Donnie’s madness.
Anna Maria throws up her hands. “Quiet, quiet…. Look, I’m the author. I didn’t set out to write a star turn with Randy. But after seeing tonight’s rehearsal—no, performance—I think LuLu’s point is well-made. Ben, I think we need to revise the curtain call. Give Dewey his due.”
Ben says, “What say, people? Is LuLu right?”
“Fuck, yeah, she’s right,” the guy playing my killer yells out. “I understood this play a hell of a lot better tonight. Before this, I was just going through the motions up here. I felt like that f-ing pig tonight.” He thrusts his arm into the air, a fist enclosing his fingers, and starts a chant, “Dewey, Dewey, Dewey,” and they all join in. Ben stands there, grinning.
Motioning for the noise to die down, Ben says, “Okay, then I propose we do the curtain call a little different. What say Dewey stays backstage until everyone else has taken their bows, and then you all gesture down the west aisle to our star. As Dewey runs up the aisle, you all split and stand in the aisles. Dewey bows and motions for you guys to return. If the audience is still applauding—and they will be, Dionysius willing—you can do the original bows. Then exit up the aisles. God knows what we’ll do if there is still thundering applause. Break into a chorus of ‘We Shall Overcome,’ I guess.” Everybody laughs. “Now, shall we rehearse the new curtain call?”
We run through the new plan, and I feel awkward, suddenly in the star spotlight. But no one else seems to care I’m now the focus of it all. And in fact, when we finish the general bow at the end, we all join hands and start singing. A bond we didn’t have before has formed. And that’s what makes good theater great.
“Okay, guys and gals, we’ve got a show,” Ben says, animated like we’ve never seen him before. “Now, the show is set. S-e-t. You hear?” He stops. Pauses. “The. Show. Is. Set.” Another stop. Another pause. “No changes, you hear me?” He waits for us to agree. “I’m glad tonight happened. I thought the show was set, but Dewey and all of you taught me it wasn’t, just yet. So now, we run it as it will run in performance. Keep the energy up. Keep the emotions high. And make it great, y’all.”
There is more goodwill, more energy among us all as we leave tonight’s rehearsal than we’ve had in the entire time we’ve been together.
Outside on the sidewalk, LuLu exclaims, “Dewey, you’re a marvel. I always knew something was missing. That we hadn’t quite gotten to the core of the apple yet. That there was another layer to the show that was just beyond our reach. Who knew it was my DewDew, my own James Dean, Monty Clift, Paul Newman, Larry Olivier, all rolled into one cute, little Fort Worth cherub?” She tweaks my nose with every actor’s name.
I brush her hand away, but she keeps poking my nose until her last word. This time, my swat stops her. “Stop it, girl. I’m not some movie star, some Oscar winner. I’m just a student actor who came to a realization that helped me make my character better. That’s what we all hope for, isn’t it? To keep learning as actors? Shit, to keep learning as human beings.” I look at her. I shrug. “I guess I’ve done both this weekend.”
“You sure have. And it’s made you a better person, DewDew, not just a better actor. I knew the first moment I met you—remember how I was teasing you about having to kiss me?—well, that was a test, and it told me just what I was hoping for: you’re a good, good person, DewDew. But now, you’ve crossed over. You’re a great person. And I love you.”
She grabs me, hugs me, and plants a kiss right on my lips. She holds the kiss for forever. No tongue, no movement. Just a long, firmly placed meeting of the lips. Then she breaks away and grins.
I don’t know what to think as she gets into her car and drives away.
I am totally dumbfounded. I love her too, but I stand there. I hope that was just another one of her jokes, because I feel nothing from that kiss. Nothing. Why is that? I compare the kiss to one of Jeep’s kisses. I start to get warm all over. There is a coldish breeze surrounding me, but I’m warm. I’m trembling. I’m getting hard.
No.
No.
No.
No.
I’m.
Not.
That way.
Chapter 11
OPENING NIGHT. Wow. I love opening nights. There is a rush like nothing I’ve ever felt before. And it happens over and over and over, and with each production I’m in,
the rush is more intense. I think it is because the best role you do is the one you are doing right now. An actor is not an actor unless he is working. And I love working. You’d think enjoying this so much would feel like fun, and it does. But it is work—hard work. And you get exhausted and filled with energy all at the same time. I think that’s why actors are known for hard partying. After you put everything you’ve got into a role, you have to let off steam.
I always get to the theater an hour and a half early. I cleared it with Ben the door would be unlocked and waiting for me. He laughed when I talked to him. Seems he likes to arrive even earlier than that, sit in the dark, and say his prayers. He added he needed to say all the prayers he could, since he would be at the theater on Friday night, his Sabbath. I don’t know much about the Jewish faith, but I do know everyone in our show who follows it have been talking about missing Sabbath on Fridays. Some were upset but resigned that the show was important and thus it was okay; others didn’t seem to be too religious, nor did they care. Ben, I guess, fell into the first category. This, of course, is Thursday, but extra prayers can’t hurt, I guess.
As I head to the dressing room, I see LuLu. The houselights are up full, so Ben must have finished his prayers and retreated. LuLu got here, I guess, about the same time Ben did, for she is in full costume and makeup, sitting serenely, meditating. I don’t interrupt her. An actor’s preshow ritual is sacred, whatever it may be.
As I apply my makeup, I think of Jo. She’s had a tough week, dealing. I’ve phoned her every afternoon after school. She told me on Monday she really didn’t want to go to school, but she decided to go anyway. Her teachers and friends pretty much left her alone. Not standoffish, though. Many of them told her how sorry they were to hear of Danny’s death. I guess it wasn’t general news until the funeral on Saturday. Or they didn’t want to bother her.
As the week plodded along—for Jo, because she was still trying to make sense of it all; for me because I was anxious about the show—poor Jo, little by little, opened up to me.
“You wanna know why my folks are such disasters over this, Dewey?”
I really hadn’t thought about it. I figured any parents would fall apart if their son was killed. But I knew Jo needed to talk, so I said, “Sure.”
“When Danny got his draft notice, he was in a panic. He didn’t want to go to fight.”
“That’s a reasonable reaction. Who would? Especially in this war,” I said.
“But it was more than that. Danny confided in me. He said that for a long, long time, he’d believed killing was wrong. That this war was not only immoral, but any war was immoral. Dewey, he was thinking of running off to Canada even before he got his draft notice.”
That was a shock to me. Daddy kept saying what a hero Danny was. Yes, I’d come to believe that, but I figured Danny had fought because he felt it was right to fight.
“I gather by your silence that shocks you. It did me too. But I fully supported my brother. I convinced him to talk to Mom and Dad about the whole thing. Call me crazy, but I knew they would support him in this.” She paused. A long pause, during which I thought I heard a sniffle. “Dewey, I was wrong.” She began to sob, and I felt so helpless since I was on a phone, clear across town.
“Don’t cry, Joey. Whatever happened is not your fault.” What else could I say? I heard her try to stop her sobs, and finally she sounded under control again.
“Dewey, Mom and Dad called him a coward. A coward, Dewey! How could they say such a thing about their own son? Dad said if Danny didn’t face up to his responsibility, if he ran away, he could forget he even had a family. It was horrible, Dewey.”
It’s selfish to say it, but when she said that, my mind flashed to what my Daddy would say if I ever told him I liked boys. Which I don’t, but still, that very thing had crashed into my consciousness that night Jeep and I had spent together. I banished the thought because Jo needed me to hear her now and help her if I could.
“He didn’t mean that, Joey. You know he didn’t. Your dad loves Danny and would never do that.”
“You think? Why do you think Mom and Dad were so broken up over Danny’s dying?”
“What parents wouldn’t be?”
“Yeah, Dewey, but not like they’ve reacted. It’s been a week now, and they can barely get out of bed. I know, Dewey, I know. They feel guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Yeah, cousin. They feel guilty because they made their son go to war. And they feel guilty they knew their son so little they didn’t even know how he felt about it until they forced him to go. Do you know what my dad said to him right before he shipped out?”
I just waited for her answer. I knew she was building up to it. To blurting out something that hurt like hell.
“He said, ‘Son, make us proud. Forget this pacifist shit, and you fight like fucking hell over there. Do us proud, son. Or don’t come back here.’”
I felt a twinge. How could a father say such a thing to his only son? Would Daddy say something like that to me?
“Jo.” I paused, thinking, grasping for anything that might comfort her. “He didn’t mean it. He loved Danny with all his heart. There is no way he really meant what he said.”
“I know, Dewey. While Danny was deployed, my dad was so proud of him. But when those soldiers showed up at our door—” She broke off. More sobs. I waited.
“Dewey, Daddy lost it. All he could say was ‘I did this to my boy.’ Yeah, he never admitted to anybody but me and Mom, but he—and Mom—think they killed Danny because they were ignorant. They were his parents, but they didn’t know their son. That’s all they’ve talked about since the funeral. How if they had been more in touch with Danny and how he felt, they would have helped him get to Canada. I know, I know. Too little, too late. Why is it parents stay out of their kids’ lives? I’m not talking about their needing to control everything. Most parents do enough of that. But so many parents don’t have a clue as to how we feel, not even what we are doing with our lives. Your folks are great parents. They get you, Dewey, they really do.”
“Don’t believe it, Joey. I love them, and yes, they support me. But did you know Mother is the only one who comes to my performances? Here I am, doing what I love best, and Daddy never shows unless I order him to come. That hurts. Deep down, I guess I think he thinks acting is for sissies.”
“Oh, cousin, I’m so sorry to hear that. I feel for you.”
“Thanks, Jo. But I can agree with you, my daddy not coming to my performances is a lot easier cross to bear than poor Danny’s. But always remember, Joey, Danny was a hero. Reluctant hero or not, he did his job, and you and your parents can be proud of him.”
I’m shocked to hear a little laugh from her ride the phone lines.
“Funny you should say that, Dewey. In the mail today were two letters. One was from President Nixon praising Danny and offering condolences. The other? The premier of Vietnam, the fucking premier, thanking mom and dad for sacrificing their son in the cause of freedom for his country. He said, like you just did, Danny was a hero. A fucking hero.” Her voice is so full of anger I feel the heat in it over the phone.
“Joey, those letters opened a wound that, for you, had begun to close a little. I know how hard it must have been to read them. Those guys—Nixon, that premier—are just spouting words, words they think you want to hear. But I’m telling the truth, Joey. Danny was a hero. He was a hero because he did his job, and he did it well. He wasn’t fighting for President Johnson or Nixon. He wasn’t fighting for some clueless leader zillions of miles across the planet. No, he was fighting because he was told he had to. And doing what you have to do is a quality of a true hero.”
“Thanks, cousin. You made me feel better. I’ll see you Thursday night.”
“You’re coming to the show? You don’t have to do that, not with all that’s going on in your life right now.”
“I need it, Dewey, I need it. Distraction. I need to see my future award-winning cousin act his little ol�
�� heart out.” I heard the smile in her voice.
“From your lips to God’s ears, Joey. See you after the show.”
As I powder my face to set the makeup, I feel warm inside. When the opening got pushed up, I told Mother, but I was careful not to tell her the new opening date. With all that was happening, she never asked, and I didn’t tell. So, unless she’s seen a poster, she won’t come. And if she’s not here, Daddy won’t come, that’s for sure. She’d have to drag him along with her. I’d like Mother here, but Daddy would just lecture me on the whole message this show is putting out there. I don’t want that. No way.
But with them not here tonight, it’s nice I’ll have my cousin cheering me on.
I finish getting ready. Then I go to visit with LuLu. That kiss? She explained the next night. She told me it was another one of her tests. She lingered on my lips so long to see if I would kiss back. When I didn’t, LuLu declared, “So, it’s settled. You’re gay.”
I tried to deny it, but she put her finger on my lips to keep me from talking, a wicked smile slashing her face. If I didn’t like her so much, I’d hate her for her strange ways.
But tonight I’ve brought her a good show bouquet. It’s traditional to give good show gifts on opening night. One of Randy’s character quirks I developed for him is he is always scarfing down Baby Ruth bars. So I bought Baby Ruths for each of the cast members. But I wanted something special for LuLu, so I brought her flowers with her Baby Ruth tied into the bow.
Since she was lost in meditation when I came in, she hasn’t seen my gift until I present it to her right now.
“Good show, Molly,” I say, handing her the carnations and using her character name.
All You Need Is Love Page 14
