Acts of Love

by Judith Michael

  "Fine." He found the column on the coffee table and sat down to read it. Her picture was at the top, tiny and grainy but identifiable, her expression somber, as if the news she imparted was too profound for smiles. "Behind Closed Doors" was the name of the column, and Luke skipped from one boldfaced name to the next until he came to a blind item. "What former wife of New York's hottest director leaves tomorrow on a cruise with companion Edwin Peruggia, Hollywood's favorite lawyer," who tried but failed to invest in her former husband's new play?"

  "What the hell is this?" he demanded when Tricia turned from the bar with their drinks.

  "That's why I wanted you to read it. You never told me you were turning down investors, Luke."

  "We're not. Monte would have told me. Where did you get this?"

  "Luke, you know I never reveal my sources."

  "Someone in Peruggia's office, I suppose. It can't have been Monte's staff. Who was it?"

  "My lips are sealed."

  "It never happened, Trish. Doesn't that bother you? Where did you get it?"

  "My God, you are so stubborn. One of Ed's new lawyers, just out of school. He said he got it from Ed's secretary."

  "And you didn't check it."

  "I don't have time to check everything. Would it really bother you if it runs? It's free publicity, you know."

  "Take it out. It doesn't serve any purpose."

  "It titillates, Luke. That's what it's supposed to do."

  "It produces nothing. Like stirring a cauldron without making soup or stew or sauce."

  "It produces interest. Amusement, curiosity, envy, contempt . . . emotions. People feel alive when they have emotions. What else do you produce in the theater, for heaven's sake? You're so high and mighty, but you do exactly what I do. Only I reach more people every day than you do in five years."

  "You left out understanding."

  "Oh, Luke, good heavens, nobody reads a gossip column for understanding; they read it to feel superior to people who are richer and more famous and more beautiful than they are. I'm not trying to write the truth of the ages, you know; I'm just giving people what they want. Now could we change the subject? I'm sure it isn't good for the digestion to have deep philosophical discussions before dinner. You really didn't turn him down? You might have done it because you don't like his morals. Or distinct lack of them. Or you heard he was squiring your ex-wife and you— No, I see from your face that that won't fly. Just tell me if he ever wanted to invest in any of your plays."

  "No."

  "Well. I'd believe you before one of Ed's little underlings." She led him back to the couch and sat beside him, kissing him lightly. "Tell me about

  78 ~ Judith Michael

  the play. I heard Abby Deming is going to star; that's money in the bank for you, isn't it? I mean, she's such a draw; it's amazing, at her age, and as far as I can tell she's never had her face done. And it's extra good, isn't it, because you've got an unknown playwright. What's his name? Tell me about him."

  "Dinner, Miss Delacorte." In the dining alcove, Tricia's maid lit the candles on the small round table and filled the wineglasses, then vanished through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  Tricia took Luke's arm to walk across the room. "We can talk over my excellent dinner." Luke held her chair as she sat down. "Now, Luke," she said as he sat opposite her. "What's the name of your newest genius? Tell me all about him."

  Luke was looking past her through the wide windows at thousands of other illuminated windows filling his field of vision. They were the same lights he saw from his own dining room, at a slightly different angle, and it occurred to him that his world was a narrow one, without a change of scene or, it appeared, a change of subject, even when he went to dinner.

  "Luke!"

  "Kent Home," he said. "Very young, brilliant, occasionally charming, unfortunately also immature and hyperactive." He put his hand over hers. "You will not put an item in your column that Lucas Cameron's new play has been written by an immature young man who is going to be hard to control."

  "What makes you think—"

  "You were planning it. Forget it, Trish. Not a word about any of this, or I can't talk to you. You know that."

  "This is my livelihood we're talking about."

  "Your livelihood does not stand or fall on items about Kent, who hasn't made a name yet."

  "Will he?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then I'll write about him when he does."

  The maid cleared their soup plates and served soft-shelled crabs and a wild rice salad. Luke refilled their glasses. The candles slowly burned down. And for the rest of the evening, and into the night, they shared the common ground of New York and its celebrities that had brought them together.

  But much later, when Tricia drowsily stretched on her silk sheets as

  he got up to dress, and asked him to stay the night, he shook his head. "I still have a few hours of work. Thank you for everything; it was just what I needed."

  He bent to kiss her, then made his way through the apartment, skirting furniture that hulked like indistinct ghosts in the faint light that filtered in from a city only half asleep, and took the elevator to the street. It was barely cooler than when he had arrived, but he did not look for a taxi; he walked the mile to his building, past sleeping figures in doorways bundled up as if it were winter; past lovers pausing to kiss, or taking an extra skip to make their footsteps match; past a woman in a frayed down coat and wool hat pushing a grocery cart piled high with possessions; past a couple in the midst of a quarrel, spitting accusations, neither hearing the other; past two boys whispering, plotting, darting glances all around; past someone laughing at something her companion had said; past someone weeping at something her companion had said.

  Not such a narrow world, Luke thought as his doorman held open the door to his building. If I get out of apartments and theaters and keep walking, I'll see everything.

  Martin had left notes on his desk: Tommy Webb had called. So had Monte Gerhart, Kent Home, Marian Lodge— who's Marian Lodge? Oh, the writer from The New Yorker. I can't even remember what I said to her —Fritz Palfrey, and Cort Hastings saying he'd been reading The Magician and he didn't think he liked Daniel as much as he'd thought at first, so he needed some time with Luke tomorrow, and also the playwright, whose name he couldn't remember.

  Don't these people ever sleep? Or ta/{e some time off? Luke swept the messages into a pile and left them by the telephone. He looked at his watch. Not so late. Time for one or two letters. And with that he knew that he had been waiting for this moment, anticipating the letters in the same way that a child anticipated bedtime stories: a reward for a good day, a treat for the time when everything else had been accomplished. He was faintly embarrassed by his eagerness ... but why not? he thought. Jessica was Constance's friend; obviously I'd want to know more about her. He went to his chair, where he saw that, once again, Martin had left a tray on the round table, this time with a plate of chocolate cookies beside the thermos of coffee and bottle of cognac. He settled himself, poured cognac and coffee, munched a cookie. Then he opened the box and pulled out a cluster of letters.

  80 ~ Judith Michael

  . . . can't Delieve tnere could be a tneater witnout—

  The pages were out of order. Luke reorganized them. It was a short letter, the handwriting agitated.

  Dearest Constance, I just got your letter. On, damn, tnat I'm stuck in London wnen I ougnt to be with you. Have you known about this ror a long time? Well, you must have; good heavens, ir your heart is so weak that you have to leave the stage, you must have been worrying about it ror months . . . years . . . And never a word to me. Every time I said you looked pale or tired—and thinking back I realize I said that a lot, especially when we took our last play to Los Angeles—you always passed it oir: too many late nights, a mild cold, a touch or the rlu. You said in your letter that you didn't want to worry me, but aren't we closer than that? I thought you would have shared . . . Well, you didn't and
I wish you had, but the thing is, what do we do now? I could come to New York overnight to be with you berore you leave; would you like that? Or—I have a much better idea—could you stop in London on your way to Italy? My hotel suite has an extra bedroom and we could have a rew days together; you could see me in A Doll's House —I'd love to know what you think or it—and I've got a new rriend I'd like you to meet. But most or the time it would be just the two or us. We could be as busy or as quiet as you want but at least we'd be together berore you go into this strange exile you've chosen. Please let me know your schedule; please write or call, anytime. All my love, Jessica.

  Dearest Constance, rour perrect days in London (and every time you had to stop and rest we had a chance to try another pub!), but that was two months ago and now I'm back in New York and you're in Italy and I reel as ir we're on dirrerent planets. I never realized how much I counted on you being on a stage somewhere; it made me reel less alone. I didn't even know I relt alone until now. You said you do, too, when we talked yesterday arternoon, and I was up all night thinking about you. This must be about the hardest thing you've ever done, isn't it? I understand all your reasons—that you wanted to be rar away rrom New York, that you reel you're a dirrer-

  A

 

  CTS of LOVE ~ 81

  ent person when you're not on stage and so you went all the way and made a new lire to go with the new person you are. I understand it, hut still it amazes me that you had the courage to do it.

  Your aloneness is much more starfc than mine—it makes me reel ashamed even to talk ahout mine, hut you asked ahout it on the phone. The ract is, I've never had a close woman rriend other than you, 1 have no man I care ahout, 1 have no ramily. You were all or those ror me. Until now, and so again—as so many times herore— what I have lert is the theater. And I do have a new excitement there, hecause suddenly writers are sending me plays, or sending them to my agent, so 1 reel that, now, I'm part or the heginning or things. Not quite the creation but close to it.

  Still, I wish you were with me. The other day 77?^ New York Times said, "Now that Constance Bernhardt has retired, Jessica Fontaine is the dominant actress or the American stage. " Imposing words . . . hut I'd rather share it with you; I'd rather we dominated together. I do so miss you.

  But I have your photographs. Thank you ror sending them to me; I like heing able to picture you in your villa when I write to you. And yes, I will come to visit, as soon as I can. How lovely or you to quote an old letter or mine: "My door is always open, wide, wide open, to you. That means everything to me. Be well, I love you, Jessica.

  Luke put his head back and closed his eyes. I've never had a close woman friend other than you, I have no man I care about, I have no family. You were all of those for me. Two of a kind, he thought: Jessica and I. Constance filled all those roles for both of us. And now she's gone. I wonder if Jessica has found someone to replace her.

  After a minute, he looked through the other letters he had removed from the box but not yet read. They listed plays in which she had starred, and another movie, this one a Merchant-Ivory production that received rave reviews, as did Jessica. And then she wrote that she had moved to a house on 10th Street near Grace Church.

  I saw it on a Monday and bought it that arternoon; closed two weeks later, and by Friday had workers renovating it. I'd spent those two weeks making drawings or what I wanted, and I can't wait to

  82 ~ Judith Michael

  move in. I'm noping ror a wnole new kind or lire nere. Tnere are still so many roles I want to play—my calendar is booked ror the next tnree years—nut now tnat I nave tnis nouse I 11 nave new views out or my windows, new rriends, new walks to take and new rooms to come nome to rrom touring and visiting you. Someday you may even come to visit me nere—I nave a nedroom just ror you. Wnat a lovely prospect!

  Luke skimmed the next letters describing the decorating of the new house, and then came to the last letter he held. Folded inside was a clipping from the Vancouver Tribune announcing the new theater season, which would culminate with Jessica Fontaine's long-awaited first appearance in Canada. She would star in The Heiress for a six-week run beginning on February 1, and already the performances were sold out. Luke opened the letter.

  Dearest Constance, I'm so glad you're reeling tetter and tnat you nad a good visit witn Luke. It's lovely ror you tnat ne gets tnere so orten. Will ne ne tnere in Marcn? Well, / plan to ne! I'm going to Vancouver in February, to do The Heiress, and tnen, about mid-Marcn, I'll take a train trip across Canada to unwind. Tnen, wnen I get to Toronto, I plan to leap on tne rirst plane ror Italy and spend a couple or weeks—ir tnat's not too long ror you—lolling on your terrace, breatning your pure Italian country air, hiking those hills and rields around your villa that I so loved last time, and just being with you. Does that sound all right to you? I'm so much looking ror-ward to seeing you. I'll call you rrom Toronto, but I plan to write long letters rrom the train, chock rull or adjectives and exclamation points; I'm told it's a beautirul trip, especially through the Fraser River Canyon and the Canadian Rockies. I'm really very excited about it. More soon, I love you, Jessica.

  R

  ehearsals for The Magician started on a day that would be proclaimed by television's weather people the hottest day of the decade. New York lay in a torpor: dog walkers clung to the shade, forcing their pets to find new venues, pretzel vendors stood at arm's length from the radiating heat of their stands, and even the children turning on fire hydrants seemed to be moving in slow motion. As the cast for The Magician gathered in the studio Monte had rented on 45th Street, they all offered elaborate comments on the heat, and Luke, sitting at a table some distance away, heard in their voices a note of pride, as if they felt that New York's heat was far more intense than that afflicting other cities—just as its cold, its crowds, its crises, were more intense—but because they were people of ingenuity and wiliness they would come through just fine.

  "Hell of a place to live," Monte Gerhart muttered as he took the chair beside Luke. "Always something: trial by fire every goddamn day of the year. Other cities, they've got normal weather, they live normal lives, dull but normal. They'd have a hell of a time getting through an hour here, talk about a lifetime. I got Tracy's budget. Seems high in spots. Two hundred fifty thousand for publicity?"

  "That doesn't buy much these days. We'll look at it again, though. What other spots .^"

  "Costumes. Props. We're not putting on Phantom of the Opera, you know; it ought to be pretty simple."

  "I agree; I thought those were high, too. We'll ask Tracy when she

  ~ 83 ~

  84 ~ Judith Michael

  gets here; she must have a reason for those numbers. Anything else?"

  "No, that's it. The money's coming in, Luke; it rolled in as soon as I wrote to a few people that we had Abby Deming, plus I had Abby write a P.S. that she's all excited about Rachel and Cort. I mean, those kids've only done a few TV things, I couldn't raise a dime on their names, but if Abby gives thumbs up, a lot of people pull out their checkbooks. But that doesn't mean we don't watch the budget; you never know what's coming."

  Luke nodded. He remembered from the earlier time they had worked together that it had taken him a few weeks to get used to Monte's apparent crudeness and bumbling manner that disguised one of the sharpest producers in the business. Clever of him to have Abby add a postscript to his letter; it was probably enough to tip the scales in their favor with any would-be investors worried about her reputation as a terror. And am I worried about that reputation? Luke asked himself as he stood up to greet Abby and the rest of the cast. You bet I am.

  The room, on the second floor of an old warehouse, had been remodeled as a dance studio, and one wall was mirrored, with a bar running along it. On the opposite wall, high windows stretched from one end of the room to the other. Klieg lights hung from the ceiling, and Luke had turned on a few to illuminate the area he had marked with tape to represent the stage. Folding chairs and packing boxes were sc
attered about to be used as furniture; there would be no stage set, furnishings or props until dress rehearsals in Philadelphia, in six weeks. This was a decision Luke and Monte had made together, to avoid the expense of the stagehands union, which would have moved in if there had been any piece of furniture or props on the makeshift stage. Three window air conditioners labored against the heat, sounding like asthmatic patients walking up a flight of stairs.

  "Good morning, I'm glad to see you all," Luke said. "I'm looking forward to the next weeks—we have an extraordinary cast and an extraordinary play and we'll have a good time putting it all together. Most of you haven't worked with me before. I won't give you a laundry list of my peculiarities, but I will say that I don't give orders and 'should' isn't a big word in my vocabulary, though I do know how to use it. Rehearsals are a conversation between us to figure out the emotions and meanings behind everyone's lines and bring out the strengths of the play. Any questions or comments? Okay, then, I'd like to start by going straight through the first act. Kent's given us a few stage directions and you can follow them, but

  Acts of L

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  o V E ~ 85

  most of the time you should move around any way you want. If you feel like sitting, grab a chair and put it wherever you want. Action springs from words and emotions, and I'm not going to tell you what to do; you'll find out when it happens. And it will happen, and then change over and over again, as your understanding of your lines changes, and as you refine the way you play your parts. If you have questions that absolutely can't wait, we'll stop, but I hope you can save most of them until we've gone through the whole act. Okay, let's get started."

  He moved back to the table. "Where the hell is Kent?" Monte demanded in a loud whisper.

  "He said he'd be here. You'd think he'd be the first." Luke cleared a space on the table amid paper cups half-filled with coffee, thermoses of coffee and iced tea, bagels and sweet rolls, cans of soft drinks, extra copies of the script, jars crammed with sharpened pencils, and a stack of yellow notepads, and put one of the notepads and three pencils in the clearing in front of him.