Weeping Underwater Looks a Lot Like Laughter

by Michael J. White

  “Born na more then tree kicks from this carb,” she called out to the audience. “Come oot backward, spaykin’ Frinch.”

  Hearty laughter sounded throughout the space. A few gypsy sentences later it stopped. A morose confusion spread the theater as we all realized the accent wasn’t meant as a parody. A mother and daughter next to me started squabbling over their differing translations. I could barely understand a word and couldn’t relax until the following sequence, which was mostly silent and allowed gesture to do the majority of the telling. A canvas representing a rail-yard slum scrolled down as the tinker returned to her boxcar home, laying to rest her sprightly gypsy daughter.

  The play gathered some momentum in the second panhandling scene when the tinker reaped the attention of a gangly police officer who for the previous few minutes had been looking lost on the other side of the stage. He stepped wide-legged in front of her and wagged his nightstick. Framed neatly between his knees, the tinker peered hopelessly into the darkness of the theater.

  “Now I’ve warned yeh, tinker garl,” he said. “Warned yeh fer the last time.”

  The tinker was inured to the routine. Her pale gaze panned the audience, shifting from one audience member to another until it stopped at me. As Emily stared directly into my eyes I stared back, smiling without moving my mouth, encouraging her by way of a wink and a slight emotive nod that she pretended not to notice. The scene ended with the tinker walking off with the policeman. He threw his arm over her shoulder, promising to protect her from the dank street and the night before suddenly stopping, turning both of them toward the audience for his ten-minute soliloquy on the subject of Great (great inflected to mean shit) Britain’s historic use of Irish debtors’ prisons, which often doubled as insane asylums and quarantines for drunks and gypsies. The audience groaned, in unison, practically on cue. Scene by scene the plot grew more fandangled, the tinker more inebriate and incomprehensible. As far as the rest of the audience was concerned, the only saving grace seemed to come from the tinker’s daughter, a curly-headed girl with oval glasses who looked much less a street urchin than a lackadaisical magician. The second act was mostly melodrama of the following sort:DAUGHTER: Mum, is Daddy a tinker?

  TINKER: No, me luve, eh’s a gent’amin.

  DAUGHTER: You won’t marry the chief. Promise?

  TINKER: I’m ownly the yeast in eh’s mouldy bread.

  Where the narrative began as a young woman’s struggle to forge a better condition for her daughter, it evolved into a political drama in which the prime minister of Ireland, played by a nasal and self-aware blonde, was discovered to be the underground leader of an anti-British terrorist organization. This revelation inspired a litany of squawking seat backs: the track runners walked out, the families of the actors started speaking in plain barroom voices about their desire for an intermission (that would never be granted), a sarcastic older man in a group of professors a few rows back (I’d previously overheard them dubbing the venue the “Garbage Theater”) offered his interpretation of the tinker as an “antifeminist twat.” While I hadn’t exactly forgotten about Mrs. Schell, my concerns about her attendance disrupting my suspension of disbelief were so overwhelmed by a sudden urge to drink and smoke as to render her presence a moot point.

  The third act gave start with a bawdy love scene between the tinker and the police chief, who shoved his face in Emily’s cleavage and grabbed two good handfuls of her quaking ass as he kissed her lips and face and neck. By this time it was evident that the tinker’s greatest motive in the story was to see her daughter, now suffering an unknown illness with symptoms of dizzy spells and ringing ears, admitted to Belfast’s elite academy for girls. She begged the chief, “You’ll see to er wearin’ the skarts wit tha leither shoes ind tassles?”

  While the actors all knew that their bold experiment had realized itself as a complete disaster, to their credit they all kept on just as bravely as they started. The only exception was Emily. Not only did she quit her gypsy brogue, but started employing the mocking accent of a begrudged pirate. “Yuze never teakin’ a warm hand to me,” she once shouted. “Nor a glance o forchin’ on me garrrrrl!” But this was nothing compared to her aside a few minutes later, when she yanked her theatrical daughter by her wrist to the front of the stage and cried out with all the vehemence of the dying betrayed:

  “I-may Od-gay, I-may Od-gay, I-way ave-hay oo-yay orsaken-fay e-may!”

  While the chief and his housemaid did their best to pick up the pieces of a suddenly impromptu and multilingual narrative, they only grew more visibly confused and botched their lines and ended up stomping around in exhibition of pseudo-dramatic, incongruous affectation. These actions provided Emily enough glee and inspiration that she snapped back into character for a few scenes, after which time she grew bored again and turned her back to everyone onstage, leaving them no option other than to speak their lines directly to the audience. It was sabotage, plain and simple. In what I guessed to be the play’s original climax, when the tinker was to finally break free of the chief, Emily shoved the guy so hard that he stumbled backward halfway across the stage, knocking over a pitcher of water as he tried to steady himself against the table. The pitcher banged to the floor, startling the audience in the front row (one of whom awoke looking content and peacefully rested until he realized the play hadn’t actually ended). When Emily stormed off the stage, I didn’t know if she was abandoning her daughter or the entire cast, crew, and script.

  The play ended a few minutes later in a strange roundup scene where each character received his or her personal denouement. This sequence was highlighted by the chief’s housemaid, who stopped referring to gypsies as “tinkers”; the chief, who started smoking a pipe; the prime minister, who exchanged her weapons for a much-desired British diplomat and lover; the tinker’s daughter, who stopped punching rich girls in the stomach during field hockey games; and finally the tinker, who returned to the stage with her long hair brushed, all spruced up in a tweed skirt and Aran sweater. After it was revealed that she’d been hired as a comedic radio personality for an audience who thought they were listening to an impersonation, the lights shut off and the actors made their shuffle-footed retreat.

  When the lights came up again, the actors returned to the stage like bumbling squirrels at the dead end of a laboratory maze, all except the prime minister, who bowed much longer than the others, apparently sensing her performance had risen above the script. Emily was the only actor who’d already changed out of costume. She bowed proudly at the end of the row in jeans and a red T-shirt, shimmering with pleasure. Despite her makeup, which was designed to suggest the suffering pallor of the underprivileged, she now appeared a sneaky charlatan heiress. Most of the audience clapped as though it was their most embarrassing chore, already bundling up for the exit and giving the actors such a poor reception that at one point the chief burst into liberating laughter that spread like dominoes across the stage. Emily laughed along with them, even louder than the others. I could still hear her cackling when I turned around to catch Mrs. Schell ducking into the foyer, wearing the pin-striped suit jacket I’d seen hanging under transparent plastic near the back of her closet.

  Forty-eight

  The premiere after-party was held downtown at the Blackhawk Hotel, a soulful if somewhat decrepit old place with a lobby of elaborate arches, brass handrails, and pinkish red carpet. After passing a pair of arguing bellhops in woolen red coats, I tucked Emily’s roses under my arm and made my way to the pub, where to my surprise I found the event uncanceled (though I should note the atmosphere of denial; the main actors had even driven en masse in order to appraise their performances while the mood remained unbroken). The cast was gathered around their weirdly frisky director, a dangerously thin man with tall fluffy hair and facial skin like cracked granite. I joined a group of significant others seated at the end of the bar, most of whom were perusing the pub’s concave ceiling with its views of dancing gilt reindeer and buglers in fading lederhosen. The onl
y patrons besides the Tinker assembly were a pair of young businessmen who kept mocking the director’s coy smirks and demonstrative hand gestures, every once in a while glancing over their shoulders to study up again before chuckling and carrying on. At this point he was praising the cast’s youngest actor, joking that she was certain for stardom, even if it came in the boxing ring. Emily rocked side to side on a stool at the outer edge of the circle, sucking her gin and tonic through a straw.

  “In all seriousness, I’m proud of you all. While I’m aware that Broadway may not be ready for such a bold production, I hope the critic from the Register will recognize that what we’ve got here at the Garage Theater can’t be found in New York or London or Belfast!” He laughed and raised his Guinness—the only full glass in the room. “To a brilliant review!” he shouted. The actors politely clapped, then shoved up to the bar for rounds of raspberry kamikazes.

  After Emily had taken her first group shot, I made my semi-studious approach. She turned and stroked her chin, surveying my new getup and nodding in apparent approval. I presented her the roses. She kissed me and pressed her nose into one of the blooms. Her cheeks were already flushed and she seemed much calmer than I expected, raising the question of how many drinks she’d slurped down during her director’s speech.

  “So do you think anyone recognized you from The Bridges of Madison County?”

  “Hilarious,” she said. “Do you want a cocktail? It’s free, you know. Might as well get something out of the night. Whiskey?”

  I nodded. She ordered a double on the rocks and another gin and tonic, casual to the point of boredom, like she’d been hanging out in dark hotel lounges all her life and had long grown tired of the routine. Soon the chief was hovering at my side, swinging his arm around the waist of his somber girlfriend who looked like Anne Frank and seemed reluctant to be introduced around. When it was clear that Emily wasn’t planning to facilitate an introduction, I smiled awkwardly and offered my hand. I even fed him one of his own lines: “Quit yer dancin’ in the mucky muck!” But as soon as the bartender finished pouring our drinks, Emily took my hand, making no effort to excuse herself before leading me to a small table by the windows. She propped the roses up on the third chair and sat for a while admiring them.

  “After Othello you gave me a pineapple,” she finally said, somewhat giggly. “And after Our Town, correct me if I’m wrong, you handed me a watermelon. Were they out of pumpkins or something? Or are you just getting formal in your old age?”

  “I waited outside your changing room. I waited for hours . . . days even, but you never came out.”

  “You mean the bathroom, right?” she said, laughing and taking a sip sans straw. (She still puffed her cheeks out when she drank alcohol, which in my opinion made it that much harder to stomach.) She glanced away as she swallowed, wincing, but trying not to show it. “I suppose I could’ve painted my name on the door. Maybe that’s a good idea.”

  I smiled and took a generous drink, feeling an immediate sting that warmed my throat and stomach, practically singing out to me as it coursed through my veins. Emily bobbed her head to a piano jazz album, eyeing me up and down again, looking impressed. I knew I’d end up giving her my harshest review to date, but I hadn’t decided on an appropriate tone and was more than worried how far the path of truth would eventually take us.

  “Well, out with it,” she said. “I can handle it. Maybe you can start by talking about some of the confusing parts of the plot. Unless you want to ease our way into it? Care to talk about the news for a minute or two? There’s plenty of that to talk about.”

  “All right,” I said, appreciating the extra time to consider my approach. “What’s the latest?”

  Emily sighed, like she didn’t know where to start. When she caught my eye again, her eyebrows folded into a V and she leaned forward. “You’re joking, right?”

  “If I’m joking, I don’t know what I’m joking about.”

  “Jesus,” she said, leaning back and covering her forehead. “You really don’t know? The latest on Nicholas Parsons?”

  “They caught him!” I shouted, much louder and more gleeful than I’d intended. Almost everyone in the bar turned our way. It took Emily a few seconds to wipe the smirk off her face, at which point she leaned in and lowered her voice.

  “He showed up at Missy Patterson’s house. In the middle of the night her dad heard some banging around in the garage and ended up finding Nicky crouched down in the corner fixing up her old bike. He’d already put new tires on it and oiled the chain. He was almost finished fitting it with professional pedals.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “Mr. Patterson or Nicky Parsons?”

  I took another drink, leaning back to eye her up and down the same way she’d eyed me. “You’d better not be making this up,” I said. Emily laughed a slow, breathy snigger (“How funny it is how little you know me!”). I didn’t apologize. We’d done enough of that, and anyway my apology was all over my broken-glass face. “So what happened?”

  “First I want your review,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You haven’t said a word yet, and I’m starting to think you’d rather avoid it all together.”

  “I’m not avoiding it. But now that we’re talking about Nicholas Parsons, I want to know how it ended.”

  “First my review.”

  “I knew you’d do this,” I said, taking another drink, recognizing the uselessness in attempting to change her mind. Maybe it was better this way, I thought, just to spit it out all at once. But the second I opened my mouth I grew suddenly nervous about how my review would affect the outcome of the Nicholas Parsons story, as though it were a movable narrative with grand implications for our future. “For the first act I believed you. You were sad and nervous, and I liked how your eyes never strayed too far from your daughter. I liked that a lot. You also never looked like you were trying too hard, unlike the prime minister, who kept flapping her arms every other line like she was trying out for a modeling contract. Like she was deathly afraid the scouts might not notice her.”

  Emily covered her mouth, suppressing a laugh. But so far she was nodding along, enjoying my review much more than I’d intended. “So you didn’t get jealous?” she asked. “All that funny business with the chief?”

  “Maybe I did get jealous a few times, but by the end of the second act I was just disappointed. Your accent fell apart, and you didn’t look like you were even trying.”

  “The accent wasn’t working anyway.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t, but you were mocking them. You were mocking your own character. Shit, whenever you came upon a word with an r in it, you’d growl like Captain Hook.”

  “Garrrrrrrrl,” she whispered, covering her mouth and laughing again. “Did it get any better in the third act? Before you answer, let me tell you that all along he encouraged us to absorb the script, which sometimes results in line adjustments in the middle of the performance.”

  “You did some serious absorbing.”

  “I’m a serious actor, George.”

  “You used to love the theater,” I said, taking a drink and turning toward the bar. The chief was starting to get playful, shadowboxing and slapping people’s backs. Emily drummed her drink on the table and I turned back to her.

  “Don’t let me stop you now,” she said, arguably indifferent. “You’re not a fan of improvisation? A little freestyle realism?”

  “The first time I saw you act you had a bunch of assholes for an audience, but it didn’t matter, because you weren’t afraid to let them know that you loved the theater, that you were going to perform in spite of them, even if it killed you. I’m still amazed how you kept your concentration. I watched you for ten minutes and already knew you were meant to act. But tonight . . . tonight I didn’t even recognize you up there. You weren’t even an actor. Tonight you were the fucking asshole.”

  Emily nodded and took a calm drink, this time forgetting to hide how nasty it tasted. She turned to the thick
velvet curtains, parting them and staring out over the empty downtown streets. I swear all the slow dizziness that struck me in the next minute revealed itself on her dark and falling cheeks. In the slashing yellow light of an old-style streetlamp she suddenly appeared so sick that I expected at any moment for her to lean down between her chair and the curtains to vomit. I shoved my drink to the center of the table, not wanting any more, wondering what the hell I was doing drinking double whiskeys before heading out on icy roads. Emily turned back to me and the curtains fell closed.

  “I agree with your whole critique,” she said, meeting my eyes. “Seriously. On the ride over here Tony basically said the same thing. I’m not the lead anymore. Tomorrow night Cathy will be the tinker. I’m the new prime minister, or the new terrorist, or whatever. By the time my parents show up, I’ll probably be playing the field hockey coach.”

  I stared into my melted drink, trying to recall everything I’d just said and only coming up with the decision that whatever it was would come back at me in spades. Emily obviously didn’t know that her mother had been there, and I didn’t see the point in telling her. “It doesn’t make sense,” I finally said, backing off my criticism, just as I knew I would. “Does Cathy even know the lines?”

  “A lot of times we rehearse in other roles. It’s usually Cathy and me switching characters. She’ll do fine.”

  “You had a bad night, that’s all.”

  “No I didn’t. I knew what I was doing, and whatever came of it is all my fault. But it really doesn’t matter. I guess this will only disappoint you even more, but I’m thinking about going back to Chicago. I’m still working out the details, but I told my adviser why I left and she said she’d help me. They might let me come back in a few weeks.”