Start Shooting

by Charlie Newton

  The other message is from Sarah, my agent: “WHERE ARE YOU?”

  Twenty years. Breathing too short. Push back in the seat. Be calm; be professional; be ready.

  The driver turns onto Monroe. Ruben’s car isn’t parked out front; he’s not under the marquee or at the doors. My phone vibrates again. Ruben’s number on the screen. I pay the driver and jump out. Sarah has her phone in her hand and greets me chest to chest at the curb.

  “Blanche!” Her hands go to my shoulders and press us apart for inspection. “Absolutely awesome. Feel good? Everyone’s ready. Waiting.”

  Sarah’s nerves make mine worse. Today I’m her new project, the flavor of the day. I matter, and have a hundred percent of her attention. Blanche DuBois stutters. I squeeze my eyes shut—be ready. Blanche answers that she will be, has to be.

  Sarah eases back. Worried? Or she understands, knows where I am. Where Blanche is. I push down the jitters, keep the energy, hold the energy; be bold, brazen, bet it all. But professional. For us, for Blanche. Hold back, all of it inside, ready. Stanley’s an animal; Ruben’s an animal. Stanley, Stanley, Stanley.

  Through the Monroe Street doors into the Shubert’s lobby. The lobby’s empty, vast, and cold. Only one black-lacquer door is open. A gaffer gives me a thumbs-up. The aisle down is side-lit dim; the theater’s dark, five heads are in the tenth row, center. As I approach, Anne Johns, friend of Ruben Vargas and Robbie Steffen, rises from the seats in a black Armani jacket, jeans, cadet cap, and wire-rimmed glasses. She sidesteps seats into the aisle, every inch of her the award-winning director she is, and says, “Hi.” Her tone is delicate, almost somber, as is her hand when she touches my shoulder. “We’re ready when you are.”

  Bring it. New Orleans, postwar.

  I smile patrician, 1940s Southern holding on to the last of it, and don’t speak. On the elevated stage Jude Law is seated on a brass bed across from a bureau and mirror. A trunk is open on the floor with flowery dresses—Blanche’s dresses, my dresses—thrown across it. A flimsy curtain hangs between him and what would be the bathroom, another curtain separates what would be the kitchen. An end table by the bed—my bed—a partially consumed bottle of liqueur and a glass. Under an open bowling shirt, he’s wearing a strap T-shirt. A jolt straightens my back: We’re doing the rape scene, not the pages Sarah sent.

  My eyes cut to Anne Johns. She hands me the scarf I used in the first audition and squeezes it gently into my hand. “Blanche might want it for the yacht.”

  Mr. Shep Huntleigh’s yacht. The desperate creation—the last hope—of a woman spiraling into madness. The scarf is Blanche’s talisman, “proof” that her imaginary Caribbean cruise and millionaire admirer are real, that her new life is about to unfold. The scarf is my talisman as well.

  Sarah walks me down the last thirty feet of descending aisle, takes my purse at the stage, and whispers, “Everything that’s ever happened to you. Your sister, Coleen. All of it.”

  Onstage my palms are wet when I shake Jude Law’s hand. I haven’t looked at the audience, the five heads who own Blanche’s and my future. Jude has blue-collar eyes—sexual, violent, knowing. His hand is too strong gripping mine. Feet apart, shoulder dipped, he is motionless swagger; male, control. No good wishes are offered. He is Stanley and points me to my mark in the bedroom of the cramped, steamy, New Orleans apartment he shares with my pregnant younger sister. In ten steps he is offstage to where Stanley Kowalski will enter.

  Arleen Brennan ceases.

  Blanche DuBois steps into the bedroom and grins, twirling on the dark edges of delirium—drunk, rejected, retreating into the last of a shattered fantasy world that will save her from past indiscretions, elevate her to a position of dignity and safety befitting a Southern woman of charm and breeding.

  “Toast to the future! My telegram has arrived at the telegraph office! Mr. Shep Huntleigh, Dallas millionaire! Oh my, yes, he and I. Our own Belle Reve and a return to the genteel days of finery and distinction.”

  I pirouette for the bureau’s mirror and an audience of future admirers, glorious me in my white satin evening gown—and stumble. It’s the heat, or possibly I’ve had a bit too many of my drinks for the day, and the exhilaration that comes when a lady prepares for … for her millionaire to whisk her away.

  I smile out into the dark apartment and the night beyond. “Oh, what a wonderful life we will have in Dallas, Mr. Shep Huntleigh and I! Never again will I encounter those who think me pretentious, my overly fragile chin too high. Me, of all people, gossiped about as a shopworn Southern belle who may have known too many men, searched too diligently through the loneliness for the safety a respectable marriage can provide.”

  I pirouette, thanking a gentleman for a compliment.

  “Have I lied? Why? Because I tell what ought to be the truth? That is no sin; a woman must protect herself in this world. The brutes and lowborn may savage me for a harmless prevarication, but not my faraway millionaire. No, no; Mr. Shep Huntleigh of Dallas knows me to be a beauty, a beauty of mind and a richness of spirit. This gown, all my dresses, will be spotless again—every one of my detractors will see—my rhinestone tiara will shine, no more casting my pearls before swine. Ha-ha!”

  A door bangs open in the kitchen, then shut. The light pops on. Stanley Kowalski, my younger sister’s apelike husband, a Polack of the worst sort, cradles a bag of quart beer bottles under the arm of his bowling shirt. He’s been to the maternity hospital, but liquor is in his posture as well. He eyes my white satin gown and whistles low.

  I want none of his sweaty attentions. “How is my sister?”

  “Tomorrow’s Stella’s baby day; you and I are on our own tonight.” His tone adds mock politeness men such as he foster. “You’re all dressed up fine and well.”

  “Why, I have an urgent telegram, from a former admirer—”

  Stanley grins his apish mouth, nodding. “Why, sure you do.” He sets down his bottles and removes his shirt, leering his disbelief, knowing how his undressing will affect me.

  “Please. Close the curtains before you undress any further.”

  Stanley shakes a bottle of beer instead, then opens it allowing the beer to foam and geyser. “Rain from heaven,” he says, then offers the foamy bottle and continues his leer. “Shall we bury the hatchet and make it a loving cup?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Well, it’s a red-letter night for us both. You having an oil millionaire and I’m having a baby.” Stanley walks into my room uninvited.

  I shrink back, sensing …

  He stops at the bureau, sets down his beer, and opens a drawer. His rough hands remove green silk pajamas that he shows me. “I wear them on special occasions, wore them on my wedding night. When they call and say you’ve got a son, I’ll tear this coat off and wave it like a flag.”

  Stanley walks into the bathroom, undoing his pants. I tell his back and my bedroom, “It will be divine to have privacy once more.”

  From behind the bathroom door, Stanley says, “From your oil millionaire.”

  “Why, yes. I have been foolish, casting my pearls before swine, but no more.”

  “Swine, huh?”

  “Yes, men like you and your friend Mr. Mitchell.”

  Stanley opens the bathroom door dressed in his pajamas. His tone is low, harsh, and ugly. “Swine, huh?” He ties the sash, hands lingering below his waist. “Take a look at yourself here in a worn-out Mardi Gras outfit, rented for 50 cents from some ragpicker. And with a crazy crown on. Now what kind of a queen do you think you are?”

  No, all will be fine. I begin to hum “It’s Only a Paper Moon.”

  “Do you know that I’ve been on to you from the start? And not once did you pull the wool over this boy’s eyes.”

  I’ll not listen. “Only a paper moon. Sailing over a cardboard sea …”

  “You come in here and you sprinkle the place with powder and you spray perfume and you stick a paper lantern over the lightbulb—and, lo and behold, the place has turned to E
gypt.”

  He’s not here, threatening me with his uninvited presence in my bedroom, with more gossip about my … past. “Only a paper moon. Sailing over a cardboard sea …”

  “And you are the queen of the Nile, sitting on your throne, swilling down my liquor. And do you know what I say? Ha ha! Do you hear me? Ha ha ha!”

  “But it wouldn’t be make-believe. If you believed in me …” I am busy with movements unrelated to his threat, movements of a fine lady who a brute would not dare sully. Stanley steps closer with his dirty thoughts; he wants me to see them.

  I step back and bump my bed. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “You think I’m gonna interfere with you?” He has the wanton look lowborn men reveal when they drink, or believe they have rights. “Maybe you wouldn’t be bad to interfere with.”

  Stanley smiles with his filthy mouth open. His hands rise … to reach for my clothes, then my skin. I grab his beer bottle, shatter it against the bureau, and jab the jagged edges at him. “I will twist this broken end in your face!”

  Stanley grabs my wrist, holding the bottle at bay. He pulls me to him, almost mouth to mouth and snarls, “Tiger, tiger. Drop that bottle top. Drop it.”

  His chest touches mine; his breath is hot. I fight him for the bottle and he rips it from my hand. I claw at his eyes and he whips me sideways to the bed. “No! You won’t have me. You, you, Pollack. Animal.” My hand rips out of his grip and I jump toward the door.

  He grabs for my shoulder, ripping away my gown. His other hand sinks into my hair tearing it loose from the semi-bun, and twists me back to him.

  “So you want some roughhouse. All right, let’s have some roughhouse.”

  “No! You leave me alone.” His blue eyes blaze two inches from mine, awful horrible words bounce off my lips. I’m a lady. He can’t take advantage, can’t take the last of me. He can’t …

  He crushes me to him. “Tiger. Tiger. We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning.”

  I’m heaved to the bed; he lands between my legs, pounding into me, ripping at my clothes. I won’t let him! I won’t—

  “SCENE.” Loud, from out there in the black.

  Fight him off. Motion, blur, my hands … Stanley’s weight lifts—

  Applause. Blink. Applause.

  Jude Law. Movie-star smile. He’s standing, offering me his hand I don’t, won’t, can’t take; he’s pulling me up from the bed, waits till I’m standing, lets go, and begins to clap. For me, us. Tears pour down my cheeks. I’m shaking all over. Jude Law ducks an inch and looks up at me, hands open, palms up. He approaches gently and hugs me okay. “Wonderful, Arleen. Powerful, powerful. Blanche DuBois.”

  I think he means it. I’m at the Shubert Theater, not in the French Quarter, not Blanche, not Coleen being raped. Anne Johns the director is coming to the stage. She hugs me, too, then turns me to the audience, still holding my hand. Sarah, my agent is applauding, both hands over her head. For me. I think, I think … I did it.

  Anne Johns says, “Arleen. It was … awesome. Sex, fear, terror, disgust … just oh-my-God awesome.”

  “I … I get the part?”

  “Don’t know, one more to go. But you—”

  I don’t hear what Anne says. It’s hot, way too hot, and I have to hug her shoulder to stay standing. She adds a bit of support until I regroup, then holds me at arm’s length, still beaming. The last forty-eight hours is as much of the performance as I am.

  Anne Johns says, “So totally Southern. And you were right there—I was terrified. Wish we’d filmed it.”

  I feel the eyes of Jude Law, an actor’s actor, and smile through my tears. A combination of Blanche and I half breathe, half say, “The kindness of strangers.” He winks. I peek at the audience. Chicago-girl Amy Madigan has her hands clasped together squeezing them in affirmation for what her friend and I just did. Forty rows beyond her, two figures walk partway down the side aisle. One is a theater security officer.

  The other is Bobby Vargas. I’m so glad he’s here. It’s perfect, it’s—

  Not Bobby.

  It’s Ruben. He stops when he’s sure I’ve seen him and can’t blink him into nothingness, then gives me two thumbs-up and his creepy café-society grin. He’s here to own part of my moment, to remind me that this is his ground, too, that I can be Cinderella or he can drag me from the sunlight into the sewer anytime he wants. Stanley and Ruben, deep breath, Ruben and Stanley. I never have a gun in my hand when it’s time.

  “BRAVO.” Applause. “BRAVO.” In the other aisle, Toddy Pete Steffen walks toward the stage. He’s wearing a tailored summer-weight suit, and applauding. For me, a beaming boyish grin on his face. The First Ward’s Prince of Darkness applauds all the way to the orchestra pit.

  “Fabulous.” He’s still clapping. “Wow.”

  Jude Law bows twenty degrees and points at me. Me. Mr. Steffen continues to applaud. I scan shadows for Ruben Vargas and don’t see him. Not midnight for Cinderella after all. I can’t help it and hug Jude Law who hugs me back. And when my feet leap off the stage and hit the carpet in Toddy Pete’s aisle I hug him, too.

  He wipes my tears off his cheek and kisses my forehead. “Young lady, you deserve it. If for some reason it doesn’t happen, come see me.” Toddy Pete turns us to his director. “Blanche DuBois isn’t the only lead role with your name on it.”

  My hands flatten on his jacket. “Please, Mr. Steffen, just let me have Blanche. I’ve had so many tomorrows that never came.” My voice is half Blanche; my hands are pleading and I pull them back. “I’m sorry.” Wince. “Honest, I’m more professional than that.” Both hands press at his jacket. “I’m just—”

  He smiles again, boyish at sixty, handsome not dangerous, not the First Ward’s Prince of Darkness. Then hugs me and turns us again to the decision makers. “My girl’s not bad, huh?”

  Amy Madigan, yells, “Spectacular.”

  The gaffer yells, too: my new family. Sarah applauds over her head, then grins at the man next to her to include him in our celebration. Ruben Vargas nods, says something to Sarah, and begins to clap.

  OFFICER BOBBY VARGAS

  SUNDAY, 12:30 PM

  Nobody kills Jewboy, ever.

  I run all the lights on Canal, brake hard at Harrison, miss the CTA bus, and slide westbound through the intersection. Jewboy’s not dead. Walter E. Mesrow goes on to become president after Obama. Buff’s not fighting to stay alive in Mercy’s ICU; Buff doesn’t die; he retires; his daughter gets better and goes to college. My foot stomps the gas. Wet fingers wipe at my eyes. Robbie Steffen’s a liar; so is Hahn. My brother’s not into a blackmail business that killed Jewboy. Ruben didn’t, couldn’t. I call him; voice mail for the hundredth time. “Answer your phone!”

  Call-waiting beeps in my hand. Hahn’s wrong. Robbie Steffen’s wrong. It’s a scam, a frame. And Jason’s wrong, Jewboy’s not dead, not shot by some psycho Asian bitch. Wet fingers wipe my nose. I jam the brakes, jerk into the parking lot at the Cook County Morgue, bounce hard and park. Jason’s been wrong before. Jewboy is not here.

  The room is large and cold. It smells of disinfectant, and it’s silent. Officer Mesrow is almost too large for his stainless-steel table. A dull green sheet covers all but his neck and face. No grin, no red Hawaiian shirt. Tucked under his head is Jason’s favorite Cubs hat. Wet dots appear on Jewboy’s sheet. I apologize and pat at the dots. An assistant medical examiner walks past, heading toward an autopsy table; his face says he’s sorry, too.

  Except this place doesn’t need any more of my friends. Me and Walter E. Mesrow aren’t saying goodbye, not here, not like this, not after seventeen years. Jewboy’s basement is where he belongs, where we should all be, with the beer signs and Hawaiian shirts, planning for Jamaica and WaveRunners that sink, girls and rum punches, planning our next Cubs game, softball game, somebody’s wedding. We have too much to do. The guitar lessons were going great. And we agreed, none of us would die this year; in November we’re all flying back to Jama
ica, Frenchman’s Bay, to Eggy’s Bohemian.

  I squeeze Jewboy’s hand so he knows I’m not screwing around. “If anybody can beat this room, Walter Mesrow can.” I stare thousands of conversations, regrets and losses, hopes and dreams, and family into his face. I will him back to life. Jewboy’s sunburned skin is yellow, his hand stiff and icy. He doesn’t move. “C’mon, man, gimme this. Everybody’s outside, we got beer, the entire Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. Hef’s plane is waiting; we’re flying to the mansion.” Jewboy may be on a cold stainless-steel table covered by a sheet, but he’s Serbian Polish, he can do this. I ate pierogi and pelmeni suppers with his parents, saw him do stand-up comedy sober and carry dogs out of apartment fires with his shirt burning. I will him to sit up. But Jewboy doesn’t.

  “C’mon, Jewboy. You ain’t leaving me and the guys here.” Choke, eye wipe, trying to hide it from him. “It isn’t right, we’ll have nowhere to party.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay, okay … I can give you a minute. We’ll be fine till you get back.” My voice breaks and my eyes squeeze shut to stop the tears. “I’ll make sure your mom gets through till then. That’s a promise, me to you.” I squeeze Jewboy’s hand harder with both of mine, rubbing heat into his. “But it’d be way better if you came back now. Before you take this too—”

  A door opens behind me but I don’t react, don’t need to know. “Officer?”

  Didn’t hear that. Way too early to give up.

  “Officer? Sorry, we’re scheduled to do the autopsy …”

  Two men in surgical gear stop six feet away. I look down to Jewboy. No one comes back from autopsies. They cut the big Y in your chest, saw half your head off, and you’re gone. You go from the last time anybody saw you to a carved stone in Holy Sepulchre or Waldheim, dead brown leaves and twenty-four-hour silence bunching under your name.