Queer Patterns

by Lilyan Brock

  Sheila sat up. Her face took on an earnest expression.

  “Speaking of the show, Nicoli—I’ve been worried about myself. You know—whether or not I can do it justice. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything—and then too I was pretty terrible in my last play.”

  “You haven’t a thing on earth to worry about,” Nicoli assured her. “My guess is that your work will be better than it’s ever been. You must remember you were unhappy then, and your mind was in such an upheaval that naturally you couldn’t give good performances. No one could under those conditions.”

  Sheila sighed. “Things were pretty black for a time, darling —you’ve no idea…”

  “You must forget all that,” Nicoli admonished gently. “You will forget it, I know. Just wait and see—the minute we start rehearsals you’ll be your old self again.”

  “I hope so,” breathed Sheila.

  “As soon as the show opens, I’ll scout around and find a place suitable for us to live when we are ready to leave New York. Have you any idea where you would like to go, darling? What sort of house do you want?”

  Sheila’s eyes brightened. “I’d love a place like the Alden home, Nicoli. I never was more truly contented in my life than during those days we spent there. It was so beautiful—so real—and… it was there you came back to me.”

  “Yes, and I came to you with the determination never to leave you. My life was so lonely, so bitterly empty, without you.”

  Memories of those gray days flooded Nicoli’s thoughts anew: days that had seemed eons long, nights each one of which had been an eternity of longing. How useless her arms had been, how empty without Sheila to hold in them. How hungry her mouth had been for her kisses.

  “Yes, I know—life is hollow to me too when I’m away from you.” Sheila drew Nicoli close to her. I love you so much. I never want to live if I have to lose you. I couldn’t bear it alone again.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. I only pray God will take me first…”

  Nicoli pressed her hand over Sheila’s mouth. “You mustn’t say such things. You are all of life to me. Without you there could be nothing─-without you I wouldn’t want to live.”

  PART SEVEN

  Dust

  Love, how far can you go?

  Through all light and all shade

  Past all things made,

  And deep beyond death. After these tears

  And the failure of breath:

  In other spheres,

  In other years,

  Deep beyond,

  Deep beyond,

  Deep beyond death.” —Archibald Rutledge.

  New York: A living, breathing symphony played on the instruments of human activity and directed from above by the baton of the Master. Its melodic phrases composed of myriads of tones—tones that emanate from the measured tread of millions of feet as they walk through its movements: tapping feet, running feet, dragging, trudging feet, and the broken time of crippled feet. Rising above all are the tympani and drums which are the clanging of bells, the throbbing of traffic, shrill whistles of policemen, and the steady hum of countless motors intermingled with a continual monotone of human voices all blended into a mighty crescendo which mounts to a thunderous climax.

  *

  Nicoli and Sheila soon became a part of the rushing throng of the great metropolis. There was much to be done. While Sheila straightened their effects at the apartment, Nicoli worked for long periods at her office, interviewing performers, selecting a cast, and attending to the numerous small details essential to the launching of a new show. There was the choosing of scenery, with hours spent poring over plans with the artist; interviews with the press, and negotiations for a theater. Evenings were spent going over Sheila’s role with her, instilling in her mind the character she was to play.

  At last Nicoli called the first rehearsal. The stage was crowded with members of the cast, for the most part seated quietly, manuscript in hand, glancing over their typewritten lines.

  Sheila stood talking to a newspaper reporter. Chick Everitt looked admiringly at the radiant woman before him. “It’s great to have you back, Miss Case. Broadway has missed you. Tell me—how do you like the show? Do you like your part, and are you glad to be back under Nicoli’s direction?”

  “The answer to all your questions is ‘yes’—decidedly yes. I’m thrilled over my return and more than happy to have Nicoli directing me.”

  “I shall want pictures, Miss Case. How about taking them this afternoon, so I can run the story tomorrow? We’ve had regular photographs along with the things we have run so far, but I want more intimate shots; you know, the star at home, and so forth.”

  “Very well. My apartment, then, at four. Will that suit?”

  “That’s on the Drive, isn’t it?” Everitt questioned. “Same address as Nicoli’s?’

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Nicoli’s voice rang out. “Everybody on stage, please.”

  Work on the new play began, with Nicoli seated at a table down stage, manuscript before her, her deep tones vibrating through the still theater as she gave to the actors a brief outline of the characters they were to play.

  Sheila’s throat tightened as she listened, and her eyes remained steadfastly on the woman so intent on her work. It was good to be back in the theater, good to hear the crisp, decisive phrases that were Nicoli’s. Again she felt like a child waiting and eager to do as she was told, her heart warmed with the love of a student for a distinguished master. The hours flew, and Nicoli’s voice was mingled with those of the men and women present reading their lines. Thus the new play came to life. Thus the artistry that had been Sheila’s returned.

  *

  “Hold it, Miss Case.”

  Chick Everitt stood looking through his camera at Sheila, who reclined gracefully in a spacious chair before the fireplace, her expressive hands holding a book in whose contents she apparently was deeply interested. The click of the shutter broke the silence. Then, “That will be all, Miss Case—thanks. I think we have some good ones—just the right personal touch.”

  Sheila tossed the book to a table close at hand and rose. “I hope so. I’m afraid I’ve been a poor subject—you see, we worked hard at the theater today, and I am tired.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Everitt assured her. “We never have any trouble photographing you. If you will excuse me, you’re always lovely.”

  “That’s kind of—” The ringing of the telephone interrupted her speech. “Excuse me, will you?” Sheila asked as she moved to answer it.

  “Don’t bother about me, Miss Case. I’ll get my things together and be on my way,” the reporter replied as she left the room.

  Sheila lifted the telephone from its cradle with a blithe “Hello—Sheila Case speaking.” But the blitheness faded quickly away as she heard the voice of Allison’s attorney on the wire.

  “Miss Case, this is Harrison Blair speaking.” He seemed to hesitate as though he must choose his words with care.

  Sheila grew faint. What could he possibly want with her, unless it was to tell her that Allison had passed away? She had written Blair from time to time, but always his answer had been the same: “Mr. Graham is getting along as well as can be expected, and we are seeing to his meager wants, but his physicians hold out no hope for his recovery.”

  Then of late had come the news that Allison’s mind had taken a turn for the worse and that he had become dangerously violent.

  Sheila endeavored to steady herself. “Oh, yes, Mr. Blair— what is it?”

  “Miss Case, I have just received distressing news. They telephoned me from Hillcrest a moment ago that Mr. Graham had escaped some time during the morning. I thought you should know. We are of course making every effort to find him, but in view of what happened in Connecticut, I think you should be doubly careful not to go about alone until we have found him.”

  Fear gripped Sheila’s heart. Her hand clenched the telephone tighter. “But, Mr. Blair, I don’t believe Allison woul
d know where to find me, and besides, he probably thinks I am—” she hesitated—“dead.”

  “You forget your pictures have been in the papers numerous times in the past few days, along with stories on your new show—in fact, those same stories may be responsible for his action now,” Blair reminded her. “I don’t want to frighten you unduly, but you must be careful. I’ll call you the moment anything develops. In the meantime, let me urge you again to be careful.”

  “I will, Mr. Blair,” Sheila promised. “And do let me hear from you.”

  Sheila replaced the telephone with shaking fingers and dropped into her chair limp and spent. How to tell Nicoli— for tell her she must. Nicoli would know she was troubled; they were much too close in mind for her to hope to conceal—her perturbation. “And Nicoli would not like the idea of my being in possible danger without her having been warned,” Sheila told herself. “But she should not be bothered now, when she is so busy.”

  Nicoli’s footsteps in the hall outside roused her from her thoughts. With the superb artistry that was hers, Sheila forced herself to throw off her misgivings. Yes, that was what she must do—Nicoli’s mind must not be upset now in the midst of production. She must hide her feelings somehow and appear her usual self.

  Sheila opened the door just as Nicoli turned the key in the lock.

  “Hello, darling,” Nicoli said as she kissed Sheila. “All finished with the pictures?”

  “Yes; Chick left just a moment ago. He said he got some good ones. I hope so—I really didn’t feel up to it; however, he seemed pleased with them.”

  “We have worked hard today, I know,” Nicoli replied. “But I think we’re really going to have something worth while. I was more than pleased with the way rehearsal went, and for once I believe the cast can remain as it is. There didn’t seem to be a weak spot in it today.”

  Sheila followed Nicoli into her bedroom and curled up on the bed where, cigarette in hand, she remained while Nicoli undressed. Then with an effort at gaiety she asked, “What’s the program for tonight?”

  “Whatever you like—any suggestions?”

  “Yes, darling; I want to spend the evening here—just we two.”

  Sheila rose from the bed and crossed to where Nicoli stood brushing her short hair and put her arms around her. “I love our hours here together. I never tire of them. I sometimes think I would be content just to forget everything else.”

  If only she might do just that! What perfect peace of mind she could find in Nicoli’s arms…

  A few moments later the only sound in the room was that of the spraying water as Nicoli went about her shower. Sheila sat on the small silken covered bench before her dressing table, deftly applying bright liquid polish to her long pointed finger nails, endeavoring to keep the slender hands from trembling. She tried heroically to keep her mind from dwelling upon the lawyer’s call, but without success. Repeatedly her thoughts reverted back to his warning.

  “Is there really any danger? Would Allison seek me out to do me harm?”

  Memories of the days when she had meant so much to him came back. How little she had dreamed then that one day he might attempt to take her life. It was fantastic—a horrible nightmare. The irony of it all struck Sheila. There had been times when life had meant little to her, when death would have been welcome. It had been so that day in the woods when Allison had attacked her. But now—Nicoli’s love was hers to keep always; Nicoli’s life was to be spent close to her side. Sheila sighed. There was so much to live for!

  The evening passed all too quickly. Evenings had a way of doing just that when they were together. They lounged about the apartment comfortably clad in pajamas and talked—current events, happenings in theatrical circles, details for the opening of the show.

  Sheila, worn out from the day’s long rehearsal and hours of fittings at the costumer’s, lay stretched at full length on the couch.

  Nicoli laid aside the Variety she had been glancing through. “I expect we can open in about three more weeks—provided of course that nothing unforeseen happens.”

  “Do you intend to open it in Atlantic City as you said?” Sheila asked.

  “Yes—then I can take a look at it before we open the run here, and make any changes that might prove necessary.”

  Sheila propped herself up on one elbow. “Have you ever stopped to think, darling, that if this show is as successful as The Woman Alone we may not be able to get away for two years?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of that possibility,” Nicoli rejoined, “but then this time when we leave there’ll be no coming back. We’ll be finished with show business—all we’ll have to think about will be our lives together.”

  Nicoli drew Sheila closer to her. “That’s all that counts now, anyway. I just want to be able to live each day with you by my side, and to know that I’ll never have to lose you again.” Her voice took on an added tenderness. “Life without you, Sheila, isn’t worth the effort it takes to live it.”

  Long after Nicoli’s even breathing told her she was asleep. Sheila lay with eyes wide open staring into the darkness of the room, the words ringing in her ears. What would Nicoli do if she knew? “If only Blair will have news for me in the morning,” she told herself. “I don’t see how I can go on acting before Nicoli, letting her think we are secure in our plans. Yet how can I tell her and disrupt her peace of mind at a time like this, when she needs to be at her best?”

  Sheila’s tortured nerves kept her awake for hours. Over and over she asked herself, “Am I being foolish, or is there any real danger?” Finally, at daybreak she drifted off into a fitful slumber from which she was awakened, in what seemed only a few minutes, by Nicoli’s cheerful voice.

  “Wake up, Sheila—breakfast is almost ready.” The fragrant aroma of bacon and coffee drifted in to Sheila’s nostrils. She sat up in bed, with eyes still heavy with sleep. “What time is it, Nicoli?”

  “Nearly ten, and I called an eleven o’clock rehearsal—no time to spare.”

  As they sat eating breakfast, Nicoli turned to the morning papers. As usual, the theater news claimed her attention first. Folding the paper at the desired place, she handed it to Sheila.

  “Here’s Chick’s story, darling. It’s a good one, and the cut is excellent too. You may have been tired, but this picture certainly doesn’t show it.”

  “A good make-up is the answer to that,” Sheila remarked, and took the paper. The large photograph of herself met her eyes at once but held them only for an instant, for above the picture was the caption “Sheila Case at Home.” Her glance shifted to the story below. Yes, there it was, just as she had feared.

  “In an interview yesterday with Miss Case in her richly appointed apartment at the Sheridan-Plaza, the star said, ‘It is with a great deal of…’ “

  Last night, as she had tossed fitfully, she had remembered the incident of the afternoon—the pictures, the interview. Her first impulse had been to try to reach Chick and ask him to “kill” the story, but upon second thought she had realized that doing so would probably awaken Nicoli and arouse her curiosity—and once she was questioned, Sheila knew she could not lie. Her hands shook as she handed the paper across the table to Nicoli.

  “Chick is always kind to me. As usual, it’s a fine story.” She dropped her eyes quickly to her plate lest the fear in her heart be mirrored in them.

  “There’s one sure thing,” she thought, “if Allison wants to find me, he will have no trouble!”

  The day dragged by at the theater. Sheila, her mind in a turmoil, waded through the long scenes scarcely seeing the printed lines she read. At last there was a break in the rehearsal, and she rushed out to call Harrison Blair, only to hear him say, “I’m sorry, Miss Case, but we haven’t heard a thing. I have been in touch with Hillcrest several times today. However, I’ll be sure to let you know the minute I have any news.” With leaden footsteps she returned to the theater. For nearly a week Sheila went about her daily routine striving to appear her usual self, yet alway
s carrying the burden of worry and fear in her heart. She stayed close to Nicoli, going everywhere with her, remaining in the theater when she was no longer needed, while Nicoli worked with other members of the company. Nicoli’s gaze was drawn to her now as she sat patiently in one of the seats in the front row of the semi-dark theater.

  “You look worn out, Sheila. Why don’t you go home? I shan’t be long, and you need some rest. I think maybe I’ve been a hard taskmaster.”

  Sheila smiled faintly. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait for you.”

  Nicoli looked lovingly at her; then turning back to the stage, said, “All right, let’s take that scene again!”

  *

  “I’m dreadfully tired,” breathed Sheila when at last they left the theater and walked slowly toward the garage where Nicoli kept her car.

  “I know, darling,” Nicoli answered sympathetically. “It has been a more or less trying day for you, and after all, the part is a lengthy and difficult one. But soon it will all be over—just this one season, dearest.”

  Sheila’s hand tightened its grip on Nicoli’s arm. “It will be perfect! We’ll really begin to live then, and oh, Nicoli, I do so want to live all of my life for you!”

  Sheila’s dark eyes grew serious as her thoughts went back to the warning note in Harrison Blair’s voice when he had told her of Allison’s escape. Yes, she would be glad to get away, especially if Allison were not found. Once away from the theater she would not be such an easy target should his disordered brain still be possessed of a desire to do her harm. But here in the city where her name shortly would be blazoned from the electric signs she would be easy to find—there simply couldn’t be any escape, if Allison really wanted to find her. A cold chill swept over her. She shivered.

  Nicoli’s voice roused Sheila from her thoughts. “Here we are, darling. I’ll have you home in a few minutes. We’ll have a bite to eat, and then you’re going to bed.”

  Nicoli’s expert hands eased the roadster from the garage into the stream of cars. Soon they had left the congested theater area and were speeding along the avenue toward home, with Sheila’s head nestled against Nicoli’s shoulder.