“You’re probably wondering why I’ve gathered you together,” Walt said, pausing for the laugh. “What we’re gonna do,” he went on when it had ended, “is read the play and then break for lunch and then come back and block as much of the first act as we have time for.” He wiped his forehead. “It’s gonna stay hot like this, so get used to it, relax, and while you’re doing that I thought I might gas a little about what the play’s about. Now, our producer—” he pointed back to Branch—“or I should say ‘sponsor,’ although he claims he was misquoted, says it’s ‘a different kind of play about family life.’ I don’t think it is and I don’t think it’s a play about incest either.” Walt grabbed a chair and sat down. “Consider,” he said. “There’s this girl, Loretta, and she gets with child, and the guy who did it says ‘tough,’ and she tries to rope this other guy into playing papa, and it almost works. Almost. But then her brother does this incredible thing. He louses up the works, tells the richie it’s not his baby, and then, when the mother pitches the daughter out into the cold, the brother goes along, ’cause he loves her. And then she does this incredible thing: she lets him. She knows he loves her and she knows he’s her brother and she still lets him. Two people, two incredible things. Too much? I don’t think so. Not one bit.
“We all do incredible things.” Walt paused.
“The reason for that pause,” he said when he went on, “is because I think that’s important. We all do incredible things. Now, the word ‘incredible’; here’s what I say it means: beyond belief. Not ‘unbelievable.” Unbelievable’ means ‘that which I do not believe.’ ‘Incredible’ means ‘that which I did not know I believed.’ A girl comes to town and she thinks, I may not be much but I’m pure, and pretty soon she’s having an affair with a married man. Happens all the time, solid? Incredible? A guy comes from a good decent family, he comes to town and in two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail, he’s shacked up with some other guy, who’s probably also from a good decent family. Happens all the time, solid? Incredible?
“This is a play about what people will do when they have to. Here we do it for love; sometimes we do it for money, sometimes for revenge, which I guess is love bass-ackwards. Anyway, we all do things we don’t do; when we have to, we can do incredible things.”
Carmella Spain had fallen asleep.
Walt smiled and shook her gently.
Then they began.
They read the play out loud and broke for lunch, and coming back, Ed Ritchie said “What do you think?” to Carmella Spain and Carmella told him, “Sonny, you can’t do nothing without the people,” and that afternoon Walt started to block. He worked quickly, telling the actors what he wanted, listening when they questioned, then answering, moving on, and by the end of the day most of the first act was blocked, and after he dismissed the actors he conferred with Aaron and they decided that even though it was much too early to tell anything they both thanked God the first day was over and then Branch came up with news of a lunatic idea sprung on him that day by Katz, the costume designer, and Walt, also saying so long to Aaron, decided, with Branch, that Katz had to go and, that done, he dashed into a taxi up to Tony’s and he took her, without a word, down to the waiting cab and from there they went to a nouveau riche building on East End Avenue and took the elevator to the twelfth floor, unlocked the door to the E apartment: living room, bedroom, kitchen, terrace, the latter with an almost unobstructed view of the East River.
“I sublet it for the summer, furnished,” Walt said. “I mean why not, what the hell?”
“Why not what the hell indeed?” Tony said.
“You’re probably wondering—” Walt began.
“Discount houses, schmiscount houses,” Tony said. “I’ve known all along and frankly, the way you’ve acted today—deal mysterious—I liked you better poor.” She turned quickly for the terrace. Walt followed her.
“Doesn’t matter to me that you’re loaded,” she said, hands on the railing. “As a matter of fact—” she turned; Walt came toward her—“if you’re a nice boy I’ll try not to hold it against you,” and with that she was in his arms.
Walt finished blocking the first act the second day, the second act the third, and the morning of the fifth day the entire play was blocked when they broke for lunch. “What do you think?” Branch asked him as they went out for a sandwich and Walt said, “Can’t tell, can’t tell,” and after lunch he told the actors they had three more days to get the books out of their hands and have their parts memorized, which frightened Carmella Spain, because she didn’t remember things as well as she used to. She complained about the heat and how it gave her a headache and how she was a human being, and how she wasn’t going to work until the management made things cool enough, and Walt took her aside and said that he agreed with her completely but that he wished she wouldn’t quite give vent like that, because he was worried about the other actors being able to get the books out of their hands in time, all of them being so inexperienced, and he put his arm around her shoulder and whispered that it was up to them, Walt and Carmella, to lead the strays and he asked would she please be the last to take the book out of her hand so as not to embarrass those with less experience, and Carmella whispered that she would do her best to shape up the kids and Walt said he knew she would, that’s why he asked her, and after that the day went as smoothly as days can go when you’re in rehearsal and nobody knows if anything’s any good or not. Two days later the five performers had all put down their scripts, and although nobody still knew if the play was any good or not, they all were more than aware of something else:
Jenny was sensational.
“And you didn’t want her, for crissakes!” Walt whispered, pounding Aaron on the arm. They stood in the back of the theatre, watching the second scene of the first act, where Loretta comes home and talks to Clare after her date with the animal.
“I was wrong, don’t remind me, shut up,” Aaron said.
“You’re a stupid bastard,” Walt said.
“I’m a stupid bastard,” Aaron agreed.
Midway through the second week Rudy started getting good. Walt, who had previously been praising him, took note of the change and started shaking his head after Rudy’s scenes. “Can’t you do better than that?” Walt asked. “Can’t you?”
Rudy said nothing, only nodding, doing better.
“Aren’t you being a little hard on Rudy?” Branch asked.
“Shut up and produce,” Walt told him.
Branch produced. At any particular time on any particular day he was liable to be talking, arguing or screaming at or with the scene designer; the costume designer, Katz, who, horrified at being fired, successfully begged forgiveness; the lighting and sound man, a bearded wonder who lacked only the brains to be a genius; the business manager, who loathed the press agent; the press agent, who was nothing if not verbal concerning his highly negative feelings about the business manager; several representatives of several unions; a Japanese carpenter who claimed to be able to produce any prop at less than no cost at all. Along with these came Mrs. Toledo, who owned the building that housed the theater and whose name was not really Toledo, but then, neither had it been the name of Mr. Toledo, the Italian numbers runner with whom she had lived for several years before his somewhat unusual demise and whose greatest fear was that some thoughtless member of the cast should set her building on fire, so she was either calling Branch constantly, ordering him to check on the obedience to all “No Smoking” signs, or dropping in constantly, pointing a slender finger at whoever was breaking the law, always Aaron, who always paced around the rear of the seats, a cigarette always between his lips, except when Mrs. Toledo’s sudden “Ah-hahs” made him douse the butt until after she had triumphantly exited, leaving him free to light up again. And Branch also had to deal with Mrs. Plotkin, who claimed she could print his tickets for so little money that if the show was a hit she would starve; and also Branch saw and spent too much time with Jay Roget, who claimed to be distantly related to the the
saurus man and was a rummy painter, but talented, and who was designing the poster for the show for no dough, just booze, which wasn’t as good a deal as Branch thought when he made it. And he also had to see and soothe the box-office man (whose name Branch could never remember), who was constantly getting his feelings hurt by Aaron, and through the box-office man Branch met Trixie, a remarkably disturbed thirteen-year-old girl who was the best in the entire Village at the art of Poster Placement, claiming no less than two hundred shop windows as practically her very own, with more to come if the money was right. So Branch produced, running here, there, slapping his bald head when the set designer realized he’d made the set too big, slapping both his cheeks when the stage manager got hepatitis and had to be replaced. Branch got up early, worked late, running, always running, with barely a moment in which to sit and rest.
But when they came, those moments, he sat and rested in the dark theater. And he stared up onto the stage. At Rudy. And sometimes he stared at the other people. As they stared at Rudy.
And then everything seemed worthwhile.
“I don’t think Rudy should have an understudy,” Branch whispered to Walt one evening as they were about to stop.
Walt pushed his glasses up snug over the bridge of his nose with his left thumb. “You don’t hire understudies for a production like this till after you open, so what are you talking about?”
“Well, I just don’t think Rudy should have an understudy, that’s all.”
“If you want my opinion, I wouldn’t much care to see this play without Jenny in it.”
“Wonderful,” Branch said. “Then we won’t get one for her either.”
“We won’t get them for anybody, Branch; how’s that?”
“Always glad to get things settled,” Branch said.
“What did we settle?” Walt said. Then they all quit for the day.
“Hi,” Aaron said one morning during break.
Jenny sipped her coffee and nodded.
Aaron sat down beside her.
“All right, all right, two minutes,” Walt bawled.
“I just want you to know it’s a pleasure,” Aaron said softly.
“What is?”
“Watching you.”
“A pleasure?” Jenny said. “Well, fancy that.”
Aaron got up and started away.
“Aaron,” Jenny whispered.
He dropped his head down to hers. “What?”
“Aren’t you sweet.”
“No. But aren’t you pretty to think so.”
Toward the end of the second week, Walt lost his temper for the first time. “Goddammit no!” he said and glared at Branch.
“But why not?” Branch asked. It was lunch break and they were alone in the theater.
“Because,” Walt shouted, tromping across the stage, “because when I direct there will be nobody watching. And that means nobody.”
“But we don’t know what we’ve got. A few people here to watch a run-through—that’s not much to ask.”
“Nobody sees this show till I say it’s ready to be seen or I quit,” Walt said.
“You can’t quit, you’re the backer,” Branch whispered.
“You bet I am,” Walt said.
Branch sighed.
“The first of August,” Walt said. “That first preview. Then we’ll know.”
“The first of August,” Branch agreed. He looked at his watch. “Two weeks away. Walt? Why am I looking at my watch for the date?”
“ ’Cause you’re a producer. They do that kind of thing.”
“Walt? What if it stinks?”
“What if it doesn’t?” Walt said ...
That afternoon, for the first time, Rudy and Jenny changed parts. Walt gave them scripts and they read each other’s roles, and after they did it Jim Masters, the animal, changed parts with Ritchie the richie, and Carmella, protesting all the while, finally tried it, changing roles with Rudy, playing the son to his mother. At the first break, Carmella came up to Walt and put her arm around him and said very softly that she understood exactly just what the hell he was doing but that some of the youngsters were a little confused and she thought he might tell them just exactly what the hell he was doing and clear it up for them and would he mind if she listened just for the hell of it, so before they started back to work Walt told them all that since they knew the words it was time to try to find the meaning, and that was all the switching was, just a little game to try and help.
“Obviously,” Carmella said.
That night Branch asked, “What’s the matter with you?”
Rudy rubbed his eyes. “I’m not doing well? I’m sorry.”
“No-no-no; you’re wonderful. Even Walt says so. But you look, so tired.”
“I don’t know why that should be,” Rudy said.
Aaron and Jenny walked slowly through Riverside Park. “So what happened after you broke up?” Aaron asked.
Jenny squinted at the moon. “Oh, we made up the next day. It was all very funny. His wife made up with him that same day too.”
“If I’d been Fiske, I’d have married you,” Aaron said. “I think.”
Jenny laughed. “That’s the way his mind worked too. ‘Yes, I’ll do it, maybe.’ ”
“Go on,” Aaron said.
“No. It only got uglier and uglier. Just before I got this part, the week before, Charley and I got invited out as a couple. This other editor, Archie, he had a place and so, I guess out of desperation, Charley asked could he use it and Archie was delighted. We’d fooled him for so long, he just loved it that we were sneaking around. He thought it was funny, us sneaking around and all the time pretending to be so moral and upright. He used to ride me about it in the office. Leave little notes for me, things like that. Then, the week before I got this part, Archie invited Charley and me out as a couple. As soon as I heard the invitation, I broke out crying. Isn’t that terrible?”
Aaron said nothing.
“I just couldn’t help it, though. All I saw for myself was this lifetime of sneaking around, forever, and I bawled like a baby.”
“Poor Jenny,” Aaron said.
“Someone else said that to me once: ‘Poor Jenny” She shrugged.
“It’s got to be good,” Aaron said.
“We’ll know in ten days,” Jenny told him.
“I’ll know who to blame if it isn’t.”
“Oh, Aaron.”
“I hate him.”
“Why? He’s good in the play and you know it.”
“When I was a kid,” Aaron said, “my mother used to let me pick one food each year I didn’t have to eat. Squash, turnips, spinach, goddam brussels sprouts. Every year I got to hate any one food I wanted to and whenever it was served I didn’t have to eat it. My hate food, we called it. Well, I’m that way with people too. Every year I get to hate one person free. I don’t have to give out any reason. All I have to do is hate, O.K.? Well, Rudy—this year, he’s mine.”
“Poor Aaron,” Jenny said.
“I’ll tell you something: if this play bombs ...” He took Jenny’s hand. “What do you know about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh dammit, Jenny, answer my question.”
“You mean with girls? Yes.”
“Well, I must tell you something. I like you. You don’t know how funny that is, coming from me, but just take my word. You see, my condition, it does not of necessity fill me with joy.”
“I really don’t want to hear this.”
“Shut up. It’s not what you think—I’m not going to tell you about some priest seducing me in the sacristy, for crissakes.” He tightened his hold on her hand and they stopped, close in the darkness. “But from when I was young I made an assumption about myself. I assumed I was gifted, one of the chosen, a spécialité de la maison. There is already some indication that I may have erred in my assumption. This play, if it is bad, would make it more than an indication. I would more or less have to take it as proof of my mistake. And if I were
mistaken, if it turns out after all that I am nothing but a common garden-variety faggot—”
“Aaron—”
“Shut up, I said. I like you. Listen to me. Well, if that is the case, I don’t think I can face it, at least not alone, so therefore I would have to do my best to initiate general suffering, you understand? This is an apology, Jenny. In advance. I will not enjoy hurting you. Because you’re very honest and I care. I almost wish I were straight or you weren’t—” He made a smile. “Smile at me,” he said.
Jenny looked at him instead. “You would hurt me? Even though you care?”
“Alas.”
Two nights later Tony appeared down at the theater, arriving just exactly when Walt had told her to, and Walt, on seeing her, stretched and said “Take off, everybody,” and he couldn’t help smiling when he said it, because it was nice to think things revolve around your whims, even though it was time to quit anyway. Being the boss didn’t knock him out all that much, except sometimes it was nice to remind yourself just who was who. He took Tony by the hand and introduced her around.
Aaron took one good, long, close look at her.
Then he beamed ...
The next day Walt took Aaron and Jenny and Rudy aside, and he told them that they had better get ready to work, really work now, because there wasn’t much time left, and the scene they were going to work on more than any other was the long last scene, the scene where Loretta is about to go off by herself when her brother tells her how he feels and they talk and finally, at the end, they touch hands and go on out the door together, and Walt explained that the crucial thing wasn’t that they were brother and sister, what really mattered was that by the time the play was over they would both have done incredible things, the boy and the girl, for love, and people do incredible things, and if the audience didn’t come to understand and feel that, then the whole play had been for nothing, and Rudy and Jenny nodded and Aaron jammed a fresh cigarette into the corner of his mouth and the meeting broke up and then they worked. Everybody. They ran the play once a day all the way through without stopping and then Walt worked on the individual scenes, but mostly on that long last one with Jenny and Rudy, and he had them change roles and he had them sing the scene as if it was an opera and not a play, and then he had them do the scene in gibberish, and when they did that their bodies began moving differently because the words weren’t there, and he had them race the scene, saying the words justasfastastheycould, and then he had them mime the scene, and then he had them speak again, but as slowly as they could without going crazy, and then he had them play it as if it were all the funniest scene in the world and Rudy was looking terribly tired now but he was playing, Walt thought, remarkably well and Jenny was so fine he sometimes could only watch her work and nod and when there were six days to go he took her aside and told her to get everybody she ever knew down to see her and fast and she said yes she would do that, thank you, and then the sets came and everybody got nervous and then the costumes and everybody got more nervous and when there were three days left Walt announced that there would be a complete run-through at noon on the day of the first preview and then Branch announced that there would be a little party for the cast from four to seven the day of the first preview, at his apartment on Seventy-second Street, and bring your friends, just so they buy tickets for later, and then they had to start work all over again, with the sets and costumes making everything different and strange and one blurred morning Jenny remembered that it had been Stagpole who had said “Poor Jenny” and then she wondered if he might come down and see her and then she wondered, if he would, would he come to the party beforehand, so she asked Branch if it would be all right to ask and he said “My God, certainly,” so she called a secretary at Kingsway and found who Stagpole’s agent was and then she called the agent and left the complete message, both invitations, to the play and the party beforehand, but as she gave the message to the agent’s secretary she felt sort of like a fool, and she told the secretary to sign the message “Jenny Devers, the Algonquin, friend of Mr. Alden,” and that made her feel like such a fool she almost yelled “Forget the whole thing,” except she didn’t, and later at the theater, she and Rudy worked again, so hard, with Walt driving them, and Rudy was quiet now, never talking, and then all of a terrible sudden it was the first of August, August the first, preview day.
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 87