They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  Putting the brush down, running one strong hand over sleek, neatly arranged black locks, he turned and saw me standing there in the doorway. He nodded and reached for the black and emerald striped satin waistcoat he had tossed over the bedpost.

  “I brought your coffee,” I said. “One of Corey’s cinnamon rolls, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said curtly, pulling on the waistcoat. “Just set it down on the table there.”

  “Where on earth are you going at this hour?”

  “Jackson and I have a meeting with the stage crew at eight o’clock—there are still some technicalities to work out. Too much time elapses between scene changes in Act One, we’ve got to figure out how to speed it up. Need to get on it early so there’ll be plenty of time to work out any problems.”

  “For that you’re wearing your best clothes?”

  “We’ve a meeting with Courtland and the theater directors at ten, then I’ll take Courtland to lunch.”

  “You mean Robert Courtland has finally come to Atlanta?”

  Jason smoothed down the waistcoat and picked up his elegant gray silk ascot, turning back to the mirror. “You think he’d miss opening night? Of course he’s in Atlanta. Been here a week, in fact.”

  “And none of us knew?”

  “There was no need for you to know,” he informed me. “You had enough on your minds without worrying about Courtland, trying to impress him. Besides, he didn’t want to bother you at this crucial time.”

  “Very considerate of him,” I said.

  Ascot finally arranged to his satisfaction, the flapping ends neatly tucked into the top of his waistcoat, Jason reached for the full-tailed gray frock coat he had also tossed over the bedpost.

  “He’s quite pleased with everything, incidentally. He caught the play last night, thought you were all superb.”

  I could feel the color drain from my cheeks. “Robert Court-land was in the theater last night?” I spoke each word carefully, with lethal calm.

  “Told me he wanted to sit in on the rehearsal. He was out front, in one of the seats near the back of the house.”

  “You didn’t tell us,” I said.

  “No reason for you to know,” he replied.

  “He—he saw that fiasco. He saw me make an absolute fool of myself. He saw me throw a lamp at you—”

  “He understands all about nerves and temperament. He—”

  “He probably thinks I’m a madwoman!”

  “He thinks you’re a brilliantly gifted actress. He wants to see you before the performance tonight, extend his personal best wishes. Extremely nice chap. You’ll like him a lot.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Jason looked at me with puzzled eyes, shrugged into the frock coat and then stepped over to pick up the cup of coffee I had set down on the table. I glared at him, two bright pink spots blazing on my cheeks. He sipped the coffee, gazing at me calmly over the rim of the cup. It was obvious he saw no reason why I should be upset. He was that dense. He was that blockheaded. I longed to hit him with something very heavy. I told him so.

  “You really must get hold of yourself, Dana. Opening night jitters can be bad, I know, but—”

  “You let us all make fools of ourselves! If we’d known he was out there we would have been on our best behavior, we would have—”

  “You’re making far too much of this,” he said in an infuriatingly calm and reasonable voice. “Courtland didn’t want you to know he was out front. He was afraid it might inhibit you. It probably would have, too. You’d have been even worse than you were.”

  “Even worse? Who would have been even worse?”

  “You, my pet.”

  “I happen to have been brilliant last night!”

  “Billy was brilliant. Corey was brilliant. You were abysmally bad until I finally got a performance out of you. Mmmm, this cinnamon roll is perfectly delicious.”

  “I hope you choke on it!”

  Jason grinned, finished coffee and roll and then sauntered out of the room, pausing to plant a perfunctory kiss on my cheek. I seized his empty cup, ran to the doorway and hurled it at him. It crashed against the wall, missing his head by a good two feet. He turned, waved and strolled on down the hall, disappearing into the stairwell. I felt much better after throwing the cup. I felt remarkably stimulated, as a matter of fact. Jason had a way of making me feel richly, gloriously alive, even when he was at his worst.

  We had all been instructed to relax today, to rest up for tonight’s performance, but that, of course, was totally out of the question. All of us were entirely too keyed-up. Immediately after lunch Dulcie went back to the theater to fuss over the costumes some more, and Billy went out for a drive with the Atlanta belle he was currently squiring. Ollie took the boys for an outing, promising Corey not to stuff them with too many sweets, and Corey was busy preparing headache powders and ice packs for Adam, who claimed he was sick and couldn’t possibly go on in that fuzzy gray wig and awful makeup. Bartholomew elected to stay in his room, teaching Theodore a new trick, and Laura and I decided that we simply had to go shopping, something we had had precious little time to do.

  Because of the unrest over the play, Michael insisted he come along, and he dutifully trailed after us from shop to shop, looking painfully bored and splendidly masculine in scuffed tan boots, snug tan breeches, a faded old salmon-pink shirt, and the familiar battered tan kidskin jacket. A wide-brimmed western hat slanted atop his sun-streaked golden-brown hair, and drooping lids half-concealed his clear gray eyes. His six-shooter, I knew, was jammed into his waistband and hidden by his jacket. We received a great many stares as we made our progress, but no wild-eyed redneck came after us with tar and feathers, nor did a League of Decency lady pummel us with a placard. When I pointed this out, Michael reminded me that it was early in the day. He clearly expected trouble tonight.

  “I think it’s all a tempest in a teapot,” Laura said, gazing into the shop windows as we strolled down the sidewalk. “It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Jason has staged the whole ruckus just to sell tickets. The people here in Atlanta have been splendid to us. It’s a wonderfully civilized and sophisticated city, and—”

  “And there are a lot of hostile bigots,” Michael interrupted, “even in a city as forward-thinking as Atlanta. Some of those threats were genuine. I want you both to be on guard tonight.”

  “We’ve got you to protect us, love,” Laura said blithely. “Look at that hat, Dana. Wide-brimmed black velvet with blue egret feathers sweeping over one side. What do you think?”

  “Perfect for you,” I told her.

  “I must try it on. Let’s go inside.”

  As she was trying on the hat, Laura agreed with me that it was dastardly of Jason not to tell us that Robert Courtland was in the theater last night. She, for one, would have paid more attention and given more spark to her teeny, tiny, shockingly small role of Lenore, hardly more than a walk-on. As it was, she had been desultory and boring, with no animation at all, and he probably hadn’t even noticed her. He was frightfully wealthy, she understood, as rich as Croesus, in fact, and extremely good-looking to boot. A girl needed to keep her eye out for the main chance.

  “What’s that you said?’ Michael inquired.

  “Girl talk, love. Go back to your guard duty.”

  Laura and I agreed that Jason must have made a very good impression on Robert Courtland, for Courtland had given him a free hand and provided him with unlimited funds. We had a full crew backstage, all of them paid top salaries, and sets and costumes were of the very finest quality—Dulcie had been in heaven, using the most exquisite silks and velvets, the costliest linens and broadcloth. All of our dressing rooms had been refurbished, my own completely redecorated in white and gold with gilded white Louis XV wardrobe and dressing table and an antique mirror, all of this done, according to Jackson, at Court-land’s specific instructions. He seemed determined to give us the best production, the most lavish accommodations, yet he had remained in the background, i
ndeed a man of mystery.

  “It’ll be interesting to meet him at last,” Laura said.

  “It certainly will,” I agreed.

  “I wonder if he likes brunettes.”

  “He’d better not,” Michael informed her.

  Laura passed on the hat, deciding that the faux jewel clip on the crown was gaudy, but she tried on several more, as did I, until Michael finally manhandled us out of the shop. We bought long, creamy soft kidskin gloves in another shop, reticules and silk parasols at yet another. Laura made Michael try on a beautifully tailored dusty tan jacket of heavy corduroy at Atlanta’s leading emporium. It was a perfect fit and he looked quite magnificent. She bought it for him despite his protests and told him in no uncertain terms that she wanted him to get rid of that disreputable jacket he’d been wearing ever since we’d met him. Both Laura and Michael protested when I insisted on going into the downtown bookstore, where I purchased nothing but learned that Julian’s book had gone into its ninth printing and that he had been the toast of Atlanta when he lectured here in May. It was well after five when we finally arrived back at the house, Michael heavily laden with packages and grumbling most unpleasantly.

  We were all edgy and apprehensive as the hour to leave for the theater drew near. None of us could eat anything, but Billy poured himself a very stiff whiskey. He’d had a miserable afternoon. The belle had accused him of being insincere and he had accused her of being a prude and they had fought bitterly. Ollie complained that both boys had been absolute terrors and made themselves sick on maple sugar balls and Andy threw up and it was the last straw, positively the last, she intended to have nothing else to do with the little buggers. Bartholomew said that Theodore was looking puny and had turned down his chopped chicken and he, Bartholomew, was in no mood to go on tonight, he was too worried. Corey came in looking resplendent in garnet taffeta and a black lace shawl and told us that Adam had fully recovered and would be joining us as soon as he could decide which fancy waistcoat to wear to the theater.

  “Headache powders do the job?” Laura asked. “Or was it the ice packs?”

  “Wudn’t either of ’em. I just finally got tired of pampering him and told him he was going to get his black ass outta bed or I’d kick it from here to Sunday. He leaped right up, fit as could be.”

  Adam dutifully appeared, extremely dapper in shiny black pumps, dark maroon breeches and frock coat and a noisy orange satin waistcoat embroidered with huge black and maroon flowers. A diamond stickpin glittered in the folds of his carefully arranged orange silk neckcloth. Gaudy as it was, he carried the attire off with jaunty aplomb, preening like a peacock. Corey raised her eyes heavenward and shook her head, but I could see that she was proud to possess so handsome and virile a man. The boys came in behind Adam, looking angelic and benign after long naps. They promptly rushed over and curled their arms around Ollie’s legs. She rested a hand on each fuzzy little head and emitted a heavy, martyred sigh.

  Although we usually walked the few short blocks to the theater, it had been decided that, under the circumstances, we would take carriages tonight. Jackson arrived with them at seven, sporting his usual loud checked coat and brandishing a smelly cigar. It was dark when we stepped outside, Bartholomew carrying a patient and bored-looking Theodore wrapped in a blue wool shawl. Adam elected to ride with Billy, Bart, Theodore, Ollie and the boys, and the rest of us got into the second carriage, Corey acidly informing Jackson that she was an artiste, her voice was very important and she did not intend to start coughing because of his foul cigar smoke. Jackson scowled and tossed the cigar away. He and Corey sat across from us. Michael, in his new tan corduroy jacket, curled his arm around Laura. Sitting on his other side, quite close because of limited space, I could tell that he still had the six-shooter jammed into the waistband of his breeches. All of us were grim as the carriage pulled away.

  “I suppose Dulcie is still at the theater,” I said.

  “Been there all day,” Jackson replied, “fussing over the costumes, guarding them like they were gold.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Laura said. “That gown Dana wears in the last scene cost over fifteen hundred dollars. In my one infinitesimal appearance onstage, I wear a blue serge skirt and a white cotton blouse with balloon sleeves.”

  “Hush your moanin’, gal,” Corey scolded. “Me, I wear faded gingham—ragged at that.”

  “You’re a milliner’s assistant,” Michael told his inamorata. “That’s what a milliner’s assistant would wear. My part isn’t all that large either, but do you hear me complaining? I just consider myself lucky to be in a major production like this one.”

  “Sod off, love,” Laura said.

  As it was a warm evening, the carriage windows were open, and we could hear the grinding of spinning wheels and the lazy clop-clop of horse hooves on cobblestones. Gazing out the window, I saw an ashy gray-black sky strewn with silvery chips of stars and, as we neared downtown, the yellow-orange blur of lights. We turned onto Atlanta’s main street, the theater up ahead, and we could hear shouting then, hoarse and raucous. Michael tensed. Jackson sat up, scowling darkly. The carriage would let us off at the stage entrance in back, but we had to drive directly past the theater before we turned.

  “There—there’s a crowd in front of the theater,” I said nervously. “Men with torches. Women with placards.”

  “Everyone stay calm,” Michael said grimly.

  The din grew louder as we drew nearer. The horses became skittish, and the driver had to tighten his hold on the reins. The carriage slowed down. A pack of twenty or more uncouth-looking men dressed like farmers swarmed over the pavements in front of the theater, many of them waving torches, all of them shouting obscenities, while a prim brigade of bespectacled, middle-aged women dressed in drab gray and brown dresses marched to and fro, holding up hand-printed placards denouncing our play and warning decent folk to stay away. Two large baskets and a cart of what looked like tomatoes stood near the curb, the entire scene bathed in the flickering, nightmarish glow of the torches. Michael pulled out his six-shooter.

  “Lawdy,” Corey whispered.

  “Just stay calm!” Michael snapped.

  “Anything you say, cowboy.”

  A husky lout in muddy boots, old brown trousers and a patched, coarse-woven white shirt with sleeves rolled up over his forearms stared intently at our carriage and recognized me. He shoved lank yellow locks from his forehead and gave a lusty hoot, running toward one of the baskets.

  “That’s them!” he bellowed. “That’s that Dana-gal, and look! There’s the nigger woman, too!”

  He dove his hand into the basket and pulled out an egg and hurled it at the carriage. It flew right through the window and crashed with a loud splat directly over Jackson’s head. The carriage was pelted with several more eggs as other men joined the leader, though no more came through the windows. The lank-haired lout urged his fellows on, reaching for a tomato now, holding it aloft, prepared to throw. Michael shoved me back, leaned across me and took careful aim. There was a deafening blast as he fired. The tomato exploded in the man’s hand, soggy red pulp seeping over his palm and down his arm, his eyes widening with shock. “Jesus!” he cried. “They got guns!” Michael fired again, shattering the wheel of the cart. It toppled over, rotten tomatoes spilling into the street.

  “Bravo!” Corey exclaimed.

  “Show-off,” Laura said dryly.

  Michael scrambled over me and leaned out the window. “Get the hell out of here!” he yelled at the driver, and then the carriage moved briskly on down the street, turning a corner and eventually bringing us in back of the theater, where a single lamp hung over the stage door, illuminating the wooden steps and making a misty fan-shaped slur in the darkness. Laura and I were both shaken as we got out of the carriage, but Corey climbed out like a queen, wrapping her black lace shawl regally around her shoulders. The second carriage pulled up right behind us, it, too, covered with ugly splatters. Bartholomew alighted with great dignity, cra
dling a still-bored Theodore in his arms, and then the boys came spilling out, quite elated by all the excitement. Billy and an exasperated Ollie helped Adam out. His dark brown face looked ashen. He was trembling visibly and jibbering incoherently. Corey gave a weary sigh.

  “He’s a lover,” she explained, “not a fighter. You aren’t hurt, buster!” she informed him. “If you don’t want a boot up your ass, you’ll stop that snivelin’ right now!”

  Adam gave her a mournful look, sobbed and tried manfully to pull himself together. A stern-faced, agitated Jason was waiting backstage. Striped waistcoat and gray frock coat had been removed, the neckcloth was gone, and his thin white lawn shirt was soiled, one sleeve badly ripped and hanging down at the shoulder. His black locks were atumble, the skin on his right cheekbone scraped, as though he had received a blow. That he’d been in a fight was fairly obvious. Ignoring the rest of us, he took Michael aside, and the two men conferred in lowered voices for several moments. Michael finally nodded and started toward the front of the theater. “Everything’s under control!” Jason announced to the nervous assembly of actors. “Go on to your dressing rooms. The play will begin at eight sharp, exactly as scheduled.” Everyone started talking at once then, and Jason came over to me and took hold of my arm.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m a bit shaken up, but—you—you’ve been hurt.”

  “It’s just a scrape.”

  “It needs to be cleaned. What hap—”

  “There was a little set-to—nothing you need bother about. I’ll tell you about it later. You’re all right—that’s the only thing that matters. When I heard those gunshots—”

  “No one was harmed. Michael was wonderful. I wish you’d let me—”

  “I knew Mike’d be with you. That’s why I didn’t go back to the house with Jackson. I figured there’d be trouble—I didn’t expect anything like this. We have the front doors barricaded, and Courtland has hired some men who’ll be here shortly to handle the mob. It’ll be dispersed before the paying customers start arriving. Sure you’re all right?”