They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  I nodded. He squeezed my arm.

  “See you later, then. There’re a lot of things I still have to do. You’re a trouper, Dana. You’re going to be great tonight.”

  “That scrape—I wish you’d let me clean it and put—”

  “It’s nothing!” he said testily. “I’m busy, Dana.”

  An excited Dulcie waylaid me as I started toward my dressing room. Yellow curls disarrayed, brown eyes asparkle, she was wearing one of the familiar tentlike garments that only emphasized her girth, this one of apricot linen, and the familiar pincushion was strapped to her wrist. With great élan she told me how the men outside had tried to break into the theater when they first arrived, how Jason and the stagehands had battled them back and barricaded the doors, how Jason had felled three of the ruffians, ever so heroic, it was better than a play, how that Mr. Courtland—so nice, so gallant, so attractive—had pitched in, too, then left immediately to go fetch the men he had hired earlier for security tonight. No one had expected trouble to erupt so soon, which was why the men hadn’t already been here.

  “You’re going to adore that Mr. Courtland—he’s a real gentleman. Told me I’d done a magnificent job with the costumes, said he’d never seen finer. He planned on meeting everyone in the cast before the performance tonight, but with all this ruckus I imagine he’ll be too busy.”

  “I imagine he will be,” I said. “No doubt we’ll meet him afterward.”

  A heavenly fragrance assailed my nostrils as I opened the door of my dressing room. Candles filled the room with a bright glow, and I was startled to see three enormous white wicker baskets of roses, a veritable bower of roses, velvet-soft petals a delicate pink. There was a floral bouquet on my dressing table as well, white and mauve hyacinths tied with a blue satin bow, but it was completely overshadowed by the roses. I reached for the small white card visible in one of the baskets. You are going to be magnificent tonight was written in strong elegant script, and it was signed Robert Courtland. The roses must have cost a fortune, I thought, touching one of the velvety petals. Our producer certainly didn’t do things by half measures. I reveled in the beauty of the roses for several moments, then picked up the bouquet of hyacinths. There was a card with it, too. It simply read Love, Jason. I smiled and my eyes grew suspiciously moist. Those two words, that paltry bouquet with its tacky blue ribbon, meant more to me than all the roses in the world.

  I had already applied my stage makeup and done my hair and was slipping into the frock in which I made my entrance when the door opened and Laura came in, looking unusually pleased. Seeing the roses, she arched a brow and pretended to be put out.

  “I only got one basket,” she complained. “A small one at that.”

  “Help me do this up in back, will you? I love this brushed cotton. It’s almost as fine as silk.”

  Laura fastened the tiny hooks, and I turned to the mirror to adjust the low-cut neckline and small puffed sleeves. The creamy, extremely expensive brushed cotton was a rich, vivid buttercup-yellow, perfect with my skin and hair.

  “Well?” Laura asked expectantly. “What did you get?”

  “Get? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What was in the basket, love? Robert Courtland placed a small gift in the basket of roses he had delivered to each of the ladies in the cast. Ollie got an exquisite blue and gold eighteenth-century pillbox, and Corey got dangling ruby earrings—real rubies, love. I got a small sapphire pendant on a thin silver chain. What did you get?”

  “I didn’t get anything.”

  “You must not have looked.”

  She searched the first basket of roses, found nothing, searched the second, frowned, then reached into the third basket with a triumphant smile, pulling out a long, flat white velvet box and handing it to me. I was surprised at how heavy it was. I sat down on the dressing stool and opened the box. The brilliant, shimmering fire of diamonds dazzled us both. Laura gasped. I lifted the necklace out of the box, holding it in my palm. There were three looped strands of perfectly cut diamonds, large pear-shaped pendants suspending from the center of each loop. The jewels glistened in the candlelight, each icy-clear gem ashimmer with liquid fire, pale violet and mauve and blue and silver, rainbow flames leaping and gleaming. I had never seen anything so gorgeous in my life. Laura was as speechless as I was, but only for a moment. She reached into the box, taking out the card nestling on a bed of white satin.

  “‘A small token of my admiration,’” she read. “‘Please wear these in the final scene tonight. The prop diamonds are not worthy of you.’ A token of his admiration! Looks like you’ve landed yourself a big one, love.”

  My hand trembled. The strands of diamonds shimmered all the more, delicate, rainbow-hued flames blazing inside their icy prisons.

  “I—I couldn’t possibly accept this,” I whispered.

  “Don’t be hasty,” she said.

  “It wouldn’t—it wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Who’s worrying about propriety?”

  “When a man gives a gift like this, he expects—it means—”

  “String him along, love,” she advised, “at least until you get earrings and bracelet to match.”

  I placed the necklace back into its nest of white satin and closed the box, a resolute expression on my face. Laura shook her head and said I was a stronger woman than she was and added that while she admired my character, she thought I was out of my mind. I stood up and smoothed the rich folds of buttercup-yellow out over my underskirts.

  “I’ll give it back to him after the play,” I said.

  “Demented,” she sighed. “Definitely.”

  Twenty-five minutes later I was backstage, in the dimly lit wings, wringing my hands. Ten minutes to go. In ten minutes the curtain would go up. Ten more minutes and we would be booed and hissed and pelted with refuse, just like in my nightmare. The ladies with their placards were still marching to and fro out in front of the theater, but Courtland and his hired men had broken up the crowd of ruffians. According to Michael, there had been only minor damage, all of it suffered by the ruffians who had quickly cleared the area when Courtland’s men went into action. We had only the audience to worry about now, and I could hear them filing into the theater, speaking in low voices, turning down their seats, rustling their programs.

  I stepped over to the peek hole in the curtains and peered out to see Atlanta’s most elite filling up the house, all of them in elegant attire, all of them rather smug and self-conscious about attending this “very important” opening. I watched a plump, silver-haired matron in pink satin and cream lace wave gaily to a dour gentleman in blue with goatee and silver-headed cane. Stout middle-aged couples, belles and their beaux, studious-looking gentlemen, proud spinsters and three or four beefy men in dark suits settled down, studied their programs, prepared to pass judgment. My stomach seemed to flip-flop and my skin felt chilled. I moved back into the wings. Five minutes. List in hand, a stagehand was checking to see that all props were on the set, the squalid room in New Orleans where Jessie took in washing, all done in grim shades of brown and tan, gray and black. When I appeared, my yellow dress would seem like a burst of sunshine in the gloom.

  “You’re as white as a sheet, honey,” Corey said, joining me in the wings. “No need to fret, child. They aren’t going to eat us. Forget about them. Forget about Dana, too. You’re Janine, and I’m your poor old ma.”

  I was amazed by her transformation. The chic, sophisticated colored woman with her caustic wit and dry, sarcastic manner had become a broken-down, defeated old Negro with lined, weary face and stringy gray hair, her shoulders bowed, her thin, frail frame covered with a shapeless and ragged gingham dress. Those sad brown eyes had seen a lifetime of grief, and that cracked, apologetic whisper of a voice had offered up many an unanswered prayer. She squeezed my hand, then ushered the boys onstage, warning them in her natural voice that if either of them messed up or stepped on one of her lines she’d tan their black hides so hard they wouldn’t sit dow
n for a week. The boys tittered. For all their rowdiness, they were perfect pros onstage.

  The house lights began to dim. I saw Ollie in the wings on the other side of the stage, her own transformation almost as amazing as Corey’s. Garish makeup was gone, replaced by far more subtle paint that concealed most of the wrinkles and gave her a pink and white complexion. The bright red wig had been exchanged for one of silver-gray, sleeked back smoothly, a bun in back. The flamboyant Englishwoman was now a demure southern matron, a role she played with an impressive skill. She gave me a wave. I nodded nervously.

  The house was completely dark now, only the footlights blazing. There was an expectant hush out front, whispers and scurrying noises behind me. Onstage, Corey gave a weary sigh, picked up the washboard and, placing it into a big tub of water, began to scrub a wet, soapy garment. A creaking, ringing noise broke the silence as the curtain slowly rang up. The set was bathed with light, and there came a collective gasp from the audience. Clearly, none of them had ever viewed a set so stark, so realistic, and none of them had ever seen a Negro onstage before. There were low murmurs. Corey continued to scrub, while in one corner of the squalid room the boys played soldiers with dried corn husks. From where I stood in the wings I could see the first few rows beyond the footlights and the expressions of those sitting there.

  The plump, silver-haired matron in pink was fanning herself vigorously and trying to control her shock. The gentleman beside her was nodding in approval, making a great show of tolerance and superiority. There were scattered “Boos!” and protesting “Shhhs!” and then the beefy gentleman in brown in the fourth row sprang to his feet and waved his fist.

  “Get that nigger off the stage!” he shouted. “This here’s a theater for white folks!”

  Three other men in various parts of the theater jumped up, too, yelling in angry voices, while others tried to quiet them. The agitators were obviously plants, obviously intended to stop the play, but they were quickly thwarted. Several men rushed down the aisles, seizing the protestors and manhandling them out. Michael, who didn’t appear until the last scene and was still in his cowboy attire, grabbed the beefy man in brown in a hammerlock and stranglehold, dragging him up the aisle to the back of the theater. There were shocked cries and much scuffling, and then, when the last protestor had been evicted, a great round of approving applause. Atlanta’s elite had clearly decided to make a public display of their advanced thinking and sophistication. Throughout the disturbance Corey had continued to wearily scrub, rubbing the garment vigorously, wringing it out, never once slipping out of character, and as the applause died down she picked up another garment and immersed it in the soapy water.

  Adam was in the wings beside me now, the dapper, handsome young buck transformed into a grizzled, careworn Negro defeated by life. He took several deep breaths. His legs were trembling. He closed his eyes for a moment, sending up a silent prayer, and then he shambled slowly onstage. High-strung and temperamental he might be, but he was a superb actor and in their scene together gave a performance almost as fine as Corey’s. He finally gathered up the boys, herding them offstage, and Corey shook her head and went back to her washing, looking even more dejected. It was time for me to go on.

  My knees turned to water. My stomach lurched, and my heart seemed to stop beating. The chill I had felt earlier returned. My skin was like ice. I was paralyzed, totally unable to move. This is absurd, Dana, I told myself. You’re an actress. You’re going to go out there and give a performance. They’re not going to throw rotten tomatoes and eggs. They’re going to love you. You’re going to make them love you. This is just stage fright. You’ve had it before and you’ll undoubtedly have it again.

  A frantic Jason materialized out of the shadows, seizing my arm.

  “What the hell is this? You’re on. Get out there!”

  “I—Jason, I can’t—I’m sick—”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I—I think I’m going to—”

  “Get your ass out there!”

  He let go of my arm, and somehow I moved. Somehow my legs carried me out onto the stage and I was in the bleak, colorless room and my yellow dress was like a vivid burst of sunlight and I heard applause, they were applauding my entrance, and I looked at Corey and she wasn’t Corey, she was Jessie, and she looked at me with sad, worried eyes that told me I was foolhardy and asking for a lifetime of grief, and I became Janine. I forgot Dana, forgot the tension, forgot the audience, living my role now, the only reality that of the drama unfolding. When I embraced Corey and called her Ma there were audible gasps, but I paid no heed to them. I was Janine, a Negro woman who had been passing for white, who intended to deny her blood completely and run off with a white man.

  The first scene ended and the curtain rang down and there was loud applause and Corey gave me a tight hug and we hurried offstage, stagehands rushing past us to change the set for Scene Two. Jason grabbed me and rocked me and told me I had been magnificent, bloody magnificent, and then I was hurrying to my dressing room to change. The next hour and a half seemed to pass in a blur. Scene Two went even better than Scene One, Laura marvelous in her role as Lenore, however small, Billy not Billy but Travis, absolutely brilliant and compelling as the weak, pampered but good-hearted southern dandy determined to make Janine his bride.

  The audience was rapt during Act Two, completely caught up in the drama and utterly silent, spellbound. When, in Act Three, Travis has shot himself and Janine and Jessie are thrown out by his parents, there were loud sobs from some of the more sensitive ladies out front. I knew we had won them over. They loved us. Just one more scene to go. I was rushing to my dressing room once again, and Dulcie was waiting, a worried look on her face. The false diamond necklace I was to wear in the last scene was missing, no one could find it anywhere, what were we going to do? I told Dulcie not to worry as she helped me into the spectacular gown I wore in the last scene, heavy white silk completely overlaid with tissue-thin white tulle with tiny stripes of gold thread. The tulle had been imported from Paris. The thread was real gold. The gown was incredibly sumptuous with its off-the-shoulder sleeves, low-cut bodice and full, swelling skirt.

  “I don’t know what could have happened to it—” Dulcie was still fretting about the necklace. “You can’t possibly go on without it—it’s pivotal to the scene. You have to have a diamond necklace.”

  “I have one,” I said.

  The long white velvet box was still on my dressing table. I opened it, and Dulcie’s eyes widened as I took out the glittering cascade of real diamonds. It was very clever of Mr. Courtland to appropriate the false necklace so I would be forced to wear the real. I had no time to think about that now. I fastened the necklace around my throat, the shimmering gems with their rainbow fires resting heavily against my skin and drawing attention to my near-exposed bosom.

  “It—it’s gorgeous!” Dulcie exclaimed. “Where did—”

  “Later,” I snapped.

  I hurried back to the stage and took my place at the elaborate dressing table in Janine’s dressing room in the luxurious New Orleans apartment paid for by her handsome and ruthless white lover who she feared was about to leave her. I closed my eyes for a moment, Dana vanishing, Janine looking into the mirror with weary, disillusioned eyes as the curtain slowly rose. There was applause for my gown and the beautiful set, but Janine couldn’t hear it. She heard only the sad voice inside that told her there was no escape, she was doomed to the inevitable fate of her kind. Hearing a carriage outside, I stood and walked to the window, fighting back my fear, telling myself it wasn’t true, Beau wasn’t going to leave me for another woman. Michael entered, elegant and stunningly handsome and icy-cold as Beau. He told me it had been an amusing six months, but he was weary now, it was over, and I gnawed my lower lip and tried to take it calmly. He told me I had nothing to complain about, he had given me those diamonds, he had given me a fancy wardrobe and kept me in style. I was to vacate the apartment in two days. Another woman would be moving
in. I told him he couldn’t just cast me aside like an old shoe, and he told me he could do anything he damn well pleased.

  “What—what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

  “You can always sell the diamonds—or yourself.”

  “You—you’re a bastard!” I cried. “A bastard!”

  “And you, my dear, are an uppity nigger slut.”

  He slapped me brutally across the face and I fell to the floor and he gazed at me with utter disdain for a moment and then left. I sobbed. I pulled myself up and stood rubbing my cheek, tears streaming down my cheeks. After a few moments I brushed the tears away and went back to the dressing table and sat down, looking at myself again, accepting my fate. When my mother entered, dressed in an elegant black taffeta maid’s uniform with a white organdy apron, I was calmly repairing my makeup, but my eyes were hard, my mouth set in a resolute line. I told her what had happened, told her we had to be out of the apartment day after tomorrow. She was distraught.

  “But—but, baby, we don’t have no money. Dat man never gave you any money, jest things. We ain’t got noplace to go. We—lawdy, chile, what are we goin’ to do?”

  “You’re going to stay here tonight,” I told her, “and—and you’re not to worry. There’s a ball in the Quarter tonight, and there will be many wealthy men looking for amusement.”

  “Baby, you—you ain’t gonna put yourself on th’ block. You ain’t gonna become a fancy nigger whore—”

  “What do you think I’ve been for the past six months?”

  “Baby—”

  “I’m going to take care of us, Ma. I—I tried to be something I’m not, and now I’m going to be what—what I was destined to be at birth. Fetch my wrap. I’m going to the Quadroon Ball.”