Acts of Love

by Judith Michael

  "Yes. Thank you for lunch. Would you look at this list I have for Dan and add anything of your own? I want to give it to him when he gets back, and we'll talk about it after rehearsal. And I have a props list here, and some suggestions for wardrobe, and, I didn't mention it this morning, but I do

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  have some alternative sketches for the set. What would you think of one turntable with an apartment on each side? Then we could show both apartments at once or only one. I thought we might talk to Augie about it after rehearsals. Can you stay.''"

  "You know I can. It looks like you've been working night and day. No time for sleep."

  "I don't need a lot."

  Hermione saw her look up as Angela Crown came into the room. "Bad dreams if you do?" she asked.

  "No. Just.. . too much thinking."

  "You know, Jessie, if I could make it easier for you, I would."

  "I know and I love you for it. But I'm fine. You worry about theater parties and I'll take care of me. You forget about it. Promise me you will."

  "Just like that."

  "Just like that."

  They laughed together. "Well, I won't promise, but I'll try not to harp on it. You'll work it out. You're good, you know: tough and smart. Can't beat that."

  Not so tough, Jessica thought later that night. She had spent an hour with Hermione and Augie after rehearsals, then gone over wardrobe designs until almost eight. By the time she left, she was tired and feeling lonely, wanting companionship. Not even conversation, she thought, just the presence of someone else. She had not spoken to Edward all day and she missed his lugubrious commentaries and the sadness in his face that eased a little when they were together.

  But as she maneuvered through the evening traffic and found herself going faster as she approached Point Piper, she remembered that a letter from Luke would be waiting for her. There was always a letter. He wrote every night, around midnight in New York, and his letter arrived instantly, in Sydney's hot summer afternoon, while Jessica was at rehearsal. And there it would be when she walked in at seven or eight o'clock, face up on her fax machine: crisp white pages filled with his handwriting. She would put off the moment of reading them by taking Hope outside and letting her run on her extra-long leash, then pouring a glass of wine and settling herself in a deep armchair beside the windows. And finally she would begin to read, and imagine that he was with her in the silence of her crowded rooms, with Hope curled up at her side and the sky fading to

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  ocher and amber above the city's skyline and the ceaseless traffic in the harbor below.

  Dearest Jessica, no letter from you for a few days, but I know^ w^hat a busy time it is when you're just beginning rehearsals. You didn't say yes or no about Kent's play, so I've sent it to you without the revisions; I thought you might have suggestions that would help us with the third act. Not right away, of course; only when you want to take a breather from Journey^i End. Kent, being Kent, wants to plunge right in, cast the play, and work on the third act while we're in rehearsals, a write-as-you-go method that causes me to break out in a cold sweat. Sometimes I wish I were as young as he is, filled with that absolute certainty that everything is possible, by brute force if not by intellectual savvy. But then I think it's better to be where I am, almost forty-six and perfectly willing to go slowly if I'm not sure what lies around the next bend or if I haven't got a foolproof answer for the problem at hand. I suppose that's what I'm doing with you, isn't it? Kent probably would have been in Sydney long ago, courting you and keeping alive the magic of that week on your island. And maybe I should have done that. In fact, whenever I see an airline ticket office, I think how easy it would be to fly to your new city and ring your doorbell and, perhaps with Kent's cockiness, invite you to dinner. Now and then I'm sure you'd like that. But all the other times, I'm just as sure that you'd tell me to get out of the way, that you have a lot to prove and unless you prove it alone you'll never be at peace w^ith yourself.

  And maybe you'll never want me back in your life, because I mean New York to you and you're determined never to live here again. Maybe you've met someone else who loves you and has no connections with your past. Maybe you don't know what you'll do next; maybe you're waiting to see what's around the next bend or what the foolproof answers are for the problem at hand.

  Whatever it is, I'll wait for you to find out. As long as you write to me and keep me a part of your life, I can wait. But perhaps you shouldn't wait too long; you may find me, if you ever come to look, grizzled, feeble and doddering. Though no less in love with you. Always, Luke.

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  "Let's try it again," Jessica said the next day, "from Stan's entrance." She stood up, as if that might give them a feehng of urgency, perhaps even of tension, since tension was what she was after in this scene and had not found, though they had rehearsed it ten times already that day and it was only midafternoon. The trouble was, the heat was so oppressive they were all wilting and it made it more difficult to concentrate. "I have an idea. Edward, try stopping in the doorway instead of coming straight into the room. You thought this was your son's apartment and you're so shocked when you recognize Helen that you literally can't move."

  "But how do I come in if he's blocking the door?" Nora asked.

  "You don't have to, at least not right away. You start talking, right behind Stan; Helen hears your voice before she sees you. Then Stan comes in and you follow and the three of you look at each other for the first time in twenty years. Let's try it that way."

  "I like it," Hermione said as Jessica sat down. "When did you think it up?"

  "About two o'clock this morning."

  "Still keeping your late hours."

  "Yes." But some of those hours were spent reading a wonderful letter over and over, because it was hard to thin about anything else.

  Angela took her place on the couch and a moment later Edward simulated knocking on the door and opened it. "Rex, we're here—" He stopped, his breath coming out in an explosion, as if he had been socked in the stomach. His body seemed to draw into itself as he stared at Helen.

  "Good, good," Hermione whispered.

  "Rex? Where's my boy?" Doris was asking, behind Stan. Hearing her voice, Helen jumped to her feet. "Stan, you're in my way; I want to see my boy!" Doris cried.

  Stan two took jerky steps into the room, with Doris right behind, almost pushing him. Helen took a step back as the three of them looked at each other.

  "Much better," Jessica said. "How did that feel to the three of you?"

  "Nice," Nora said. "It seems more natural."

  "Angela?" Jessica asked.

  "I don't see much difference from all the other ways we've been doing it, but it's okay."

  "One difference is that now we know you've never forgotten Doris's voice; it helps explain a lot that follows. Now I want all of you—Whit,

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  this includes you—to act out what you were doing before you came on stage."

  They stared at her. "What?" Whitbread said at last.

  "Make up lines, make up stage business, whatever works for you. I want to see where you were and what you were doing just before you came into the apartment. Angela, that means where you were and what you were doing in the apartment before the others arrived."

  "Why?" Angela asked.

  "Because your life doesn't begin the minute you step onto the stage. You're a whole person and the action on stage is in between other parts of your life. You're always coming from somewhere and when you exit you're going somewhere. If you can't feel that, nothing you do on stage will be truthful."

  "I've heard that talked about," Angela said, ''hni acting it. . . I mean, why go through all that?"

  "Because I'm asking you to. Whit, will you start?"

  Slowly, agonizingly, each of them began to invent dialogue and action. "I don't know," Whitbread muttered.
"I really have no idea what you're getting at."

  Jessica sighed. "This is what I'm getting at." She took her cane and walked to the makeshift stage. "Angela, please." Angela moved away from the box that represented a couch and Jessica sat in her place, pretending to hold a pad of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other. "The zoo benefit next Friday," she said. Every word was audible, but it was clear that she was talking to herself "The cancer benefit, the Botanical Gardens dinner, the Art Gallery dinner, and what's-his-name's costume ball . . . good Lord"—her voice rose, filled with pride and satisfaction—"I need a staff; one secretary isn't enough; this has gotten far too big for me to handle by myself."

  She knocked on the coffee table, mimicking Stan's knock on her door, and looked up sharply, then spoke a few lines of the dialogue that followed, taking all three parts. "That's what I'm getting at," she said, standing up. "Of course, we don't know yet what Stan and Doris were doing before Stan knocked on the door, but we know that Helen was feeling very good about herself and therefore the shock of seeing her past suddenly appear in her doorway is even more devastating. Now you try it. Nora or Edward, one of you go first."

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  Nora was staring at her. "That was wonderful. You made Helen sound ... I mean, if I could sound like that—"

  "We're waiting," Jessica said flatly, sitting again at the table.

  Hermione leaned toward her. "Did you see Angela's face.? Total shock. I'll bet she's thinking you ought to be in her shoes right now."

  "Angela? Believing someone is a better actress than she is? You don't really believe that."

  "Well, put that way, probably not. And she really is pretty good."

  "She's a good actress; she'll be fine."

  "I know she will. Well, would you listen to them now. They got the idea. Clumsy, but they're really trying."

  Jessica nodded, and they were silent, listening. "Good," she said after a few minutes. "Now go back and do the scene again, but remember what went before, because it's part of you."

  They went through the first five minutes of the scene. "Did it make any difference?" Angela asked. "It didn't seem any different to me."

  Jessica took a long breath. "It was a little bit different. It will get better with time. If it doesn't, there's not much point in rehearsing. Let me tell you what I'm trying to do. I'm sure you've heard it all before, but I think you need to hear it from me. We're looking for truth. That means that when something surprising happens on stage, you are truly surprised. I know you'll think that's so elementary it doesn't need to be said, but actors forget it all the time. You're all so good you can act almost any emotion, but acting surprised or frightened or furious never convinces an audience as much as being surprised or frightened or furious. Once you've convinced them . . . well, you know this from all the times you've done it in the past: they believe in you and they'll follow you anywhere, into other emotions and other situations, until—at least this is what we hope—they discover something new about what it means to be human. For me, that's the true magic of the theater."

  Edward shook his head. "That's too much to expect. How many actors can actually give audiences a new understanding of being human? A handful in the whole world. You're talking about a formidable talent, a very rare talent."

  "Think of it as something to strive for," Jessica said coolly, finding Edward's lugubriousness less appealing by the moment. "Now please go back and begin act two again."

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  Dearest Jessica, I'm sendingyou two books that I've enjoyed; I hope you can hnd some time to read them. I know the feeling that you have too much to do before opening night (will you have previews?), but my homily for the day is this: small breaks for relaxation actually make everything more manageable, just as sips of w^ine make a meal go more smoothly, and brief separations between lovers intensify their feelings. Give yourself time for yourself. All my love, Luke.

  Dear Luke, I'm having a proDlem with the opening or act two; I can't get the explosive tension it needs. It's hetter than it was, with Stan rrozen with shock in the doorway and Doris behind him, heard (and remembered) by Helen berore being seen, but it still isn't enough. Is there anything else I could do? Jessica.

  Dearest Jessica, get Helen off that couch. The scene is too static in the moment before Stan comes in. Maybe she's been in the bedroom and comes in still brushing her hair or pulling on a jacket or tying a scarf—something like that — just as Stan opens the door. So they face each other standing, both of them frozen in position for maybe three seconds before Doris says her lines behind Stan (a very good touch, by the way). I hope this helps. With my love, Luke.

  "Yes!" Hermione exclaimed as she and Jessica watched Angela and Edward face each other across the makeshift stage. "Terrific! You finally got it."

  "A friend suggested it," Jessica said.

  "Ah. The wonders of a fax machine."

  "And of friendship."

  "Speaking of which, how about dinner tonight.^ Come over about seven; I'll rent a movie and we won't talk shop at all."

  "It sounds wonderful, but could we do it tomorrow night instead.?"

  "Sure. Shall I refrain from asking what's happening tonight?"

  Jessica smiled. "It's hard to deal with such subtlety. Edward is taking me to Manly for dinner and a visit to something called Oceanworld."

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  "No. We enjoy being together."

  And that was what she said to Edward that night as they sat on the terrace of the Headlands Restaurant in Manly. They had taken the Jetcat there, bouncing at high speeds across the choppy water of the harbor, and then had gone to Oceanworld, a huge marine tank with a moving walkway beneath the clear bottom, so that they looked up at sharks, octopi, eels and dozens of other creatures from the ocean and the Great Barrier Reef. "What fun," Jessica said. "It's the best way to pretend you're an eel or a shark. At least you see things from their point of view."

  "Not so long ago you felt like a mermaid," Edward said. They were walking slowly to the restaurant and he held her free arm, which annoyed her, but she said nothing so that he would not feel rejected. "Are you tired of living on the land?"

  "I'm not tired of anything," she said. "I like new experiences and new feelings. New ways of looking at things."

  He held her chair at the restaurant and propped her cane against the wall. "Are you pleased with our rehearsals?"

  "I thought we'd agreed not to talk about work."

  He picked up the menu and scanned it. "Everything here is very good. You might want to try the Moreton Bay bug if you haven't had it."

  "I haven't. The name definitely lacks appeal."

  "It's just a local miniature crayfish, you know, sadly misnamed. There's also the Victorian yabby, a local lobster, quite fine. And the barramundi is an excellent fish, found only here. Also the Tasmanian scallops, grilled. I would recommend any of those. Red wine or white?"

  "Red. Edward, what is this sudden interest in food? You've always seemed so indifferent, as if a meal was just something that stood between you and starvation."

  "But I'm with you and that makes everything different. Jessica, I have to say this, how completely different my life is with you."

  "We said we wouldn't talk about that."

  "You said."

  "Well, then, I said it. Isn't that enough?"

  His mouth turned down. "I've disappointed you."

  "A little, but not excessively. Come on, Edward; let's keep things light."

  From then on, he let her lead the conversation, and she kept it firmly away from the two of them, until they had finished dessert and were drink-

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  ing espresso. Then Edward took a deep breath, girding himself. "I asked you earUer if you were happy with rehearsals."

  "And I told you—"

  "I know, but we must talk about it." He took her hand, holding it tightly. "I have great confidence in you, Jess
ica, more than I have in anyone else at the moment. But right now I need to ask you how you think we're doing, because a lot of people in Sydney are saying that the play is a disaster, and I'm too close to it to know whether they're right or wrong, so I'm asking you to tell me."

  Jessica's anger flared. "You're asking me to reassure you that the play isn't a disaster? What will you do if I say that it is?"

  Shocked, he said, "I don't know. I don't expect you to say that."

  "Then why ask it at all?"

  "Because I need to hear you say that it's wonderful. I've put all my energies and hopes into this, more than anyone can imagine, and I need reassurance. Is that asking too much?"

  She freed her hand. "I'd like to go home, Edward."

  "No, no, we have to finish this. Why do you turn hostile when everything is so good between us? I asked a simple question: Are you happy with rehearsals?"

  "We're going in the right direction. We still have two weeks and then previews. What else are people saying about the play? Or about me?"

  "You don't want to know all that. I only mentioned it because the four of us are a little worried. Angela thinks the problem is closed rehearsals, but we can't be sure, so I said I'd ask you about it."

  "You're the designated messenger? Does that mean none of you thinks rehearsals are going well?"

  "We all did until we started hearing ..."

  "Until you started hearing what? I want to know, Edward."

  "Jessica, this isn't easy for me. But we have to believe that what we're doing is good; we can't go for another two weeks wondering if it might be . . . might be . . ."

  "A disaster. That's what you heard."

  "Yes, among other— But none of it is true. . . ."

  "If you really believed that, you wouldn't have brought it up. Go on. I want to know what they're saying."

  "Well, it isn't true, we all know that, but some people are saying that

  you're floundering, that you don't know how to put a play together and build it, you know, develop tension, and you can't work with a crew or a cast. . . ."

  "And you agree? With any or all of it? What about the last? That I don't know how to work with a cast."