Loving Liz

by Bobbi Marolt

  “Let’s go, sugar. Bert’s gonna be pissed off if you miss his final call.”

  “It’s not a real show, Nina.”

  “Tell that to Bert.” Nina opened the door and slid over.

  *

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nina asked while she handed Marty her pajama top. “You’ve been jumpy ever since you got into the cab.”

  “My stomach’s doing flip-flops, and I feel as though I should run out of here and never come back.” She put the top on.

  “Why are you in such a dither?” Nina asked.

  “I don’t know.” She turned loose with anxious babble-speak. “The show’s good, isn’t it? The songs are okay? Where’s Felice? How’s she feeling?” She lit a cigarette. “Did the understudies get here? I wonder how the audience feels. If they’re not in a pleasant mood, we’re screwed.” Marty took another hit. “What time is it? Did Bert say they’re ready for us? I didn’t hear anything.”

  Nina took the cigarette from her and dropped it into a mug of old coffee. “You can’t smoke in here. Settle down, Marty. This is a preview.”

  “Where’s Liz?”

  “She’s out front. Clive is welcoming the guests and you have at least fifteen minutes.”

  A knock came to the door. “It’s Bert. Can I come in, Jamison?”

  “Yes.” Her cell phone rang and she checked caller ID. “Oh shit. It’s Rachel.”

  Bert entered the room. “I’m not holding you to a time frame. Clive is gonna give the audience…” He looked closer at her. “Do you feel okay? You look a little pale.”

  Marty shoved the phone into Nina’s hand and ran into the bathroom. Her stomach instantly emptied what small amount it had taken in earlier. “Damn it,” she said and washed her hands and face. She took a swig of mouthwash, spit into the sink, and returned to the room.

  Bert had left, and Nina still held the phone. “I took the call,” Nina said. “She’s just returned from a religious retreat and you can call her tonight.”

  Marty laughed sarcastically. “Rachel found God? At least knowing we’ll speak tonight gives me time for getting my head together for her.” She looked into the mirror. “Will you fix my makeup, please?”

  She turned in her chair to face Nina. She didn’t have enough time to think about Rachel before Liz walked through the door with Paul and Felice. Marty was thankful her stomach had already exploded. She stared at Liz’s hand on his arm.

  “Paul wanted the royal tour and then wanted to wish you success.” She handed a bottle of champagne to Marty. “This is for a successful preview.”

  “Champagne gives me a headache,” she lied and Liz’s shoulders dropped.

  “We’ve had champagne three times together.”

  Marty’s mouth moved, Liz’s mouth moved, but Marty was nowhere within the conversation. She kept glancing at Liz’s hand holding Paul’s arm. The gesture seemed vulgar and inappropriate in her presence. She wanted to toss Liz and Paul out of the room, but at the same time, wanted to fall into her arms for reassurance that the preview would blow the audience’s socks off.

  Marty finally snapped to attention. “What did you say?” Liz guided her to the daybed. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re pale. Even with makeup you look like you’re about to pass out. Are you okay?”

  Nina craned her neck and glanced over Marty’s face. “You’re right.”

  “I lost my lunch a few minutes ago. I need something to eat before I go on stage.”

  Liz felt Marty’s pulse. “Your heart is racing. Do you want Paul to have a look at you before you go onstage?”

  Marty gave Liz her best “have you lost your mind” expression. “No,” she said, brooding.

  “Here.” Nina handed her a dry bagel and a cup of tea. “Get these into your stomach.”

  Liz sent Paul back to his seat. Marty chewed on the bagel and her mind struggled with having Liz at her side and thoughts of Rachel. “Please leave, Liz.”

  “I’m concerned about you.”

  “We haven’t had a civil conversation outside of this show in weeks. Don’t placate me.”

  “Marty—”

  “Come on, Liz. Maybe she’ll see you later.” Nina escorted Liz from the room and closed the door. Marty finished her bagel while Nina diverted her attention. She knew the key words of support. “Your command of an audience…You’ll have them on their knees. Use your gimmick. Find a subtle way to bring them to your feet and those two hundred people will buy out future box office today. If act one fails miserably, I’ll pull the fire alarm without charge.”

  A boisterous laugh flew out of Marty. “Yup, you still have confidence in me.” She stood, energized with professionalism, and now looked forward to stepping on stage. “Let’s go.”

  Nina walked with her to the wing and then retreated to sit with the audience. Clive stood onstage, in front of the curtain, completing his welcome and history of the show. Felice waited at the wing, anxious to strut for a different public. Marty was pleasantly shocked seeing Felice with dark hair for the first time.

  “I don’t care if they’re a preview audience,” Felice said. “This is my day.”

  Marty smiled at her. “You aren’t scared? Nervous?”

  “Hell no. That’s my name on the marquee, beside the famous Jamison, and that gives me the okay to say I’ll knock ’em dead.”

  Bert approached. “Hey, Felice. Jamison, I’m glad you could make it on time. Get to your marks. Clive’s almost finished.” Felice headed toward her bed, and when Marty took a step toward the stage, Bert stopped her. “Are you sure you’re okay to go on? I can hold them for a few extra minutes. Free admission and wine makes the audience less restless.”

  “I’m good to go.”

  “You’ll be swell,” he said and gave her a wink.

  Marty took her position in bed and the curtain rose to begin act one. They weren’t just swell. They were great. Reaction spilled on target for each laugh expected, and sarcasm extracted loud groans from the guests. Throughout their performance, Marty was proud of the Jamison-Tate duo. The only question in her mind arose when their songs didn’t receive the spirited round of applause that she had anticipated. Some seemed into the music, but most were bored and some looked at their watches.

  In the middle of the first act, Marty opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She poured a shot and capped the container. She studied the label on the side of the bottle.

  “I am a star. It says so right on the bottle. ‘Star of excellence.’ ”

  Felice sat, buffing her toenails. “Did you bother to read the opposite side?” She looked up at Marty. “The part that says ‘The oldest registered.’”

  Two hundred voices filled the house with laughter. When Marty knocked back the drink, she thanked God the audience approval covered her gasp for breath. Bert had slipped his handy dandy personal bottle of whiskey onto the set. While the burn eased in her throat, she looked with alarm at Felice’s wine bottle and then looked at Bert on the wing. He smiled.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Felice spritzed her and spoke the final line of the first act.

  “I’ve got you!” She took a long swallow of wine and the curtain came down.

  “You nailed it, Felice.”

  Felice coughed. Her face glowed red and her eyes were the size of spotlights. She choked. “I think that was white lightning. My throat’s on fire.”

  “Clear the stage,” Bert said.

  *

  Marty and Felice entered her dressing room in such a fine mood that Liz’s presence didn’t bother her.

  Felice flopped onto the chair and Liz talked excitedly. “Clive and I listened to the audience chatter. They approve, and it appears that everything’s coming up roses for Jamison and Tate.” She brought a rose from behind her back and handed it to Marty. Marty shook her head and walked away.

  Marty vigorously brushed her fingers through her hair. “I feel wonderful.” She took a cool cloth from Nina and sat on the daybed. “Thanks,” she
said, and proceeded to cool her face. “I think the second act will go as well, if not better. I almost wish the press were here.”

  Obviously disappointed that Marty hadn’t accepted the rose, Liz placed it on the vanity. “I need to get out front and listen to the buzz.” Liz touched Marty’s shoulder. “Excellent work, Marty. I’ll see you after the final curtain.”

  “And maybe you won’t,” Marty said when Liz closed the door.

  Nina gave her a bathrobe. “Put that on. It’s too cold in here for just pajamas.”

  “Thanks.” Marty slipped into the robe and stretched out on the daybed. “We had fun, didn’t we, Felice?”

  “Yes, but is Bert trying to kill me?”

  Marty laughed. “We’ll get him back. I’m happy and I’m singing after all. Theater doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “Right,” Nina said, “and you’re probably still feeling a tingle where Liz touched your shoulder. Are you two working on your relationship or is it completely over?”

  “We’re stagnant,” Marty said and wouldn’t admit that she did feel that tingle. “We work together. Aside from that, I haven’t a clue what she’s doing.”

  “She’s trying to find her way back to you,” Felice said. “Can’t you see that? I’m going to my dressing room.”

  Nina handed Marty a glass of orange juice. “Here, keep your sugar levels up.”

  She sat up and took a drink of the beverage. Without Liz, nights were often tearful, and it took all her strength not to call her. She wondered if Liz went through the same long hours. A few months or a year from now, maybe they would see another curtain rise for them, but she couldn’t imagine a revival in their near future.

  “Try to put her out of your mind. The show will keep you busy,” Nina said.

  Marty perked up instantly. “Act two will be even better than our first. Felice has some great lines.” Her cell phone rang. “Can you take that call for me?” She looked over her shoulder when Nina nudged her. Rachel Carr, she read in bold blue letters. Marty’s joy deflated.

  “Voice mail,” she said.

  “Do you want me to check the message?”

  “Yes. No.” Marty thought. “I’ll do it later.” She took a deep breath. “Nina, I need a few minutes alone.”

  “I’ll make sure Bert calls for you. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. The day’s too good to let Rachel bring me down again.”

  “Don’t forget to touch up your face,” Nina said and left her alone.

  Marty reluctantly retrieved Rachel’s message. “Hello, Marty. It’s Rachel again. I won’t be home until after eight tonight. Give me a call then. Bye.”

  Memories of Rachel in bed with another woman blinked through her mind, but died an early death. She no longer felt the anger that had sent her cheating mate into the street with nothing but a blanket wrapped around her. She knew only the silence of streaking neurons and the splay of overworked dendrites that formed unanswered questions. Why did Rachel sleep around? Had Marty completely lost Liz—the possible love of her life? She could only wonder.

  “Jamison?” Bert knocked twice. “You have five minutes to get to your position on my stage.”

  “Thanks, Bert.” She wiped her tears with the cloth and then touched up her makeup. “I will not allow thoughts of Rachel Carr and Liz Chandler to screw up our show.”

  *

  The second act ran smoothly and the audience sounded with regular laughter. In act three, their final song united the characters as a stronger, single woman who wasn’t afraid to face the next day. Marty and Felice sat back to back on the mega pillow. Marty held the revolver in her hand.

  When they completed their song, they waited for applause to subside. They repositioned themselves, arm against arm, and faced the audience. Marty looked at the gun, and then at Felice. Felice smiled and shook her head. Marty returned a smile and threw the weapon over her shoulder. They joined hands and spoke two lines to each other.

  Felice spoke first. “Tonight isn’t curtains for me.”

  And then Marty. “I’m not that lost of a soul.”

  In unison, they looked toward the audience and spoke the final line together.

  “Tomorrow, it’s curtain up.”

  Marty felt a tight squeeze from Felice’s hand when the audience stood with ovation and the curtain fell on the final act.

  “Can I let out a yell?” Felice asked.

  “Yes,” Marty said and they gave a holler. “The show worked.” Without letting go of Felice’s hand, she pulled her to the apron. “Come on. Let’s take a bow.”

  The house lights were up and Marty saw all two hundred smiling faces. “Go ahead, Felice,” she said and waited while Felice took her first nearly official Broadway bow. Eventually, and to uproarious applause, they took a final bow together and returned to the wing.

  “They’re still clapping,” Felice said.

  “Want to go back out? Get a little more lovin’ from your audience? Go ahead, hon. They’re calling your name.”

  Felice bubbled. “I can’t believe this. Those two hundred are louder than a full audience for my past shows.”

  From the stage, Clive motioned. “Come on out.” He smiled. “They want both of you. Marty, would you say a few words to them?”

  They stepped out together. Before the audience quieted, Marty reached under the curtain and pulled out Nina’s pillow. She placed it in front of them. When the house grew silent, she spoke.

  “Thank you for attending our preview. This production has been through hell, before we managed to bring it together. It wasn’t too long ago that I sat on that pillow”—she pointed toward the cushion—“three sheets to the wind and madder than hell.” The audience laughed. She pointed at Felice. “Wasn’t she great?” When their applause and yells of “yes” subsided, Marty took a step back. “Felice?”

  Felice looked into the small audience. Though she was flawless with her performance, now she shook. Marty nudged her and she produced a crooked smile. “Good-bye,” she finally said, but a quick exuberance took over and Felice rushed more words. “Tell everyone you know to come and see us.”

  Following their ego boost, Nina met them on the wing and gave them their robes. “The photographers are waiting outside for the photo shoot.”

  “Excellent,” Felice said as they made their way through the hall.

  “I told you there’d be time,” Marty said.

  Outside, a hydraulic lift and platform awaited them. Shimmering black velvet covered the floor. Several photographers waited, some from the newspapers that Clive refused to invite to their initial preview.

  “I promise a full show to the press in a few days,” Clive said as Marty and Felice stepped onto the platform. “Let’s just get some fabulous shots of our actors.”

  An operator raised the platform to meet the marquee. When Marty and Felice threw their robes to Nina, the onlookers, press, and photographers echoed wolf whistles and catcalls.

  “Eat your hearts out, boys and girls,” Marty said and flashed a wide smile.

  With the show title behind them, they primped and posed, laughed, and wiggled for the photographers. They held their tumbler and wine glass together in toast and then stood back-to-back. At Felice’s suggestion, they stood face-to-face and exaggerated the pose of angry boxers ready for a showdown.

  “This is fun,” Felice said.

  A sharp glint of light, unlike that of a camera flash, struck the corner of Marty’s eye. She turned toward the crowd and looked into the group of press and onlookers. The light flashed again and nearly blinded her. A watch, strapped to a buxom brunette’s wrist, sparkled a third time. She felt her blood drain. She leaned against the marquee when she focused on the woman’s face. Rachel.

  “Shit. This can’t happen now.” Stomach acid simmered degrees from a hard boil.

  “Something wrong?” Felice asked.

  “I’m afraid of heights.” She motioned to Clive. “Let’s wrap this up.” She looked for Liz and found he
r talking to a staff writer of Playbill. Liz’s back was turned away.

  Marty looked back at Rachel. Rachel smiled but received no acknowledgement. There was no lingering attraction for Rachel, but Marty’s gut screamed that it hadn’t forgotten the anger at all. While the platform lowered to the ground, her stomach cranked up another notch. Rachel zoomed closer with each increment of the descending crane. Clive thanked the photographers and then helped Marty and Felice step down.

  “Great pictures,” Clive said to them.

  Marty grabbed her robe and rushed to cover herself. While she walked over to Rachel, bitterness rose from her toenails to the top of her sternum, but stopped there. Had her emotions gone further, she would have verbally assaulted Rachel, and the press would have had a field day. She knew her place as she stood eye to eye with her.

  “Hello,” Rachel said. “I heard you were down here. I can’t believe you’re working with Tate. You can’t possibly be that desperate for press.”

  “Felice knows her stuff, and you’ll regret never having signed her.” She pulled her robe tightly around her. “How was your religious retreat? Did you work your way into any new habits?”

  “Are you kidding? All of those nuns and me? I was in hog heaven.”

  “How fitting that you equate yourself to a pig. I’ll call you tonight.”

  “I can’t imagine why. We haven’t spoken in two years.”

  Marty looked over at Liz and the gap between them. She looked back at Rachel. “I’m working, and this isn’t the appropriate place for our conversation. Tell me now if you won’t be home tonight.”

  Rachel pulled off her sunglasses and tapped them against her lips. She looked toward Liz and returned her eyes to Marty. “I’ll be there. You look wonderful. You must be in love.”

  The comment wasn’t worth a thank you. “You look tired.” Marty turned away and walked through the entrance to the theater.

  “Marty,” Clive called to her, “Liz and I need a meeting with the cast and understudies. We’ll meet on stage in five minutes.”