by Sands Hall
But Maud was scouring Olivia out of her system. Miles, too. She imagined the life Miles was creating with someone else, the bright lights and fancy restaurants, the promise of Hollywood. She thought about her old acting class, about Nikos, about getting out of her head. Although Nikos would have liked her in this play. Funny how much easier it was to get out of your head when you had Shakespeare to rely on. She also brooded—there was no other word—on Jake and Lizzie. Marriage, or joining, or welding, or whatever they planned to call it, while they rogered and bonked and intercoursed away. They had life, capital L. With the children, Driver up in the trailer like old times with Sam, even a dog to complete the picture. They were of the world. Their children’s children would take a piece of them along. Even Lizzie’s art existed when she was done with it. While Maud’s was dust in the wind. Or pieces of lumber, screws, scraps of remembered dialogue.
She coiled dozens of thick black electric cables, welcomed the cup of sweet, milky coffee someone brought her, and plunged back in. Swept the stage, sorted through the piles of sawdust for reusable hardware—wing nuts, bolts—and swept the stage again. Tired and hungry, she wasn’t sure what she was wringing out of herself, pushing out, sweating out, but she wouldn’t leave, she could see it now, until the theater was once again an empty space.
It was almost 10 P.M. when they finished. Chris, dressed up, wet hair slicked back, came into the theater and bellowed at them to get to the party. “We all can’t have a good time until you arrive.”
“That’s your guilt trip, not ours,” Bud said. He had crooked teeth, yellow from smoking, a craggy face. “But let’s go. I’ll douse the lights backstage, meet you in the lobby.”
She fetched her coat, her bag. As they headed up the aisle Chris wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You doing okay?”
She pushed hair back from her eyes. “It’s over.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Until next time.”
They stood at the double doors of the auditorium, looking back at the stage. “If this were Broadway,” Chris said, “or maybe a movie about Broadway, right about now there’d be some stagehand coming out with a bald lightbulb at the top of a pole, placing it in the middle of the stage. I’ve always meant to find out why they left a light on.”
“It’s a union thing,” Bud shouted from backstage.
Chris snapped his fingers in regret. “And I always thought it was to scare away ghosts.”
“Or just that the light doesn’t go away,” Maud offered, but this didn’t say what she meant.
“Nope,” Bud called again. “Nowadays ghosts pay attention to the exit signs. You guys ready?”
“Ready.”
The auditorium lights went out. Then the ones above the stage. Even so, it seemed to Maud that the stage shimmered, pulsed, glowed. Bud came up the aisle with a quick loping stride. As Chris clicked out the lobby lights and held the door for her, as they exited into a night that smelled of new-mown grass, as they walked down the street towards Chris and Bobbie’s house, talking easily, even then Maud felt it: the afterglow of that empty space, waiting, waiting, as it always did, and always had, for the incandescence of new life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For all they have taught and continue to teach me, I extend profound thanks to my students and editing clients.
This book would not have been written without the inspiration and support of my lovely and loving sisters, Tracy and Brett. I also received help, sustenance, and important laughter from Lynne Collins, Liz Davis, Clare Henkel, Susan Stroh, and many others, including Forbesy, Sunny, Kanga, Laurie, and Kate.
For the inspiration her life and her beautiful paintings she gave me, thanks to Dana Porter Biss. And to Tom Lane, man of such song and heart.
To the children in my life I am grateful: my niece, Emma; my nephews, Justin, Nico, and Hunter; and numerous other good friends, including Dylan, Wesley, Emily, Andrew, Zachary, Grace, Alexandra, and Tomas.
God may be in the details, but it takes someone to attend to them. Tom Taylor’s ability to see not only the forest and the trees, but the branches, the pine needles, and the ground greatly enriches my life.
Thanks to the American Conservatory Theatre’s Advanced Training Program, especially to Bill Ball, Ed Hastings, and Joy Carlin; to the Oregon, Colorado, and Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festivals, and the Old Globe Theatre; also to Eric Forsythe, the University of Iowa Theater Department, and Iowa Summer Rep. Special thanks are due The Foothill Theatre Company in Nevada City—especially to Artistic Director Philip Charles Sneed and director Lynne Collins.
Thanks to Marilyn Jones and Mitchell Kaplan for the inspiration provided by their marriage proposal, and to Trish and Mark Koopman for theirs.
Wells Kerr gave me, at the age of fourteen, my first dose of and a never-ending love for Shakespeare. Miriam Gilbert, Professor Emeri-tus at the University of Iowa, underscored the love by sharing, in a semester-long tutorial, some of her monumental knowledge.
I am profoundly grateful to Leona Nevler, my editor at Ballantine, and to my agent, Michael Carlisle.
And to Tom, who lived so much of it with me.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2000 by Sands Hall
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/BB/
A copy of the Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request from the publisher.
eISBN: 978-0-345-44444-8
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