Lovers and Other Monsters

by Marvin Kaye (ed)

  Laura entered the park and walked down the sloping lawn to the lake. Two Canadian geese poked about in the reeds, their webbed feet making squishing sounds in the soft muck. Laura remembered seeing on a nature special that Canadian geese were monogamous, mating for life. Laura felt her head began to ache. The water of the lake spread out before her, cool and inviting, tiny ripples on its surface. She regretted never having learned to swim; she longed to fling her clothes off and join the geese. She sighed and turned back toward the house. It was time to start making dinner for Tom, the last dinner they would share together for some weeks to come.

  The next day at the first rehearsal everyone was a little nervous and eager to impress, but they all tried to hide it under an actory bravado—at the coffee breaks everyone talked loudly about what show they had just finished or of their latest commercial callback, hoping by all this talk to dispel the anxiety and insecurity which is the life of an actor. Laura hung back and just listened to the others blathering on about how this casting director just loved them and how that agent really was about to ask them to sign exclusively. What a sorry lot we are, she thought, but then no more pathetic than Tom’s colleagues in the history department, those tweed- and corduroy-clad victims of a publish-or-perish mentality, rushing from their stuffy offices to classrooms full of apathetic jocks and future business entrepreneurs, kids half their age who in a couple of years would make three times their salary pushing papers on Wall Street. No noble professions are left anymore, she found herself thinking as she sipped her coffee alone in the corner. At the same time she was a little appalled at the cynicism of her thoughts—she was in an unusually dark mood.

  She saw the director, Jerry Hawkins, making his way over towards her, touching each actor as he passed them, offering small encouragements. Jerry was a hands-on director, transmitting his energy and confidence through frequent physical contact, pats and squeezes. Laura had worked with him before in a production of Arms and the Man, and she found him comforting. He sat down beside Laura and put his arm around her shoulders. He leaned into her and she noticed for the first time that his eyes were slightly crossed.

  “You know, Laura,” he said quietly, “I must tell you that from the first audition there was no doubt in my mind who was going to play Hedda. After the very first reading I felt immediately that you were Hedda Gabler.”

  Laura smiled modestly. Jerry’s flattering ways, buttering up his leading lady. “That’s very kind of you, Jerry—”

  “Oh, no, I mean it. I know I have a reputation for killing with kindness, but really: I felt from the onset that you brought so much—understanding—to the role. I felt you knew the woman Ibsen had written about.”

  “Well, thank you, Jerry,” Laura said in a humble voice, “I hope during the rehearsal process I can prove you right.”

  Jerry squeezed her hand.

  “I have absolutely every confidence that your Hedda will be a creature of flesh and blood—that you will make her live! Also,” he said in a lower voice, “this production will be getting a lot of critical attention, and I don’t need to tell you what that could do for your career... you know?” Laura nodded; she considered it bad luck to talk about these things now. Jerry patted her hand and then turned to the other actors.

  “All right, shall we begin Act Three?”

  It was a while since Laura worked on a role, and she attacked the play with a hungry abandon. As the rehearsal process continued, she felt herself pulled more and more into the life of the play. She became obsessed with re-creating every detail of Hedda’s life. She went to the library and checked out books on life in turn-of-the-century Norway; she went to Bergman films to hear the Scandinavian speech rhythms; imagined Hedda and Tesman surrounded by the desolate, stark landscape of the fjords. She suggested improvisations with the other actors to fill in the life of the characters. She approached the actor playing Lövborg, Hedda’s old flame, and asked him if he’d like to meet for coffee.

  “Sure, why not?” he shrugged with a friendly smile.

  His name was Peter Litvak, and he was a tall, wiry man with large depthless eyes and a shaggy brown mane of hair. As usual, Jerry did a good job of casting—Peter was just right for the charismatic, troubled writer Lovborg.

  “Where would you like to meet?”

  “Café Mogador,” Laura said. It was a place where she and Ed Lowell had met often in the early days, and she said once melodramatically, toward the end, that she would never go there again with anyone else. It gave her a little frightened thrill now to break her vow.

  “Oh, yes, I know it—on Eighth Street. I live not far from there. How about tomorrow afternoon before rehearsal—say, four o’clock?”

  “Fine.”

  For some reason, Laura did not tell Tom of her assignation, and when she arrived at the café the next day she felt vaguely guilty, not because she was particularly attracted to Peter, but because she chose the café to relive her days with Edward. She was early, and sat studying her script over a cup of tea. The day was hot, and her mind kept wandering from the page to memories of the summer evenings she and Edward had spent together at this same table, drinking pernod and talking about living in Europe together.

  When Peter arrived, Laura tried to shake her mind free of these wanderings and suggested they share a plate of couscous. While they waited, they began to discuss the play.

  “Why do you think Hedda broke off with Lovborg?” Peter asked, sipping his raspberry tea.

  “She couldn’t accept the lack of control in the relationship,” Laura answered without a pause.

  Peter laughed. “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “I know how she feels.”

  Peter poured himself some more tea from the flowered chintz-covered pot. “Do you think she married Tesman to get even with Lovborg?” Laura shrugged.

  “No, I think she just felt—worn out. Tesman was there, he was easy, he represented no threat.”

  “In other words, she was on the rebound.”

  “Something like that. She thinks at first she’ll be safe with Tesman—since she feels no passion for him, she’ll be protected from herself.”

  “She’s wrong, though. By the time the play opens, she’s already moody and dissatisfied. And she seems to be punishing Tesman for being so foolish as to love her. She treats his poor old aunt so badly, too—she’s so rude to her.”

  Laura sipped her tea. “Yes, it seems as though she does it to get even with Tesman; she knows he cares for the old lady.”

  “You know, I wonder if even her cruelty towards Tesman’s aunt comes from that same self-destructive impulse which leads to her suicide. She methodically alienates everyone who might care about her.” Peter shuddered. “I can’t imagine being so—desperate!”

  Laura stared absently across Eighth Street. A summer haze draped itself over the buildings, which seemed to buzz in the afternoon heat. Laura wiped her clammy forehead. A couple of young people dressed entirely in black leather strolled by, looking defiantly uncomfortable. Laura had to smile—the East Village had not changed since she moved out of the city. She thought nostalgically of her days on Fifth Street, in her little third-floor apartment...

  “Let’s go,” she said, rising abruptly and looking at her watch. “Time to go to rehearsal.”

  Peter laughed.

  “When you decide to do something, you just do it, don’t you?”

  Laura looked at him.

  “I don’t like to waste time.”

  They paid the check and hurried to rehearsal.

  Jerry had suggested she keep a journal of Hedda’s life with Tesman. During the coffee break, she made her first entry.

  “Today Tesman annoyed me so much when he spent the afternoon reading his stupid boring manuscripts instead of taking me to the races! Yesterday Tesman fell asleep in his armchair right after dinner and I had to entertain his dull relatives by myself.”

  “It’s funny, you know,” she said to Jerry after rehearsal, “but I can’t
remember working on a character that I felt as close to as Hedda. I know a lot of people regard her as a monster, but I don’t seem to have any trouble seeing things from her point of view.”

  Jerry laughed.

  “If only it were always that easy! I’ve seen actors spend so much time trying to become one with the character—sometimes it’s agony to watch them. I’m glad it’s coming so easily for you. It may be a tribute to Ibsen’s writing.”

  “That’s true. For example, instead of being appalled at Hedda’s treatment of Tesman’s kindly but nosy aunt, I understand her irritation—after all, the woman is annoying! She wants to butt in all the time, as though she had no life of her own.”

  Jerry laughed again.

  “I know what you mean—my mother used to have a friend just like that. It really tries your patience.”

  As Laura pulled her Volkswagen into the driveway that evening, she saw the Epsteins’ long silver Chevy turning into the street, and as it inched into their driveway Mrs. Epstein waved at her from the front seat. Head down, Laura rummaged for her keys, pretending not to see them, and she quickly opened the front door before Mrs. Epstein could pull her bulk out of the car. Once inside the house, she wondered why she had acted so unneighborly. True, conversations with Mrs. Epstein were labyrinths of misunderstanding, but she was a well-meaning, harmless old thing, lonely and easily confused. As Tom said, she enjoyed a few trivial words with her more glamorous young neighbors. Laura resolved to bring her a cake or something, and then, feeling irritated by the woman’s helplessness, reasoned that she was too fat anyway. She should have more friends, Laura thought; then she wouldn’t be so desperate for company.

  That night, in her little second-floor study, Laura sat down to her journal with relish. She flipped the pages and began to describe the new gown she had just ordered. As she wrote she had an unsettled, strange feeling: something was different. She looked around her room: there was the hat rack with its assortment of hats from all different periods, there on the wall were the posters of Sweeney Todd and Threepenny Opera. Outside, the broad leaves of the maple tree brushed lightly against the windowpanes. Then Laura’s eyes fell back on her journal and she realized what had changed: the handwriting on the page in front of her was completely different from her own.

  Startled, she picked up the notebook and began leafing back through it to earlier entries. There, at the beginning, was her own writing, scrambled and sprawling about the page. She leafed forward, a dark sour feeling in her stomach. There—she could not say exactly when or how the writing began to change, but she stood staring at a gradual transformation from her own hand into another’s, until at the end, the present, what remained was an even, controlled script, tightly coiled like a snake on the page in front of her. She let the pen drop from her hand and stared at her desk. In front of her sat her mother’s picture, the only picture Laura had taken from her father’s scrapbook. She wore a white dress with old-fashioned lace around the neck, and she was sitting against a broad-trunked tree, perhaps an oak. She was smiling into the camera, but her eyes looked sad, distant. The picture had been taken when Laura was four years old; less than a year later her mother was dead, drowned in the lake behind their house. After that her grandmother had never let Laura go anywhere near water, never let her swim with the other children, even in a swimming pool. Feeling dizzy, Laura closed the journal and went downstairs to the living room, where Tom was sitting watching the ball game on television. She sat next to him without speaking.

  “And how’s my Hedda this evening, eh?” he said amiably, pulling her towards him on the couch.

  “I’m not Hedda, you know,” she said sharply, “I’m Laura.” She regretted the harshness of her tone when she saw the wounded puppy expression on Tom’s big, friendly face.

  When she told Jerry about the handwriting incident the next day he laughed and patted her on the back.

  “Well, well! Just think of it—as Hedda you could commit a crime and not be prosecuted for it because your handwriting would be different!”

  That evening when she got home from rehearsal Tom was out, so she went up to make her journal entry before he returned. Going up the stairs, she nearly tripped over an untidy pile of his books. In the study the air was hot and close, and she opened the window to let in the evening breeze. She sat and opened the journal to the last entry, which trailed off. Firmly she turned to a blank page and began writing quickly.

  “I am annoyed at the way Tom leaves his books around,” she wrote, and then stopped and looked at the page in dismay. She felt confused, unsettled; her head was burning. The phone on her desk rang and made her jump. She picked it up and tried to calm her breathing.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Loloo.” Tom’s voice was loud and a little slowed.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “I’m calling from Duck’s.” Duck’s Tavern, popularly known as Duck’s, was a local bar and restaurant frequented by the college population, both students and professors. The food and drink was cheap and copious, if undistinguished. Laura had met Tom there a few times, though she preferred a more elegant setting.

  “Guess who’s here with me right at this minute?”

  “The Queen Mother?” Laura suggested helpfully.

  “What? I can’t hear you; there’s too much noise here.”

  “Who?” Laura shouted into the phone.

  “Ed Lowell! Just think—he was having dinner here and I just ran into him!”

  Laura’s chest contracted and then grew heavy.

  “We’ve been sitting here talking for the past two hours—he’s telling me all about his new book!” Tom sounded like a child who has just found a puppy under his bed.

  “You called to tell me that?” Laura suddenly felt deeply tired, so exhausted it was an effort to listen to Tom’s voice.

  “Well, I thought maybe you might like to invite him over for dinner tomorrow—unless you have a rehearsal or something, eh?”

  Laura sat on the steps and laughed softly. Tom didn’t get it, he really didn’t, and he never would get it. He was so trusting, so simple—it was insulting, really. Didn’t he realize there were men before him, men who would have done anything—Laura spoke into the phone.

  “Whatever you want, Tom. Tomorrow is fine.”

  “Great! I’ll ask him to bring his book—it’s about the role of faith in the twentieth century. It’s really wonderful, Laura—you’ll love it!”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “I’ll be home soon. Don’t wait up for me if you’re tired, eh?”

  “I won’t.”

  Laura hung up and walked to the sliding glass door that led out to the deck Tom had built onto the back of the house. She opened the door and slipped out into the night. The moon hung low over the trees like a searchlight, spilling its blue light over the back yard. Laura leaned against the wooden rail and let the night air send a chill through her body. At that moment she remembered an evening with Edward, right before the end, a summer evening like this one, and they were standing by the flower garden at Riverside Park. Edward had been sober for several weeks, and was trying very hard to control himself. They were talking about how difficult it was for him not to drink, and Laura felt herself actually growing jealous of his sobriety; she was tired of these endless conversations about his problem, his suffering, as if she had none of her own. She also was beginning to realize that the more control he had of himself the less she had over him. Laura had drunk too much coffee that morning and was feeling restless and bored. As they stood there admiring the flowers she had a sudden impulse to have one, and she asked him to pick one and give it to her. He had looked at her with that condescending disapproval that she hated so much.

  “These flowers belong to everyone. It’s wrong to pick them.”

  She became even more determined to have a flower. She pouted and pleaded, accused him of being a coward, of not loving her enough; finally she wore him down. He leaned over and picked a blossom from the Bleedin
g Heart that drooped over the fence. Laura took it from him and then, with a little laugh, tossed it to the ground and crushed it under her foot. Later, she wondered why she had done this, and could not think of a reason except that she wanted to see him suffer and to know that she had caused it. Even now, as she stood on the porch, she could see the look in his eyes: no anger, only puzzlement, hurt, and—or did she imagine it?—disgust. She tried to make light of the incident, telling him he chose the wrong flower, but from that night on he had avoided her. He took to the bottle again shortly afterwards and later she heard he had left town. She was rescued from her obsession with him by the attentions of Tom, so stolid and unflappable, immune to her moods in a way Edward never had been. Exhausted by overplayed passions, she sank into the warm bath of Tom’s affection with a weary sigh. Tom inspired in her no need to control; there was no challenge in that.

  Laura looked up at the moon. Thick, heavy clouds were beginning to obscure its face, so that only one eye leered down at her. Somewhere in the neighborhood a tomcat yowled a territorial challenge, a hoarse drawn-out warning to other toms. Shivering, Laura turned and went back into the house.

  The next day, Saturday, there was an afternoon rehearsal. Laura rose early to study her lines. It was a week before the opening and she knew her lines backwards and forwards, but she liked to review them before each rehearsal. As she walked into the kitchen to make coffee she felt a queasiness in her stomach. Instead of coffee, she found herself reaching for the box of soda crackers in the cupboard. She ate a couple quickly, and then, still feeling nauseous, took a couple of ice cubes from the freezer. Her grandmother had taught her this old remedy for nausea, sucking on ice cubes. She sat down at the kitchen table with her script, sucking thoughtfully on one of the cubes. She stared at her script but did not see the words. Instead, her grandmother’s face was before her eyes. She looked worried, sad, the way she had looked at the funeral of Laura’s mother, when Laura was five years old. Laura remembered her grandmother’s words at her mother’s funeral. “Your mother died for love, Laura. Just remember that: your mother died for love.” Laura knew her mother drowned in the lake outside their rambling country home, but there had been questions: what was her mother doing alone in the lake at night, when she had warned the children so many times against swimming alone? It seemed odd that such an excellent swimmer as she would drown in a lake, everyone said, where there were no currents to pull her under, and there were rumors: some thought it was foul play, some said she had given herself up to the lake, swimming further and further out until there was no strength left in her body. There was talk of another man, an old flame who had returned to claim her love. Laura’s mother had left no note, though, and the coroner’s final verdict had been “Accidental.” Laura’s ears still burned with her grandmother’s words—“Your mother died for love, Laura”—and she knew from that day, even as she stood next to her silent, grief-stricken father, that men could not be trusted.