The Cornerstone

by Anne C. Petty

Morris snorted. “Well, if either of you runs into a ghost, I want a full account. It would make a great local interest story. We could add the Janus Theatre to the Haunted Houses Tour next Halloween.”

  “I don’t think Bayard would be too happy about that.” Tom wanted to question Claire alone, but since Morris seemed determined to hang around, he touched her hand and said, “Don’t leave tonight without talking to me.” Then he went back to his mark onstage and stretched out flat on his back, pushing his spine into the floorboards and breathing slowly, letting his thoughts go idle until the rehearsal resumed.

  Bayard returned exactly twenty minutes later and walked down the center aisle to the front.

  “Is everyone rested? Good. Commence please, at Act Five, scene two.” He took his customary place beside Claire in the wings, and the lights dimmed. They ran through the final two scenes of the play with a couple of adjustments, and then Bayard took center stage as the Chorus to deliver the Epilogue.

  “Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight…”

  Tom shivered. Those famous last lines always got to him.

  “…Faustus is gone, look ye well on his hellish fall…”

  Tom stood upstage in shadow with Morris on one side and Drew on the other, backlit and barely visible to the audience as Bayard’s rich baritone filled the theater all the way to the back row, bringing the play to a close. It was powerful stuff. The stage went dark, and he imagined thunderous applause as the houselights came up. He doubted anyone in the audience on opening night would leave the performance unmoved—such was the playwright’s genius. It was a pity, all the critics said, that Marlowe’s own branch had been cut short by his untimely death, leaving just six plays on which to build his literary legacy. Tom was inclined to agree.

  Bayard pronounced the rehearsal concluded, and bid them good night.

  “I won’t see any of you again until dress rehearsal next week, so get some rest, relax, and arrive next Friday ready to perform straight through with no stops, as if the audience were in place.” Several cast members gathered around him, asking last-minute questions about the play’s more mundane issue—how many comp tickets would they get for family, and so on. Bayard steered them toward the stage left steps, chatting away. He was clearly in a good mood.

  Tom went backstage to the green room to gather his helmet and leather jacket.

  “Hey, you got a minute?” It was Drew.

  “I guess so.” Tom hoped he sounded noncommittal. He wasn’t keen to get into one of Drew’s tedious analyses of the interaction between Faustus and Lucifer. Lucifer was there to collect the soul of his newest recruit. End of discussion. If there was any nuance going on, it was to make sure Mephistopheles executed the blood contract as signed, with no weaseling or last-minute concessions. Tom could appreciate Drew’s enthusiasm for the dynamics of their repartee—it was a small but important role—but his attention tonight was elsewhere.

  “Do you think Lucifer regards Mephisto as a colleague or a slave?”

  Tom sighed. “It all depends on your definition of minion, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, see, I’ve been thinking about that.” Drew settled in.

  Tom leaned against the wall, keeping an eye on the clock. He hoped he could catch up with Claire before she did anything stupid.

  Claire was dying for something to drink, but she’d be damned if she was going to pay several dollars for a can of soda from the machine in the lobby. More inviting was the tall distilled water cooler on the second floor, put there mostly for the convenience of the dancers. She didn’t see Tom anywhere, but he was probably trapped by Drew or somebody else who wanted to talk shop, or maybe Ruben wanted to see more of his tats. She climbed to the top of the stairs, got her cup of water, and then spotted Jackie lounging against the doorway of the ballet rehearsal room.

  “How’s it going down there in the bowels of Hell?” Her husky voice was comforting, like old times. She was still in her leotard and tights with shapeless sweatpants slung low over her hips and a thin dance sweater draped around her shoulders.

  Claire joined her, sipping at the water. Jackie smelled of sweat and honeysuckle. The flowery undertone was her shampoo, if Claire remembered right. “It’s okay. Are you done for the night?”

  “Um hm.” Jackie nodded.”Wait a sec while I pack up, and I’ll walk you out to the car.”

  “Sure.” Claire sat down in her usual spot, putting her keys and purse on the floor beside her. The room was mostly empty, with just a few stragglers hanging around. Jackie went to a pile of pointe shoes, soft ballet shoes, towels, water bottle, and snacks in a brown paper bag in the corner and began stuffing them into her oversized dance bag. She wiggled her feet into a well-worn pair of Doc Martens, pulled on a flannel jacket, and hoisted the dance bag strap over her shoulder. It looked heavy.

  “Ready?”

  Claire grabbed her purse and got up. “Ready.” They went down the stairs together and crossed the lobby. She didn’t see Tom, but she knew he was still there. Just outside the front doors she could see his black motorcycle, big and mean and well-broken in, dominating the entryway, awaiting its owner’s return in aggressive silence.

  “Nice ride,” Jackie observed as they went out past the Harley.

  “Yeah, it belongs to our star player.”

  “I’d kill for a bike like that.” Jackie looked dead serious, but laughter colored her voice. “Where are you parked?”

  “Had to use the parking lot in back.”

  “Cool. Me, too.” The half-smile appeared on her face again. Jackie readjusted her bag and started walking.

  They rounded the corner of the building, went down a narrow alley, and came out behind the theater into an asphalt lot where a low stone fence marked its boundaries.

  Claire followed Jackie to a late model Jeep Wrangler, which wasn’t the old Ford she remembered Jackie owning since high school. Maybe it belonged to her partner. Sylvia? Something like that. Claire wasn’t good with names, but faces she could peg at forty paces. Jackie unlocked the door and tossed her bag inside. “You look tired. How’s your mom?”

  “Hanging in there. Not too good, I guess.”

  Jackie leaned against the front fender of the Wrangler. “Too bad about your dad.”

  Claire smiled and nodded. No need for explanations—Jackie understood the situation as well as anyone could.

  “Jacks…” She wasn’t sure how to frame what she wanted to ask. “You spend a lot time here, right? In the building, I mean.”

  “Um hm.”

  “Anything ever creep you out? I mean like stuff you can’t explain?”

  Jackie pushed her thin fingers up through her hair, pulling it away from her face. She studied the laces of her boots. “How weird do you want? We’ve had light bulbs come unscrewed from their sockets, things like that. I think the cops came out here once because we kept complaining about the bulbs—our director assumed it was vandalism. The police told us to just glue every last one of them in their sockets. Didn’t do any good, though. The bulbs just unscrewed themselves loose again a week or so later.”

  “Is that a true story?”

  Jackie grinned. “Yeah. But that’s nothing. You should hear the theater people talk. They got some stories will curl your hair. Well, not yours.” They both laughed—Claire’s hair was a thick mass of straw-colored waves.

  “I’ve heard some tales. That’s kind of why I asked.”

  “But you haven’t seen anything yourself, have you?”

  “No…”

  “Well, there you go. Until it gets personal, nothing to worry about. Oh, speaking of personal, I wanted to let you know. We’ll be leaving after the first of the year.”

  Claire snapped out of her funk. “What? Who’s leaving?”

  “Me and Sylvia. She’s got a new job in North Carolina and I’m going with her.”

  Claire’s stomach dropped to her knees. This news trumped anything she’d been chewing over about the stupid theater. “Oh. Well, I gue
ss I won’t see you again, after the show’s done.”

  “I guess not.” They stood in silence, letting the fact of separation settle in.

  “Damn, Jacks. I’ll miss you.” Claire forced the bile in her throat back down where it properly belonged, in the pit of her stomach.

  “C’mere.” Jackie reached out and wrapped Claire in a tight hug. Finally she let go and swung herself up into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “I’ll send our new address, once we find a place to live.”

  “Where in North Carolina?” Claire’s voice sounded squeaky.

  “Greenville. It’s a college town.”

  “I’m sure it’s nice.” Claire stepped back as the Jeep rattled to life. “Take care.” She waved as Jackie backed out of the parking space and aimed toward the street. A sense of numbness settled around her shoulders. If someone had asked her name at that moment she might have had to think about it.

  Jackie rolled down the window. “Take care of your mom, and give her my love.”

  Claire gave her a tight smile and nodded. Jackie drove away. Claire headed across the lot to her Honda, all thoughts of meeting up with Tom blasted from her mind. She stood with her fingers on the door handle, stupidly trying to think what to do next, when it dawned on her. She didn’t have her car keys.

  She stood still, hardly breathing. Then she searched through all her pockets, which were empty. With trembling fingers, Claire thrashed her hand all over the inside of her purse, but couldn’t feel anything that resembled her key chain. In a flash of anger, she dumped the contents of her purse out on the hood of the car. No keys.

  “Damn! Damn!” She threw everything back into her purse, trying hard not to scream just for the pure hell of it, and then she remembered. She had been sitting on the floor of the rehearsal hall waiting for Jackie. Her keys were probably still lying right there in the dust. She leaned against the car, shoulders sagging. As much as she hated the idea, she would have to go back inside.

  The theater was empty when Tom finally disengaged himself from Drew and came out into the lobby. No sign of Claire, so he hoped that meant she had given up and gone home. Just to make sure, though, he checked the street out front, but there was no sign of her. He went upstairs to the ballet rehearsal room. The door was closed but not locked, so he poked his head inside. It was dark and empty. Tom stood at the head of the staircase, debating what to do when he became aware of someone behind him. Close, invading his space.

  “Mr. Brennan. Can I help you with something?”

  Tom turned. “Maybe. I was looking for Claire.”

  Bayard glanced over the banister at the darkened lobby. “I haven’t seen her since rehearsal ended.”

  Tom angled for a closer look at the director in the dim mezzanine lighting. He had the fleeting impression of a face lined and creased with age, but when he blinked the illusion was gone. He tried to read the presence of the man before him and sensed weariness beyond endurance, caginess, a dab of curiosity, and above all, a vast capacity for deception. Addie’s big secret? He shifted his attention from Claire—she could take care of herself, at this point—to the man in front of him. Bayard met his gaze without blinking. Friendly on the surface, but clearly on guard.

  “I expect she’s gone home,” Tom said. “I think she has an invalid mother who needs tending.”

  “Sounds reasonable, Claire being our resident Good Samaritan.” They faced each other in the semi-dark, neither moving to leave. Bayard seemed to be weighing something in his mind. “Would you care for a drink, Tom? Relax, and talk about the play? I’m quite taken with your interpretation of our poor tragical Doctor Faustus.”

  Tom nodded. “I’d like that, but just a small glass. Can’t pilot a Harley under the influence.”

  “I’m certain.” Bayard turned and walked across the landing toward his office. Tom followed. He widened his senses, questing. Yes, this was where he needed to be.

  Bayard opened the door to his apartment and motioned Tom inside. A floor lamp in a corner cast soft incandescent lighting over the director’s desk, chairs, bookshelves, and neatly made bed.

  “Make yourself comfortable. Sherry, Pinot Noir, or something more pedestrian?”

  Tom sat down in the carved high-backed chair. He’d spent much of his rehearsal time in its mate, so it felt familiar. “Irish Mist, if you have it.”

  Bayard chuckled. “I do, indeed. Excellent choice.”

  Tom shrugged out of his leather jacket and settled back in the chair. “Heather wine, brewed and drunk a thousand years ago by Ireland’s heathen chieftains, or so the advertising says.”

  Bayard’s eyebrows went up. “A man who knows his liquor. I’m impressed, indeed I am.” He chose a cut-glass tumbler from the wine cabinet and poured it half full, then handed it to Tom. He served himself the same and took a seat at the desk, where his pipe and tobacco resided. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all.” Tom didn’t mind if Bayard wanted to fill the small apartment with pipe smoke—he’d already taken in the scents of the place. Old paper, old wood, old leather, cherry tobacco, ceramic tile cleaner, and yes, under everything else, the sharp tang of blood.

  Tom felt the blended liquor fold itself around his tongue. “I like your adaptation of the play…keeping the feel of the original but updating some of the wording for modern audiences.”

  “You’re a connoisseur of Elizabethan drama? I wouldn’t have guessed, especially not from someone so young. I suppose it’s true, what they say.”

  Tom looked around the small study with its wraparound bookcases. “What do they say?”

  “That looks truly can be deceiving.”

  Tom inclined his shaved head toward Bayard. “I’m not as young as I look.”

  Bayard laughed. “Nor am I.” He smoothed the streaks in his goatee. “What, exactly, excites you about this play?”

  Tom swallowed more of the whiskey. “It feels real to me. That setting, those characters, especially Faustus himself. It rings true.”

  “I agree. The language is evocative, filled with sensory detail. Can you imagine British life in the 1500s? You have Queen Mary burning martyrs. I’ve read the stench of burning human flesh is unique. No other smell quite like it. Then you have Protestants reforming everything and suddenly a dreary Catholic monarchy becomes awash in unfettered philosophy —you have Luther’s proclamations, Calvinist ideology, the writings of John Dee where science and sorcery are equally pursued. And on top of that imagine a visceral city life with the odor of slaughtered cattle in the air, streets clogged with butcher’s blood, discarded rubbish, carts loaded with offal from cattle markets. Rich and poor jostling each other along crowded narrow streets, on horseback and on foot. And cold, clear church bells breaking over the sleeping city every morning at daybreak. To distill all that into mere words is no small skill.”

  “How do you know what it was like, in that much detail?”

  “I’ve done my research.” Bayard leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe.

  Tom emptied his glass. “I’ve read all Marlowe’s plays, and his collected poetry. You could say I’m interested in the man himself, his wide-ranging ideas on philosophy and the teasing way he treats religion. There’s something…personal… in the way he retells the old German Faust tale. It’s like it came from the point of view of someone who knew first-hand what he was writing about.”

  Bayard made a scoffing noise. “You think Christopher Marlowe sold his soul to the Devil? Come now, you don’t strike me as a superstitious fellow. Our friend Adelaide, yes, but not you.”

  “I don’t mean literally, with horned demons flying in through the window on a fire-breathing dragon. I mean someone who’s compromised his honor, his ethics, even his beliefs to attain something that maybe he shouldn’t have, but once he’s made those choices they can’t be taken back. The ripple effect of those actions spreads out into the future regardless of what else he may do.”

  Bayard was silent, just staring at Tom with his dark eyes.

&n
bsp; “If you could speak directly to Marlowe himself, what would you say?”

  Tom did not hesitate. “I’d ask how closely he identified with Faustus. How much of his own thoughts and aspirations and fears were poured into the character’s personality. Did he believe Faustus deserved his fate? That’s what I’d ask. ”

  Bayard drew on his pipe. “Well, the idea of someone with enormous talent and capability throwing it all away for a false reward is compelling, isn’t it?” He downed his own glass and stood up. “If you don’t mind, it’s been a trying week for me and I’m tired.”

  Tom was on his feet in a second, pulling on his jacket. “Sorry. I’ve taken up too much of your time, especially if you’re not feeling well—”

  “Let’s just say certain sponsors have been difficult. Diplomacy was never my strong suit.”

  Tom went to the apartment door and let himself out. “Thanks for the whiskey, and your time.”

  “Likewise. It has been most enlightening.” Bayard pushed the door shut, and Tom heard the lock click in place. So much for his interview with the director.

  He turned and quickly went downstairs. For a moment he stood in the lobby, just listening. “What’s your secret?” he whispered to the shadows, but the building was still and silent, with nothing to tell him.

  Tom pushed the front door open and stepped out into the cold. He figured he must have missed Claire while he was in the green room listening to Drew go on and on or upstairs playing at philosophy with Bayard. Most likely she’d got tired of waiting on him and gone home. Just to make sure, though, he straddled the bike, hung his helmet over the handlebars, and lit a cigarette. He waited and smoked, to see if she’d catch up with him after all. By the time he’d smoked the cigarette down to the filter, he felt annoyed with himself for wasting time and cranked the engine. The Harley roared to life and he backed out of the alcove. With one last look up at the darkened windows of the Janus, he goosed the throttle and tore down the street.

  Chapter 13

  Thursday night, continued