Prologue
My entrance onto the stage of the Cipher Theater was dramatic, but not in a good way. Although I had left for the audition looking like a million bucks, a sudden downpour between my car and the theater had turned me into a tarnished penny. My carefully coiffed hair was plastered to my skull, and mascara ran down my cheeks. Worst of all, I’d left my right heel wedged in a sidewalk steam grate, so I clomped onstage in two different height shoes.
Praying no one noticed that the water dripping from my dress was forming a puddle on the stage, I squinted against the brilliant spotlight. Seeing into the pitch-black theater, however, was impossible. “Sorry I’m late,” I called out.
My apology was met with dead silence.
“Hello?”
Still nothing.
My shoulders slumped. The casting director had probably given up on me and gone to lunch. In my mind, the booming voice of Charles Corning, my mentor and favorite theater arts professor, chided me. “An actor should never be late for an audition.”
I know that, Charles, I thought irritably. I would have been on time if not for the four-car pile-up on the expressway.
I tried again. “Hello? I’m Cassandra Jaber? I have an audition?”
A man’s voice said, “You may begin.”
I sighed, relieved. “I’ll be reading for Blanche.” I’d coveted the role of Blanche Du Bois, the downtrodden heroine from A Streetcar Named Desire, ever since I’d read the play in college. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I had a shot. It wasn’t my age – although, I was twenty-four rather than Blanche’s thirty-something – it was the color of my skin. Not many people would entertain the idea of a Middle Eastern actress playing a southern belle. Hopefully, this director was an exception.
My wet dress clung to my legs, and the theater’s powerful air conditioner raised goose bumps on my bare arms, but I took a deep breath and shut out the distractions. I drew Blanche’s essence into myself, claiming her fading beauty, her southern charm, and her desperation.
I waited a few heartbeats then began. “May I speak plainly?... If you'll forgive me, he's common... He's like an animal.” After hours of practice, Blanche’s lilting drawl came naturally now. “He has an animal's habits.”
The upstage curtains twitched. Was the next actress already in the wings, waiting to audition? Without missing a beat, I continued. “There's even something subhuman about him. Thousands of years have passed him right by…”
The curtain fluttered again, an annoying distraction. Determined to remain focused, I lifted my chin, ready to speak the next line. But at that moment, something darted out and hauled me off my feet. The spotlight switched off, and blackness swallowed the stage.
I woke to find myself lying on a lumpy couch that smelled of old cheese. When I tried to sit, the world slid sideways. My stomach lurched. Someone pressed on my shoulder to keep me lying down.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You fainted.” My attendant was a middle-aged man pretending he was still eighteen, and this was still 1986. Not only did he have sport of those asymmetric, new wave, haircuts, he also wore a Killing Joke t-shirt. His expressionless eyes peered into mine. “You dropped like a rock.”
I didn’t remember passing out, but something bad had happened. My neck hurt like hell, as did the back of my head. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“It was probably low blood sugar,” he said. “Did you eat today?”
I shrugged. Among Charles Corning’s inviolable ‘Ten Rules to a Successful Audition’ was number six: always eat beforehand. Although I’d tried to force down a banana as I left the house, I’d been too nervous to swallow more than a single bite.
When the man finally let me sit up, I had an awful, woozy feeling, like I’d drunk too much caffeine on an empty stomach. “I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you’re not.” He handed me a small, plastic container of orange juice. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.” He acted like he’d spent every day of his life attending to fainting actresses.
As I drank the orange juice, my equilibrium slowly returned. I gingerly felt the back of my head. “Do you think I have a concussion?”
He shook his head. “Naw. You’re fine.” He helped me to my feet, ushered me out of the room, and through the theater’s back door. “They’ll get in touch if they want a callback.”
Callback. As if.
I fought against tears as I hobbled towards the public lot where I’d parked my car. The audition had been a disaster of Biblical proportions. Charles’s ‘Ten Rules to a Successful Audition’ did not include ‘Do not faint onstage’ since that was a given.
While sitting in traffic on the expressway, I glanced at the dashboard clock. To my surprise, it was five thirty. I blinked and looked again. It couldn’t be five thirty. I’d arrived at the audition a little past one. The clock was wrong. It had to be! Then I noticed that the rainclouds had cleared, and the sun was low in the sky. My dress, which had been soaking wet when I’d arrived at the theater, was now completely dry.
My heart began beating in triple time, and my vision grayed at the edges. Hands shaking, I pulled into the breakdown lane and turned on my hazard lights.
Since leaving the theater, my brain had been Novocain-numb, but now it was waking up. As it did, I sensed that something had happened to me while I’d been unconscious. Something really, really bad. The word ‘rape’ triggered a panic bomb in my gut. I did a frantic, mental check of my body. My underwear seemed intact, and my intimate parts felt normal. There was no soreness between my legs, and no wetness. Physically, I was unharmed.
Well, except for my stiff neck. I carefully put my hand to my throat and felt two, hard nodes like BBs under my skin. Touching them sent a sick thrill deep into the pit of my stomach. Quickly, I withdrew my hand. Had I been bitten by a tick? Or, worse yet, a spider?! That could explain the fainting. The thought of a black widow or brown recluse slipping under the collar of my dress and administering a poisonous bite set off another panic bomb. Maybe I should head for an emergency room.
Get a grip, I told myself sternly. You’re fine. Nothing happened. You passed out because you were too nervous to eat, and your blood sugar took a plunge. Yet as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, part of me insisted something bad had happened.
My fingers crept back to my neck, and gingerly prodded those two, hard bumps. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and tried to remember what had happened between the start of my audition and the time I woke up on the couch. After a few minutes, however, I gave up. It was like trying to pry open a door that had been secured with iron bars. As far as my memory was concerned, those missing hours had never happened.
Chapter One
From the dark, narrow confines of the backstage, I watched the curtain rise for the last time. If only the applause was meant for me! Ever since my disastrous audition at the Cipher five months before, however, I’d developed a strong aversion to the spotlight. Trying out for a role – any role – was out of the question. Standing in the wings was as close as I dared to come to the stage.
Andrew, who had played Dracula, stood beside me. I squeezed his shoulder. “You rocked it,” I whispered. He grinned and patted my hand. Remembering that Tabitha, the leading lady, stood there too, I grudgingly added, “Nice job.”
She didn’t deign to respond. Instead, she grabbed Andrew’s hand and led him onstage so they could take their bows. Although the theater was only half full, the applause intensified to a respectable level. Tabitha preened like the praise was meant for her. Of course, it wasn’t. Andrew had single-handedly rescued a truly disastrous show, and everyone loved him for it. When he made a dramatic sweep with his cape, the audience got to its
feet.
A standing ovation! Having my best friend receive his kudos was almost as good as being onstage myself. Although, I still wished I’d been his leading lady. I pictured the two of us, hand in hand, as we took our bows. My face would be glowing. The applause would be deafening. The brilliant lights would blind me…
Terror mounted like a tidal wave, threatening to drown me. The audience’s applause dissolved into an angry roaring. My heart pounded in my chest like a petrified animal. Blindly, I fled the backstage, dropping my clipboard and tearing off my headset as I dashed into my office. Slamming the door, I crouched on the floor and covered my head with my arms.
Take deep breaths, I muttered to myself. Deep, slow breaths. I focused on my breathing, inhaling and exhaling through pursed lips. Eventually, the familiar, dusty scent of the room calmed me. My heart rate slowed, and the panic gradually ebbed like a polluted tide.
Shakily, I got to my feet and drank down the bottle of water sitting on my desk. I’d been jumpy all night, but my onstage fantasy had shoved me into a full-blown anxiety attack. I hadn’t suffered one this severe in three weeks, a new personal best. Five months ago, the spells had struck as often as twice a day, crippling me to the point where I was afraid to leave my own house. But when Charles Corning had convinced me to sign on as his stage manager, I’d started to get a handle on my fears. In part because I was distracted by the demands of the play, and in part because being backstage was as comforting to me as being in bed with the covers pulled over my head. Unfortunately, tonight’s episode demonstrated that, although I’d improved, panic could still ambush me.
By now, the cast had finished their curtain calls and were exiting the stage. Their babbling voices filled the back hallway. Feeling steadier, I joined them.
“Cassandra! There you are.” Luckily, Andrew was so juiced up by all the applause that he didn’t notice my disheveled state. He grabbed me around the waist, picked me up, and spun me in a circle. He’s a slender guy and I’m no bag of feathers, yet he lifted me effortlessly.
“You were awesome,” I told him.
“You rocked it, too, Madame Stage Manager.” He set me down and kissed my forehead.
“Thanks, but anyone could have done my job.” I eyed Tabitha who was unbuttoning the white, Victorian nightgown she’d worn in the last act. If not for the unpredictable panic attacks, I would have made a terrific Lucy Seward.
“Don’t be so modest,” Andrew said. “No one but you could have kept this many egos in check. How about I buy you a drink at the Lamplighter?”
I smiled for real. “It sounds like a date.”
The Bleak Street was a very tiny theater. Its dressing rooms were hardly larger than closet-sized restrooms, and Charles had claimed the greenroom for his office. With nowhere but the hallway to change, the actors had lost their modesty months before. Andrew stripped off the black suit he’d worn and stood in his boxers. Despite his slim build, he had a terrific set of abs. With his thick, brown hair, long lashes, and dark eyes, the guy was heartbreakingly beautiful. Too bad he was also decidedly gay.
Andrew sat at a rickety folding table and turned on his lighted mirror. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll rank a real dressing room.”
Everyone in the cast and crew complained about the Bleak Street. Well, everyone but me. Yes, the carpeting was threadbare, the heat worked sporadically, and the roof leaked in multiple places. But underneath was a grand old theater that boasted a hundred years of performances. With all its history, I thought of the Bleak Street as a sacred place where actors were priests performing the rites of theater, and the audience was the congregation who came to worship the spirit of drama. Not that I’d admit it to anyone. Even Andrew would have teased me if he’d found out.
Andrew moaned when he saw his reflection in the makeup mirror. The stress of the final performance had taken its toll, and he’d sweated heavily under the hot lights. Despite the new foundation I’d recommended, his face was shiny. “You think anyone noticed?” he asked.
“No,” I assured him. I picked up the clipboard and headset that I’d thrown on the floor when I’d dashed backstage. “I’m sure they were all too distracted by your gorgy-ness to pay attention.”
He laughed, surprised. “My gorgy-ness?”
I shook my head. Andrew never gave himself enough credit. Any other man graced with a face and body like his would have considered himself godlike. “You are gorgeous. Trust me.”
Tabitha took a seat next to him. “She’s right, darling. You’re beautiful.” She smiled at Andrew then glared at me. “Cassie, my cue was off in the third act.”
Lighting issues were another of the Bleak Street’s quirks. For some reason, the eerie, red spotlight that should have begun the third act had come on twenty-five seconds late. Twenty-five seconds may not sound like much, but to an audience waiting in the pitch black, it must have felt like forever.
Tabitha jutted her chin at my clipboard. “You made a note of it, right?”
“It’s our last performance,” I reminded her, “so no notes.”
She grabbed a fistful of make-up removing wipes and rolled her eyes. “This was the worst piece of garbage I’ve ever appeared in. And that includes my high school’s god-awful production of Cats.”
Unfortunately, Tabby was right. The play, County Dracula, had been dreadful. As always, Charles’s direction was top-notch, but the script, a rewrite of Bram Stoker’s classic vampire story, was appalling. County Dracula was set in Polk County, Iowa, during the depression of the 1920’s, and it told the story of a traveling salesman vampire who falls in love with the innocent daughter of a country doctor. If the play had been a farce, we might have gotten away with it. Unfortunately, it was meant to be an earnest commentary on the Hoover administration, socialism, and the effects of the Dust Bowl. The only reason it had been staged in the first place was because the owner of the Bleak Street Theatre had wanted it. Since Charles was indebted to the Bleak Street’s owner, he always directed whatever she ordered him to. No matter how crappy the script.
“Well, Andrew did get a good mention in The Detroit News,” I said. I patted my friend’s shoulder. “The reviewer said because of him, ‘the play was merely terrible instead of a ghastly failure.’” Coming from Tom Wiggins, a notoriously crotchety reviewer, this was high praise.
Tabby sniffed. “That’s only because Wiggins is madly in love with Andrew.” She, of course, was jealous since Wiggins had called her performance, ‘insipid and mealy’.
Darryl Pitkin, who had played Renfield, sidled up. Just like Dracula’s insane, fly-eating servant, Darryl was a small, ratty man with a thick uni-brow and tiny eyes. Although he’d been putting moves on all the women since the first night of auditions, he was especially taken with Tabitha. “Nice job tonight, Tabby. You really outdid yourself.”
She flipped her blond hair over her shoulder, leaned closer to her mirror, and ignored him.
Darryl didn’t give up. “You know who you remind me of? A really young Meryl Streep. I’m not kidding.”
Andrew rolled his eyes.
Sick of Darryl’s oily advances, Tabitha got up without a word and went into the ladies’ room. Still, Darryl persisted. “She does remind me of Meryl Streep. You guys see it, right?”
“Give it up,” I said. “She’s obviously not into you.”
His greasy smile returned. “Don’t be jealous, Cassandra. There’s plenty of me to go around.”
“That’s right, Cassie. Darryl spreads like a rash,” Andrew said.
“What the hell would you know about it, gay boy?” Darryl pushed Andrew hard in the shoulder and stalked off.
“Idiot,” Andrew muttered. He glared at his reflection in the mirror and began wiping off his eyeliner. “I am so glad I don’t have to work with that jackass anymore,” he said. “So freaking glad.”
Charles squeezed between a pair of extras who were blocking the hallway. It was a relief to see him smiling again. Although Charles was only five foot six, his per
sonality made him seem bigger. Or rather, more threatening. Over the past five months, he had been a tyrant, and the closer we got to opening night, the nastier he’d become. His gray eyes held such a steely glare that even across a darkened theater, an actor could feel it and stumble over his lines. But while Charles was demanding and egotistical, he was also a damn fine director. Only he could have salvaged something from a wreck of a script like County Dracula.
Holding onto Charles’s arm was a beautiful, pale-skinned woman with scarlet lips and hair so black it appeared to have blue highlights. She cut a regal figure. The arch of her eyebrows and her cool smile conveyed confidence, even haughtiness. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and wrist.
Charles gave Andrew an adoring smile. “I’d like to introduce you to someone. This is Miss Hedda Widderstrom.”
So this was the owner of the Bleak Street Theatre. I’d often wondered about the woman whose bronze bust adorned the lobby. With her obdurate expression and thin smile, the real Hedda appeared as cold and hard as the statue. Even Charles seemed intimidated by her.
“I enjoyed your performance very much,” Hedda told Andrew.
Andrew dropped his gaze, as humble as a geisha. “Thank you. But the entire cast and crew deserve credit.”
“My, my. Talent and modesty.” Hedda and Charles laughed. “And beauty. Dear gods, is he stunning.” She touched the underside of Andrew’s chin with her index finger. “You outshone everyone on stage, my dear.” She dropped her hand and glanced at Charles. “He’d make an exceptional partner.”
Somehow, Andrew managed to hang onto his smile. “I already have a partner.”
Hedda’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean you already have a partner?”
Charles quickly said. “Boyfriend. Andrew means he’s in a relationship.”
Hedda gave an ‘ah’ of understanding, and her lips curved into a secret smile that gave me chills.
Hedda moved closer. “Tell me, did you like the play?”
Andrew tensed. Although he hated the play as much as the rest of us, he answered carefully, fully aware that the playwright was a close friend of Hedda’s. “I liked the vampire’s soliloquy in the second act,” he finally said. So had everyone else. It was the only part of the play worth a damn. “I thought it turned the monster into a sympathetic character.”
Stage Fright (Bit Parts) Page 1