Woman Without a Past

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  I glanced at Orva next to me and the expression on her face revealed that she was having a very good time. Beyond her, Mrs. Landry unbent enough to give me a slight smile. I had noticed her staring at me several times during the evening, but every time I looked at her, she would turn her attention back to the stage.

  “Charles will be fine,” she said complacently, treating me to another one of her penetrating glances. “Of course, Amelia wrote the part for him.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering why I didn’t like her.

  I’d watched long enough and before Honoria called the company together for the next scene, I took the opportunity to slip out to explore backstage. Garrett had told me to be sure to see what was back there, so I ran up the few steps at the side and disappeared into the wings. Nobody would miss me, I was sure. At once I found myself in a dimly lighted and utterly confusing world.

  Down a few steps, I passed a lighted dressing room and glanced in to see the room-long makeup shelf with a mirror covering the wall above it. Assorted chairs were pulled up to individual places, and makeup kits stood about on the shelf, probably belonging to actors in the current play. Tonight was their night off, freeing the theater for Honoria to call a rehearsal. I glimpsed a woman’s wig on a stand, and a pair of high-heeled red satin slippers tossed on the floor. The men’s dressing room was probably on the other side.

  A narrow aisle led to steps that descended to a lower level. It was here that I became aware of the enormous area that spread out backstage. The theater itself occupied only a tiny corner of the whole. Overhead everything disappeared into murk, lighted only by an occasional bare light bulb, hanging down on a wire.

  At once I was a writer, my imagination caught by this fantastic scene. How I would use it in a story didn’t matter at this point. What counted was the strong sense of excitement that set my imagination to work. A fiction writer needed to retain a childlike wonder over anything that was new and different, and I had no trouble in achieving a sense of delight in the scene around me—a rich setting for a mystery novel.

  This entire area was a world inhabited by props—anything at all that might ever be used in a play—or had been used and saved for next time. Aisles crisscrossed in a grid pattern walled in by high shelves and cabinets. The “filing system,” if any, seemed strange. Racks of garments—some modern, some period—stood near shelves of dishes. A cardboard box of men’s hats decorated a small refrigerator. Two tall artificial palm trees, needing new fronds, leaned over an umbrella stand. A small iron garden seat, its fretwork painted a dingy white, stood next to an overstuffed armchair that had seen better days. One section of shelves held nothing but wigs, covered by a sheet of plastic.

  Farther along, up a slope in the uneven floor, boards and ladders had been piled beside a long workbench. Whatever was needed could probably be built right back here.

  On a cross aisle, leading more deeply into this dusky confusion, stood lamps of every variety—table lamps, desk lamps, standing lamps, and even a tall streetlight standard that would simulate gaslight. Around another corner a lonely coffeepot tilted against an ancient typewriter. And over everything the high dangling light bulbs threw shadows that sometimes seemed to move without cause or reason. Because some errant thread of wind blew through this place? The air, on the other hand, was hardly fresh and I became aware of the mingled smells of dust and mustiness.

  As I wandered about, I tried to make mental notes, but there was too much to absorb and I couldn’t possibly remember it all. Perhaps I would return and snap a few flash pictures of whatever caught my eye. Instinctively I knew that anything at all might happen in this lonely, remote place. I paused to listen for the sound of wind and realized that I could barely hear sounds from the stage.

  Turning into a new section, I came upon a medieval weapon—a long pole with an ax head set just below its tip. A halberd? It stood upright against an unattached door that led nowhere. I wondered if it would be useful to one of my characters as friend or foe. Certainly it would make an unusual weapon in the hands of a villainous character. When had the required bop-on-the-head been delivered by a medieval halberd?

  So deeply was I into my story, with bits of action coming to life in my mind, that Honoria’s sudden screeching rage from the distant stage seemed an intrusion. I would have to go back. Something was driving Honoria wild, and it would be interesting to see which one of her actors had so infuriated her.

  When I found my way back to the wings, I could look out upon the stage, where Garrett Burke was playing his spirit scene. I stayed out of sight to watch Honoria’s dramatic displeasure.

  “You’re a ghost, Garrett! You can’t go clumping around like that. You’ll have dim lighting to help you, and maybe we’ll blow in a little mist, but if you go stomping around and bumping into furniture, you’ll wreck the illusion.”

  Garrett’s back was toward me, and its set suggested that he didn’t take criticism well. I’d already felt that he didn’t want to be in this play, and I wondered why he had joined the company in the first place.

  From the wings Daphne spoke to him quietly. “Hey—take it easy, Garrett. She’s right, you know.”

  His back seemed to relax a little. “Okay, Honoria—maybe I’d better resign right now. Find yourself another Yankee soldier.”

  Honoria changed her tactics at once. “It’s too late for that. I’m sorry I got mad, Garrett. We’re all wound up tonight, and I think you’ll be fine when you begin to think about the character you’re playing. You’ve just returned as a spirit, and you’re not sure where you are, or what you are. You probably aren’t even aware that you’re dead. So we need a lighter touch and a lot more bewilderment. This is where Amelia’s character sees you for the first time, and she’s shocked and terrified. She can’t forgive Charles for killing you, but how can she be in love with a spirit? Try to get the feeling of what’s going on, Garrett. You’ve been doing research out at Mountfort Hall. So think of Nathanial. Amelia, it is Nathanial you’ve based your Union soldier on, isn’t it?”

  Daphne, watching from the wings, made a slight motion of rejection, as though Honoria’s words upset her. But Amelia answered readily.

  “That’s right. The way you seem to evoke Nathanial’s spirit gave me the idea. Let your imagination go, Garrett, and pretend a little.”

  Garrett wasn’t smiling and he didn’t look cooperative. “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m not in the right mood for ghosts. Can you let me off for now, Honoria? Go ahead with the scene between Charles and Amelia.”

  “All right—time out!” Honoria turned her back on him in displeasure and spoke to Amelia. “Get those stars out of your eyes, honey. You’re not sure about Charles yet, and you’re stricken because of what he’s done. You’ve been half in love with your Union soldier ever since you hid him in the house—so don’t fall into Charles’s arms. Do it the way you’ve written it. Your own dialogue lifts the scene out of the obvious.”

  Garrett came off the stage, moving so quickly that he bumped into me. At once he grabbed my elbow.

  “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I told him, retrieving my arm. “I came to watch, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “You can come back to this drivel in an hour, if you like. They’ll still be here. I want to show you something.”

  All that male impatience, and especially his dismissal of Amelia’s writing, rubbed me the wrong way. Nevertheless my writer’s curiosity was surfacing and I wanted to know what Garrett was up to. He was part of the puzzle I’d begun to feel driven to solve. When he strode through the dim backstage area toward the stage door, I followed him.

  At least he waited for me at the door, and guided me down the few steep steps to the alley. The passageway, narrow and partly walled, opened to cross streets at either end. Vines grew over brick walls, and tree branches threw moving shadows in
a light breeze. Through thin haze a half moon bathed the entire scene in an unearthly patina. A scent of flowers came to me, and the smell of river and sea.

  Garrett put his hands lightly on my shoulders and turned me about. “Look up,” he directed.

  I tilted my head back to see the lighted spire of a church reaching magically into the sky. The garnet night glow of the city back-lighted the brighter steeple. Blank windows circled a spire that pointed toward the moon, and shadows sculpted the whole, giving it mysterious form.

  “That’s St. Philip’s,” Garrett said. “More Charleston history. John C. Calhoun is buried in the churchyard there, and in more recent times, DuBose Heyward, who wrote Porgy. Just let yourself feel what’s there.”

  The high golden spire seemed to shed tranquillity upon the lower roofs of the city. It stood so far above troubled human emotions that the sight of its serene beauty lifted my own spirits. The moment seemed both exalting and quieting at the same time. This was a gift I would never have expected from Garrett Burke.

  “Thank you,” I told him softly.

  His own anger seemed to have stilled, and whatever disturbed him had subsided for the moment. He dropped his hands from my shoulders, satisfied that I had seen what he wanted me to see.

  “There’s a café on the next street where we can have coffee, if you care to join me, Molly. Then you can go back to the theater.”

  Dreamily, I went with him in the direction of the far cross street, still caught up by an enchantment I didn’t want to lose. We followed the uneven bricks of the narrow alley, and I was aware of old trees, and of lighted windows beyond walls on either hand.

  “This is Philadelphia Alley,” he told me as we walked along. “Real duels used to be fought here—though usually with pistols.”

  It was easy to imagine the dramas that had been played in this shadowy place.

  We crossed the street where little traffic passed at this hour, and went up a few steps to the café. Inside were small round tables with marble tops, and old-fashioned ice cream parlor chairs set around each one. We chose a table where we could look out at the street. Garrett ordered Key lime pie and coffee, while I asked only for coffee. When we faced each other across the little table, I no longer felt that I had any sure knowledge of this man. He seemed filled with emotions I hadn’t expected, and I didn’t know how to deal with either his anger or his gentleness.

  “You look disembodied,” he told me.

  “That’s a good word for what I’ve been feeling ever since I came to Charleston. I’m no longer sure of who I am, or where I belong. I seem to be floating between two worlds, and I don’t like that feeling. Before I left the South Battery house, I phoned my father—my adoptive father—but I felt strangely alienated from him. Since my mother died he’s begun to slip away from everything around him. Yet I haven’t any feeling of being Simon Mountfort’s daughter either. I don’t like drifting. I want to take hold of something solid.”

  “Amelia is real enough,” Garrett said. “If you’re beginning to care about her, that’s a start.”

  “I believe I am. And I don’t want to leave until I understand what is happening to her. If she’s in any sort of trouble, perhaps I can help a little.”

  Our orders came and I sipped hot black coffee and let it warm me all the way through. My chill had nothing to do with the Charleston evening.

  “I’m a good listener,” Garrett said. “If you care to talk.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell you, really. That’s the trouble. The way I feel, I could almost play the Yankee ghost. But, Garrett, Amelia hasn’t written drivel, as you called it. The right actors could bring her words to life.”

  “I know. That was the wrong word to use. I like Amelia. I just don’t like the direction she’s taking with Charles.”

  “With a Confederate soldier.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t tease me! I’m concerned for your sister.”

  “Because she’s in love with Charles? Can anyone be too much in love? I think I envy her. Why don’t you like Charles?”

  He grinned at me—an easy grin, with tension gone. “Maybe I’m envious too.”

  “Because you’re attracted to Amelia?”

  “I’m fond of her and don’t want to see her hurt. Perhaps I’m envious of the way everything has been made easy for Charles.”

  “He wasn’t born with any silver spoon.”

  “Maybe not, but he’s had a lot handed to him. And now he’ll be one of the Mountfort clan, which, I suppose, is what he’s always wanted. His mother has wanted that too. And she’s been looking forward to being more than the docent at Mountfort Hall. Of course, your father’s bequest has put a kink in those plans.”

  There seemed a sadness in his voice that puzzled me. I couldn’t really believe that he was envious of Charles Landry. Garrett seemed too much his own man.

  “I’ve been ignoring that part of his letter. It shocked and pleased me, but I don’t want Mountfort Hall.”

  The little café formed a square of light above the street. Only one other table was in use, so the room was quiet. I looked out the window and down the alley through which we’d just come. St. Philip’s spire still floated in a golden haze at the far end. Garrett, too, looked out toward the lighted steeple and began to speak almost dreamily.

  “Honoria believes in destiny. You’ve heard her. She thinks you were brought here for some special purpose, Molly. Your father’s letter seems to confirm that premise.”

  “I don’t accept that! I want a destiny of my own. I’d like to find the right path for myself through all of this, but how can I? I’m an outsider.”

  “Not to your sister. Have you seen the way she looks at you sometimes—with so much loving trust?”

  “I’m not sure I want that.”

  “You’ve already begun to take hold. Just step carefully and stay alert. Be sure people don’t mistake you for her, now that she’s cut her hair.”

  I didn’t understand his meaning, but I felt too content to ask. I’d finished my coffee, and Garrett had eaten the last of his pie. “Thank you for this—respite,” I said. “Now I’d better get back to the theater.”

  A few minutes later we walked through the alley again, between walled gardens and the piazzas that overlooked them. When we reached the stage door, he put a hand lightly on my arm.

  “I won’t go in, Molly. I’ve had enough for tonight. Thanks for coming out with me. I’ll walk back to my place—it’s not far away.”

  Our parting seemed oddly formal in contrast to that almost intimate moment when he had shared the view of the church spire with me. We said a polite good night, and he opened the stage door for me. Then he went off toward the street that fronted the theater. When the door swung closed behind me, I found myself again in that world of wild fantasy that existed behind the stage.

  The great spaces seemed even darker than before, with those unshaded bulbs that hung from crossbeams shedding a feeble light. Overhead, all detail vanished into thick darkness reaching up to the distant ceiling. No sounds from the stage reached me, and I was suddenly uncertain of its direction. The aisle I’d followed had taken a couple of turns, and my sense of direction was gone as completely as though I’d never been here before.

  I disliked the stillness most of all. Everything was too quiet and I recognized none of the objects around me. A row of smiling-­frowning theater masks looked down at me from a high shelf as if enjoying my confusion, and mysteriously added to it. I wondered if the others had given up and left without me—though surely Amelia would have waited and looked for me.

  At random I took another turn, assured myself that the rest of the company certainly wouldn’t go off leaving lights burning and the side door unlocked. In a moment I would find some landmark I recognized and would reorient myself.

  I passed a dressmaker’s dummy on its stand, with a broom pr
opped against it—nothing I’d seen before. The unaired, musty smell of the place pressed down on me, so that I longed for a breath of fresh air. But now I’d even lost the direction of the alley door. On the floor a basket of make-believe rocks blocked my way, and I stepped around it uncertainly. A nearby table held plates of cleverly modeled artificial food, and a red hot water bottle hung limply over the handle of a teakettle set on a bench. Two tall German beer tankards stood stolidly beside an empty bottle of French wine.

  I rejected the unsettling notion that I had stepped into a madman’s dream. These things had simply collected over the years, and no one had imposed a filing system that would make sense. It would all be perfect for a story, and I should start thinking like a mystery writer again. If the place felt a little creepy to me, that was fine—I must savor, remember, use. Was that really a footstep I heard not far away? If it was real, it was probably someone looking for a prop, not dreaming I was here.

  “Hello!” I called out, but no sound answered me except for the creaking and whispering of an ancient warehouse. The building wasn’t as silent as I’d thought. A board squeaked nearby—a sound that could only have been made by a foot. A secret foot, since the person hadn’t answered my call. Suddenly I did what none of my heroines would ever have done—I panicked and started to run. There was an aisle ahead of me, and it didn’t matter where it led.

  Three steps that led to another level came up suddenly and I didn’t see them in the dim light. When I tripped over the bottom step, I tried wildly to catch my balance as I stumbled up, managing to reach the level above. There I fell forward with a tremendous clatter and went off into floating darkness.

  I knew later that I’d banged my head on the corner of an iron wood-burning stove as I fell. I have no idea how long it was until throbbing awareness returned. My head seemed to contain a beating hammer, and I stayed still until the sensation quieted a little.