The Lawless

by John Jakes

  She used the first argument that came to mind:

  “You keep telling me that, Leo. But Saturday’s your Sabbath.”

  “As far as religion goes, my father’s given up on me,” he said with a shrug. “My mother, too. They lost hope when I sneaked out of Hebrew school to sell papers. I’ll never be able to read the Talmud, or keep all the six hundred thirteen commandments a pious man like my father tries to store in his head or, worse, observe. Why, if Hester Street went up in flames tonight, I’m afraid my father would first concern himself with the Orthodox way to fight fires—if there is any—and only think of the family later. Don’t worry about my Sabbath. I figured out a long time ago that I couldn’t be an actor if I began by asking to miss Saturday matinees. If I’m to be a good actor, I’ll have to be a bad Jew for a while and hope I’ll be forgiven.”

  He glanced quickly at the ceiling, miming supplication with clasped hands. Eleanor laughed.

  “Sometimes I don’t know what to think of you—”

  “Think that I have all this money for tickets and carfare, and that I’ll perish of misery if you don’t say yes and go to the theater.”

  “You won’t perish.” She tried another excuse. “Besides, I don’t think my mother would allow it.”

  “Pshaw, Eleanor. You tell everybody around here that you do as you please.”

  Her cheeks pinked; she’d been caught.

  He stepped closer, his forearm accidentally brushing the tip of her breast as she turned away. The sensation melted her for a moment, then terrified her. In a sympathetic voice, Leo said, “I can guess one thing that might be worrying you. If you let me take you out, I promise I’ll be polite. I know you don’t like boys to touch you.”

  The startling statement made her whirl back to him.

  “How do you know that?”.

  Her voice was so loud, one of the members passing the cloak room paused to glance in. Leo scowled at him and he went on.

  “I didn’t mean to make you mad. But I’ve seen how you react when you’re performing a scene and the script says you’re supposed to touch a boy, or let him touch you. You hesitate for a minute before you go ahead. Maybe none of the rest of them notice, but I do.”

  He grinned to relieve her embarrassment. “That’s because I watch you twice as hard as anyone else. Let me take you to a matinee and I promise you won’t have to worry about me getting fresh.”

  Again he stepped close. “You just have to say yes, Eleanor. I can’t eat anymore, I can’t sleep. I’m about to lose my job because of you—”

  “Oh, Leo, no—”

  “It’s true. I can’t keep the Academy’s lobby swept or the refreshment booth spicked up because I’m so busy wondering when you’ll give in.”

  “You mean if.”

  “When. I know you want me to take you out.”

  “Oh, you do? Of all the conceited, big-headed—”

  “Now, now,” he interrupted. “You know it’s true.” He looked straight into her dark eyes. “I see it and you can’t hide it no matter how hard you try. So you might as well quit resisting me, and name the date. I’ve told you before, Miss Kent—Leo Goldman of Hester Street didn’t come to America to wallow around being a failure. I intend to get everything I want. A famous name in the theater. Lots of money. And you.”

  He was still smiling in a mischievous way. But those dark eyes bored into her, seeing emotions she wanted to conceal.

  Everything he said about her feelings was true! She wanted to say yes to him—

  Suddenly cold, sharp images came stabbing into her mind.

  Images of the ruined birthday.

  Of the Christmas Eve when she’d peered through the steamy window on the Yorkville veranda.

  Of the night she’d broken the Rogers group, and crouched on the stairway afterward.

  “Well, Leo”—her face took on a stiff look that marred her beauty—“I’m afraid you won’t get everything you want. Not this year. I won’t go to the theater with you.”

  “That’s crazy. I can tell you like me.”

  Exactly why I have to refuse you.

  “Damn it, Eleanor, you’ve got to give me a better explanation than—”

  “Say, what is this, a private rehearsal?” Quite unnoticed, Charlie Whittaker had poked his head into the cloak room.

  For the first time, Eleanor heard a hubbub in the hall. She was furious when Charlie raked her up and down, hunting for signs of mussed clothing. Then, with an annoyed look at Leo, he went on. “If you can tear yourselves away from whatever intimate little things you’re doing, our guest has arrived—my God, Goldman, what’s the matter?”

  Eleanor was afraid poor, soft Charlie was about to be felled by one of Leo’s fists. But Leo kept his hands at his sides—for the moment, anyway—and shoved his face close to the other boy’s.

  “Get this straight. If you ever say another word to suggest Eleanor isn’t a lady—or that she’d permit herself to behave in an unladylike way—I’ll knock you from here to the East River.” Giving Charlie a push, he stalked out.

  Charlie pursed his lips. Planted his fists on his hips. “Ooo, that arrogant little sheeny. I rue the day he browbeat his way into this organization.”

  But he didn’t say it loudly.

  Chapter III

  The Tommer

  i

  CHARLIE WHITTAKER TOOK the platform to introduce the visitor. He hooked his thumbs under the lapels of his frock coat and drummed his fingers on the outside as he spoke. Eleanor sat in the third row. Leo was in the row ahead, on the extreme right. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced beneath his chin. He was scowling.

  The incident in the cloak room had unsettled Eleanor. She did like Leo, but she knew that if she admitted it, she was courting disaster. She was in such a state, she barely heard the first part of the introduction.

  A freckled Irish boy named Shad Conway was seated next to her. When he let out a barely audible groan, she realized Charlie was still droning on.

  “—and so we are indeed fortunate to have with us the proprietor and featured player of Bascom’s Original Ideal Uncle Tom Combination.”

  Shoot, Eleanor thought as she took her first good look at the man Charlie was introducing. She might as well have stayed home. The visitor wasn’t anyone famous, just a Tommer.

  Still, she was curious as to why any professional, even a lowly Tom show actor, would seek out a group of young amateurs.

  Charlie shot his hands high above his head. “—an actor who has traveled the length and breadth of the American continent in pursuit of his art, and now graces our humble stage with his august presence.”

  On Eleanor’s left, the Conway boy whispered, “Jaysus, Charlie, calm down. It isn’t the Second Coming.”

  Eleanor giggled behind her hand. A year ago, such a remark would have stunned her speechless. Now she took it entirely in stride; one of the first discoveries she’d made at the Association was that very few things were sacred to actors.

  “And so, devoted fellow worshipers of Thespis, it is my high privilege and signal honor to present the celebrated and distinguished actor-manager, Mr. Jefferson—J.—Bascom!”

  ii

  The membership of the Booth Association and a half dozen female guests stood and applauded. Leo’s clapping was perfunctory. As everyone sat down, he shot a wounded look at Eleanor. His mouth set as if to say he’d overcome her resistance yet.

  The visitor took the platform. Eleanor gave the actor close scrutiny. Mr. Jefferson Bascom had a hooked nose, a large mustache, and wrinkled skin. He wasn’t unhandsome, but his best years were behind him. He was sixty if he was a day.

  She took note of the lack of any gray in his shoulder-length black hair. A wig, she decided. That was a clue to his character. She could think of several vain members of the Association who were always primping or displaying themselves in faddish clothes. Were all actors obsessed by their own images, like that man in the legend, Narcissus? She didn’t t
hink Leo was. He just knew what the Almighty had given him, and was determined to use it to advantage.

  Shad Conway leaned close and touched her arm. She went rigid. Shad whispered, “Want to bet Jefferson J. Bascom’s a false name? Little too close to Joe Jefferson to be anything else.”

  She nodded and edged sideways on her chair, away from Shad, while Mr. Bascom focused attention on himself by glancing from face to face. His gaze lingered on Eleanor’s a bit longer than necessary. She was thankful the shoulders of two members in the row ahead blocked Bascom’s line of sight when he tried to peer at the curve of her full bosom.

  The actor spoke in what she had to admit was a mellifluous voice—almost as rich as Leo’s. “My young friends, thank you indeed for allowing me to visit your meeting. I am humbly grateful for that most flattering introduction by Mr.—ah—”

  “Whittaker,” someone hissed.

  “Whittaker,” Bascom repeated without a blink. “Modesty would force me to deny a great part of it, were it not for one fact. The members of my troupe have made Bascom’s Original Ideal Uncle Tom Combination unequivocally the finest Tom show on tour anywhere. Further, it is undeniable”—a self-effacing smile, and an index finger pointed upward for emphasis—“undeniable that my Legree has become the standard by which other interpretations of the role are judged.”

  Shad Conway made a rude noise and muttered, “I never heard of J. J. Bascom before tonight.” Eleanor shushed him.

  “However”—Bascom began to strut back and forth across the platform, pausing occasionally to point up this or that word with a broad gesture—“personal problems on the part of several members of the company necessitate my replacing them before Bascom’s Combination undertakes its grand two-year Western tour just a few short days from now. Hence my interest in this group—and my presence among you.”

  A buzz of excitement traveled through the audience. They understood. She noticed that Leo had lost his angry expression and was looking interested. Even Eleanor felt a little thrill. Never mind Bascom’s age or his ridiculous wig. He had the power to hire someone in Hutter Hall for a professional engagement.

  What was his company like? she wondered. There were dozens of undistinguished if hardworking Tom troupes constantly crisscrossing the nation and playing one-night engagements in towns and smaller cities. The skimpiest company she’d ever heard about supposedly performed the play’s twenty-nine male and female roles with a troupe of three, and no scenery. Despite Bascom’s wrinkles and his hyperbole, his troupe surely had to be better than that. She sat forward on the edge of her chair, fascinated.

  “—have positions on the extended tour for three new gentlemen and one new lady.”

  Bascom’s eyes darted to Eleanor as he said that. He’d shifted to the left on the platform. The shoulders of the boys in the row ahead no longer protected her. She turned red as the actor’s distinctly unpaternal gaze traveled up from her breasts to her throat and lingered on her lips. Leo looked as though he might lunge at the older man.

  “Those selected shall receive handsome wages,” Bascom boomed. Eleanor doubted it. “As well as full traveling expenses. More important, they shall have the privilege of joining a company that already includes eleven fine actors and actresses, including myself”—fifteen people counting the replacements; respectable—“and the distinguished American tragedian, Mr. Daniel Prince, who is our Uncle Tom.”

  When Shad nudged her shoulder, she was in better control, and didn’t start. The boy whispered, “Aha! That fellow, I’ve heard of.”

  Charlie Whittaker turned and glowered. Shad ignored him.

  “Prince drinks so much, no playhouse in town will hire him any longer. I’ll bet he took this part out of desperation.”

  “Now,” Bascom said, beginning to bounce on the toes of his cracked boots, “if there are any here who might be inclined to read for possible inclusion in the company—”

  His gaze returned to Eleanor. Quickly she glanced into her lap so he wouldn’t think she was a candidate. But she wished she could be. Going with Bascom’s troupe, she’d be free of that cursed house forever.

  “I have brought a prompter’s script of the play. Do I have any applicants?”

  Shad Conway’s hand shot up. So did the hands of a number of others—including Leo’s, Eleanor was surprised to see.

  “What, no female candidates?” Bascom again let his eye rove until it came to rest on her. She couldn’t help being flattered that he’d singled her out, but she doubted he was interested in her acting ability. She shook her head. His face fell. With less enthusiasm, he waved at one of the hand raisers in the front row.

  “All right, sir, you first. We’ll be reading from the opening scene in act one. Dialogue between Eliza and her husband George.”

  There were some groans. They elicited a sharp glance from Bascom. “Anyone unwilling to double in brass and appear in darkie roles need not bother to audition. I should point out that a player of Mr. Prince’s stature does not consider it beneath him to don blackface and portray Uncle Tom.”

  “No, not when he can’t get a part anywhere else,” Shad laughed under his breath.

  “And further, his talented wife delights audiences with her interpretation of Topsy. Now, young sir, you and one of your lady friends step up here.”

  One by one, three young men read the scene, each choosing one of the girls for a partner. Then came Leo’s turn. His glance slid to Eleanor before he made his choice—the girl who’d just read. Eleanor knew the slight was deliberate, but she supposed she deserved it.

  Leo’s audition drew a favorable comment from Bascom, and some applause. Eleanor joined in. Leo noticed; when he looked at her, his face had an almost lovelorn expression for a moment.

  When Shad was called forward, he grabbed Eleanor’s hand. “Come along and read Eliza with me.”

  Before she was half out of her seat, Bascom exclaimed, “Yes, bring that young woman up here! Seldom have I seen feminine physiognomy more suited to gladdening the eye of provincial playgoers.”

  “I’m not a candidate, sir.”

  “I am crestfallen. No, I am devastated. I very much wanted to hear you read.”

  “I’ll be glad to read with Shad so long as you know ahead of time that I’m not trying out for the troupe.”

  “Capital!” Bascom rushed down the steps; he couldn’t wait to get his hand on her arm and assist her to the platform. Leo followed the actor’s every move.

  Bascom took hold of Eleanor’s upper left arm. The back of his hand bumped her breast when he pretended to slip.

  “Oh, my fault. Forgive me, Miss—?”

  “Kent. Eleanor Kent.”

  “What a fetching creature you are,” he murmured, almost dropping the prompt script. Shad caught it. A vein started to jump in Leo’s neck.

  “All right,” Bascom said, hardly giving Shad a glance. “As I told the others, never mind the dialect at this stage. I only want your feeling for the material.”

  She and Shad got through just fourteen speeches before Bascom stopped them and snatched the script away. Eleanor was disappointed for Shad’s sake. The others had been permitted to finish the scene.

  Then, to her astonishment, Bascom started turning the pages of the script. “I’d like you to read a very short passage we haven’t done before. Third act, fourth scene. Little Eva’s chamber. Eva is dying. That’s you, Miss Kent.”

  He thrust the script at her. “You don’t have much dialogue. But it’s an unparalleled opportunity to emote. As for you, Mr.—ah, ah—”

  “Conway.”

  “Quite so. You read St. Clare’s dialogue. I suppose I needn’t tell you St. Clare is Eva’s father?”

  “No, sir, you need not. I have seen the play four times.”

  Shad was understandably miffed. Bascom had been looking at Eleanor while he addressed the boy.

  Still with eyes fastened on her, the aging actor said, “I shall read Tom, and Marie’s one line. You two give me as much business as y
ou can, consistent with handling the script. All right, here we go. And, Miss Kent—”

  His scrutiny made her squirm. “Yes, sir?”

  “Kindly don’t hold back a thing.”

  She had an uneasy feeling he was trying to put more into the plea than a reference to acting. But she pretended to be unaware.

  “Begin with St. Clare’s first speech, Mr.—ah—”

  “Conway, Conway! Jaysus.”

  “Yes, yes, to be sure. Go ahead.”

  Shad cleared his throat, then practically bowled Eleanor over with his first line: “Hush! She is dying!”

  Bascom spoke in a falsetto—as the white man’s cousin, Marie. “Dying!”

  Someone giggled. A glare from the actor silenced whoever it was.

  Shad peered at the stage directions, then quickly picked up his cue. “Oh! If she would only wake and speak once more—”

  He bent his head till his face was uncomfortably close to Eleanor’s. From the corner of her eye she saw Leo watching. There was no question that he was jealous. Good.

  Then Shad slid his arm around her waist. She stiffened. The reaction made him noticeably delay his next line. “Eva darling!”

  She fought to control her unreasonable fear. He was holding her only because the script made it justifiable. She concentrated on the reading; she had no dialogue, but she did have a stage direction. She opened her eyes, then slowly let a smile form.

  She raised her chin and opened her mouth as if about to speak. She thought she was prolonging the whole piece of business horribly. Shad’s eyes were impatient. But Bascom seemed transported. He breathed a word not in the script.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Do you know me, Eva?” Shad exclaimed, sounding as if he didn’t much care. She was reluctant to follow her next direction. Was Leo watching and noticing her hesitation? It took all of the nerve she had for her to throw her arms around Shad’s neck.

  “Lord God, what a face,” Bascom murmured, just before Eleanor delivered her line in an intense stage whisper, “Dear—Papa!”