A stagehand down the hall called for costumes. Eleanor excused herself to get ready, grateful for the chance to leave before she had to answer Gwen’s question.
* * *
After the show, Eleanor tracked Harry down to tell him about Connor Morris. She found him in the empty audience going over his notes. Eleanor hadn’t removed her stage makeup, and her face felt hot and muddy under the pancake. She told him about the protest the previous day and Connor’s attention that morning.
“So you’re scared.”
She would never have admitted this to Don, but Harry was her director. He solved problems all day long. “Yes.”
“Stay away from the protestors.” Harry swore. “I thought the coverage would be more mixed,” he said. “We need to get out ahead of this. Don’t give any comment.”
Compared with Don’s dismissal, Harry’s acknowledgment of her worries felt like an embrace. She thanked him.
“It’s my job. I need you all not to be distracted and to give the best performances you can.” Harry moved a stack of notes off the seat next to him. “You’re doing well,” he said, as he had the other day.
Eleanor blinked. “Do you really mean it?”
“Don was right about you: You’re green in the right ways. You’re strong in the others. You’ve surprised all of us with your performance.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“If I give too many compliments you might stop trying to impress me.” He tapped the list of notes on the pad in his lap. “I love this show, too, Eleanor.”
Harry had never offered her any glimpse into himself; he met her eyes now, his face open and unguarded.
“I made Don a promise when we were twenty-one: I’d work on any show he wrote. That’s how much I believe in him.” He shook his head. “I don’t know much about this race stuff, I really don’t. But I do know a good story when I see one.”
Eleanor didn’t know what to say.
He was already turning back to his notes. “Go home. Drink water, you sound dry. No snacking.”
* * *
Harry’s solution became apparent two days later, when a photographer and a reporter appeared backstage before a performance.
“Are we being interviewed?” Eleanor asked.
“No.” Harry turned Eleanor around and tightened her sash. “You’re the faces, we’re the brains.”
“Where’s he from?” Charles asked.
“The New York Times.”
Charles looked unfazed, but Eleanor had more questions.
“Where will the piece go?”
“Somewhere in the arts section, maybe the front. This is a big deal, we’re letting them in early.” Harry nodded at them. “Right. Break legs.”
Eleanor looked at Charles. “I haven’t told my parents about the show.”
Charles’s eyes went wide. “What do they think you’ve been doing with your time?”
“They know I’m in a show. They don’t know about . . . well . . .”
“Me.”
“Right.”
Charles gave her a long look, then breathed in and out. “I’m gonna look at my notes,” he said, turning away. “Don’t forget the new lines during the picnic.”
* * *
“We’re going to add a flash-forward,” Don said the next morning. He, Eleanor, and Harry sat in a café near the theater. Don ordered coffee; his skin was pale and he had lost weight. If Harry hadn’t been there, she would have told him he needed to order something solid.
“The audience needs to see them married,” Harry said. “See their happy ending, see how they’re just like everyone else.”
Eleanor opened the new pages.
“How on earth are they just like everyone else?” Charles asked.
“Son, that’s the fucking point of the show,” Harry said.
The new scene was sweet and domestic. Molly and Luke eating breakfast, shown before the end of the first act. Molly was reminding him to drop a car payment in the mail on his way to work. She straightened his tie; he kissed her cheek and then—to Eleanor’s horror—her belly.
“We’ll be fitting you for a new dress,” Harry said, “to make you look pregnant.”
Eleanor paged through the lines.
“What do you think?” Don asked.
Charles took the pages. “What does this tell anyone? That Luke can get it up?”
“Don’t be crass,” Harry said, standing up to leave. “We’re seeing what sticks. Sometimes you need to experiment. Keep everything the same tonight; we’ll first need to fix the lighting for this. We’ll run a rehearsal tomorrow.”
Charles gave the pages back to Harry. “Insert: domestic bliss.”
After Harry left, Eleanor looked at Don.
“You hate it,” he said.
Eleanor took the pages back, hoping to find something in them she liked. “It’s a bit pat.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Charles said. “In what world do these two end up in a three-bedroom house with insurance and a baby?”
“Where do they live?” she asked. “Chicago, still?”
“No,” Don said. “Somewhere more rural, private.”
“Where the hell is their kid gonna go to school?” Now that Harry was gone, Charles dropped some of the coolness he always carried in professional company. “What do you think would happen to a black guy on a farm with a white wife? Eleanor—you’re from a farm. What do you think would happen?”
She didn’t know, not having met any black people outside of Green Bay.
“I don’t recall either of you having writing credits on the show,” Don said.
Eleanor felt admonished; had those evenings over the piano just been placation?
Charles held up his palms. “Look, Don—I don’t mean any disrespect. You know I know you’re a genius. But this—this isn’t genius.”
“Also—” Eleanor stopped when both men turned to her.
“What?” Don’s voice had an edge to it.
“Never mind.”
“Stop that.” He crumpled the pages in his hand, then, thinking better of it, tore them in half. “Obviously this is shit. Eleanor, say whatever the hell you were going to say.”
“I don’t think we should cut the suspense so soon, but build it up even more than we have,” she said. “The audience shouldn’t see them happy in act one. See—what if the point isn’t what happens to Molly and Luke, but what happens to the audience?”
Charles was watching her. Don turned to look out the window, but she could see he was listening.
“By the end, the audience should want Molly and Luke to be together. They’ll leave the theater with a sense of injustice if the couple doesn’t get together. Through suspense, we’ll trick hundreds of people into wanting a black man to marry a white woman.”
Don sniffed. A feeling of waiting on a precipice overcame her. This could be her biggest contribution yet—it would reshape the whole show.
He patted her hand. “Very clever. Now put on your makeup and let me work.”
* * *
Don took her out for dinner after the show. “I could use a night off. Join me?”
She was surprised and pleased by the invitation; he took her to Revere’s Diner, open all night and filled with nocturnal characters. They slid into a booth between two cops and a couple drooped over coffee. They’d only eaten fancy meals before, and she was glad he’d brought her to this place. She felt the plastic booth against her shoulders and did not even mind the scent of bacon from his BLT. She was reminded of home.
“Are we still going to Broadway, Don?” she asked.
“The producers have already sold weeks of tickets on Harry’s and my names,” Don said. “We’ll open. After that, who knows.”
She pushed mashed potatoes around her plate. Shoulders hunched, Don looked u
p at her with red eyes and nodded.
“In the future”—he wiped his mouth with a napkin, did not look at her—“I’d rather you didn’t undermine me in front of Charles. I’m glad to let you watch me write, since it interests you, but please keep your opinions to yourself in company.”
Opinions? He’d asked for her help. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Don.”
“You didn’t. But keep that in mind next time.”
“I thought . . .” She felt stupid. But Don had invited her to write with him. And hadn’t he told her to look out for herself, that night in his car? “You asked for my help, many times.”
Don wiped his mouth again, took his time before answering. Eleanor nearly backtracked. But then he met her eyes, and she felt right for speaking up. She could see he regarded her with respect, maybe even admiration.
“You have unteachable instincts,” he said. “And I like spending time together. But, Eleanor, I think we should keep this part of our relationship private.”
She felt heat in her cheeks, her chest, and knew he could see the blush rising in her skin. So he had noticed it, too. The attraction between them. The bond that they had built during those intimate rehearsals and long conversations.
She wanted to reach out and touch his hand. Those hands had written the works that shaped her life. Those hands were the reason she was here.
“So what do you think is wrong with it?” He swirled the ice in his glass. “I can barely see the show anymore, I’ve made so many changes.”
The stern tone in his voice was gone; he seemed almost sheepish. When he looked up at her again, she saw he was apologizing, in his way.
She thought through Gwen’s words and remembered Penelope’s torn sleeve. “The show hasn’t absorbed the danger quite yet.”
Don’s face changed as the words hit him. There it was, that link between them. He already knew what she meant. “Every moment they have would be fraught with sick fear. And all the sweeter because of it.”
He brought his hand to his face, thinking, and ran it over a day’s growth of beard. Finally, he turned his gaze to her, but it was as though he was surprised to see her there, like he had been far away and come back.
“Maybe I can’t write this story,” he said. “It’s not mine to tell.”
She thought about the protestors outside, Gwen’s words, even Charles’s words from their day in Central Park—how not even he could see himself loving a white woman. She was aware of the risks that might come with debuting this story too soon or somehow getting it wrong. She couldn’t shake the Herald reporter and his allegations about Charles from her thoughts. She decided to ask Don.
He sat up and looked at her. “Where did you hear that?”
“Someone in front of the theater showed me a cutting from the paper.”
“There’s more to the story. All I know is those charges were dropped. Charles wouldn’t hurt a fly. You can’t believe those people. They’ll do anything to bring us down.”
“Don, if it’s dragged up again, no one will care if it’s true or not.” She twisted her napkin. “They’re arresting writers, actors, on nothing charges, saying they’re communists. They could say anything to lock Charles up. This could ruin his life.”
“I should have known all that would come up again, in this show.” Don laid a hand over his eyes and rubbed his temples. “People might call me a genius, Eleanor, but sometimes I think I’m the densest person in the world.”
Eleanor reached her hand across the table. He didn’t pull away from her touch. “You’re not dense,” she said. “You want people to believe in the work and not think about everything else.”
“But the work is everything else,” Don said. “I didn’t realize that. It’s calling everything to the surface. Danger.”
The word conjured the image of the bar, the protestors, Charles in a jail cell. Danger.
Chapter Seventeen
Eleanor should have called her family after the Times photographer came. She should have gone straight back to the hotel and called. But she didn’t. She should have at least written a letter. Each time she thought of doing one of these things, there were lines to learn, scenes to rehearse. Anyway, who knew what the article would even say?
She found out on Sunday at breakfast. She opened to the arts section and saw the photograph. The oatmeal in her mouth suddenly tasted like mud.
The spread took up most of the page above the fold. It was her, in Charles’s arms, her body bowed back by his kiss. His hands were on her waist, fingers spread wide to hold tight and feel her. They were so close that their cheeks, noses, and foreheads touched. Their names were printed directly below:
Eleanor O’Hanlon and Charles Lawrence during a performance of A Tender Thing.
The article was less interesting than the picture. Don talked about how he wanted to write a show about integration and racism, and how the idea had always been important to him. Investing in his legacy, Eleanor thought, in a flash of resentment. Harry brushed off questions about the “sordid” scenes: “People who love each other want to be together. This relationship wouldn’t be any different.” He focused on his methods of rehearsal. Both men said the show was the best they’d ever collaborated on, how proud they were of it, how vital the message was.
“At the end of the day, it’s about love,” Don said. “What is more universal than that?”
Though the words were attributed to Don, Eleanor could not imagine them in his voice. Love might be universal to everyone but Don—but he knew how to mimic how others saw the world. It made her desperately sad.
She picked up the newspaper. Her parents didn’t get the Times, but that bought her only hours. Eleanor had already shamed them with her desertion; this now surpassed shame. It was humiliation. She pictured them in church. Neighbors would sneer, shudder; they’d consider her a slut. Most wouldn’t heed anything in the article. The talk of love and kindness would be lost. Her neighbors would not see past the picture.
She needed to call her parents. She went up to her room, and her phone was already ringing. It was Charles.
“Did you see it?” His voice was bright.
“Sure did.”
“You sound strange.”
“It’s quite a photo.”
“Did you think no one would see? We do that in front of hundreds of people every night.”
She couldn’t say anything to him without admitting her shame. But her silence betrayed her; he hung up. Almost immediately after, she got another call. This time the front desk connected her to Rosie.
“Eleanor! Are you all right?” Rosie’s voice brought her close, like they hadn’t been fighting for weeks. She sounded worried. “Your parents saw the paper. They called and asked if I knew. I’m sorry, I told them.”
It was so good to hear Rosie’s voice. It brought her back to childhood, and she wanted to cry. “Oh, Rosie. Are they very angry?”
“I think that picture was hard for them to see.”
“Was it hard for you?”
Rosie hesitated. “I’m worried about you.”
“It’s perfectly normal, you know.” A venomous edge came into her voice. “We do that in front of an audience every night, so the picture isn’t a big deal.”
“All right, Eleanor.”
“I’m just saying it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
They were quiet. Eleanor hated that she had snapped. She didn’t want the phone call to end but could not think of anything to say.
“Anyway,” Rosie said after a few awkward seconds. “I’m glad you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything.” The wall between them came back into her voice.
“How are things there?” Eleanor remembered Connor Morris’s bit about Tommy and Rosie in the same apartment and longed to ask. “I miss you.”
Rosie
sounded uncomfortable. Was she winding the cord around her arm? “I have to get going. I’m meeting someone.”
Eleanor wanted to tell her everything. But all she said was, “Talk to you soon. Thanks for calling.”
“Goodbye, Eleanor.”
Eleanor held the phone for a long time, then hung up. She dialed her parents.
Her mother answered. “O’Hanlon residence.”
She was quiet.
“Hello?”
She couldn’t make herself speak.
“Hello?” A note of panic came into her mother’s voice. “Who is this?”
Eleanor wondered if her mother thought people could trace their phone from the article. She tried to speak, but instead of words, a quiet sound escaped her throat.
“Eleanor? Is that you?”
She tried to hear compassion but only heard panic and anger.
“Eleanor, if that’s you, I hope you’re ashamed. Your father is out working the fields. He went there after church and hasn’t come back. We had to find out from Mr. Browning. The look on his face. I’ve already gotten calls from grocers that won’t buy our pork anymore. Did you even think of that? That we’d lose business? Of course you didn’t, you’ve always been so selfish.”
Tears began to fall. She kept a hand over her mouth so her mother wouldn’t hear.
“You have no idea of the shame.” Her mother’s voice broke. “I can’t describe . . . When that reporter called last week, I didn’t believe him. Imagine how humiliated I was when I saw that awful picture. I thought, That can’t be her. That can’t be the girl I raised. But it was. Did you think of us at all when you decided to perform in that filthy play?”
She’d imagined hearing a rejection from her parents many times and had thought she was steeled for it. But it was so much worse than she’d prepared for. Eleanor knew that voice so very well but had never heard it twisted with revulsion.
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