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She walked along Waverly Place, her heels clicking briskly. It was a warm, mid-September night in 1953, and her golden hair was still damp from the shower she had taken after work. She was a waitress - weren't all aspiring actresses? - in a hard-boiled Italian restaurant on Lafayette, just a few blocks from her walk-up studio. She had been in New York for two years now, having fled Vassar College two weeks into her junior year. Her parents, who lived idly on the remnants of vast Nineteenth Century timber profits, had cut her off. "No other Wheeler woman in living memory," Virginia told Irma Mulcahy, "has earned her living on her feet." "Maybe you should be writing plays," Irma laughed, "instead of acting in them." Since childhood, Irma had been Virginia's best friend in Carmichael, their hometown. Virginia had managed three auditions but no call-backs in her two years in New York. Through a waiter at the restaurant, she did land a three-week run with as many lines in a church basement production of a play she couldn't understand. At one point, she had to stand on her head (supported by a fellow cast member) while the lead actress walked by and placed a flowered bonnet on her feet. "But something big's going to happen soon," she told Irma on that same Fourth of July visit. "I can feel it in my bones." "I certainly hope so," said Irma, getting up heavily from the kitchen table and patting her belly. "You've waited long enough." Suddenly she winced. "It's a boy, all right. No girl would kick like that." "When are you due?" asked Virginia. "October" "Very good, pumpkin." Angry shouts came from beyond the kitchen. Irma poked her head through a swinging door. "If you two boys cannot play nicely," she said in a quiet voice, "then Timmy will be going home." Irma re-filled Virginia's coffee mug and then her own. She sat down and took a ginger snap from a flowered plate with a tiny chip on one edge. "And this is my last. Floyd has his hat trick. If he wants to have anymore fun, he better stock up on Trojans." "What's Trojans, Mommy?" Struggling to control her laughter, Virginia quickly crossed the kitchen and asked to see Becky's drawing. "I think you're going to be a famous artist," said Virginia and tousled Becky's curls. Virginia sat back down at the table. She tucked the skirt of her dress under her thighs and touched the wave of blond hair that turned up at the neck. She ran a finger over her lower lip. She drank some coffee and studied the red imprint left by her carefully applied lipstick. She took a pack of cigarettes from her purse, shook out a few and extended the pack to Irma. "Gave it up," said Irma. "Wish Floyd would. Now that I don't smoke, I can smell it in his hair and on his clothes." Virginia extracted a trim, silver lighter from her purse and lit her cigarette. "Everyone hip in New York smokes." Virginia smiled. "And drinks espresso." She touched Irma's hand. "Do you even know what that is?" "Coffee made from mud," said Irma. "I wish you had escaped with me," said Virginia. "We'd have such fun together in New York. We'd do important things." "And you wouldn't be so lonely," said Irma. "I have friends." "But not Carmichael friends" Irma patted the back of her head where her hair was in the bun she had taken to wearing when she wanted it out of the way. "You'll think it strange, but I am having fun. And raising three kids is doing something important." Irma paused, uncertain about continuing. "Do you ever think about coming back?" "And have my parents say, 'We told you so'?" "They miss you. I miss you." Irma got up and carried the mugs to the sink. "And you were wrong about Floyd. He's a wonderful husband - and provider." Virginia entered Washington Square Park. She looked up at the Arch, as she always did. A breeze caught the hem of her skirt and swirled it around her calves. As she circled the fountain, a young black man approached her. He wore a black beret and a black turtle neck sweater. He had a single gold chain around his neck. He walked next to her. "Need a date, baby?" he asked softly. "Got one," she said. She branched off from the fountain and headed towards the south-east end of the park. He continued next to her, close and private. She caught a dry, acrid smell. "Need anything else?" he asked. "A new job" He laughed and faded back into the night. On MacDougal Street, she turned up a short flight of stairs, pushed through a crimson door and entered a crowded café. She looked around and saw Larry waving to her. He was with three of her other friends at a round table towards the rear of the smoky room. She walked past a poster of Marlon Brando leaning on the handlebars of a motorcycle. "Now there's an actor," she said to herself. With a hurried, "Do you mind?", and barely waiting for the answer, Larry grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and made room next to him for Virginia. "What took you so long?" he asked her. "We closed late tonight, and I wanted to grab a shower. I felt totally yucko." "You look good enough to eat." "Hey, Larry my man," said a lean young black man with a scar on one cheek, a bushy haircut and a gold tooth dead center in his lazy smile, "easy on the accelerator. Give the little lady a chance to get settled and have some hooch." "Thanks, Fox," said Virginia. "These playwrights are always in a hurry." "Not me," said Larry. "I go slow and cool - like the blues." "Slow and cool is modern jazz," said Cindy. "Yeah, baby," said Dalton. "The MJQ" "What's that?" asked Virginia. "Surely you jest," said Dalton. "The Modern Jazz Quartet" He looked at her with hard blue eyes. He took off black-framed glasses and wiped the lenses on his loose tee shirt. A slow smile spread across his unshaven face. "Where was that you said you're from?" He hesitated just a fraction of a second. "No, don't tell me. I remember: Car - mi - chael". He reached a hand across the table, shoving aside a bottle of Chianti, and placed it on top of hers. "Where exactly is Car - mi - chael?" Virginia pulled back her hand, put her middle and forefinger underneath her chin and flicked them at Dalton. "At least, I'm not from Queens," she said. "Aagh," cried Dalton, "the unkindest cut of all." Groaning, he slid along the length of his chair and landed on the floor. "Did a number on him, baby," said Fox. "You're learning," said Cindy. "A year ago, you would have wilted." "Dig a glass of wine?" asked
Fox. He picked up the Chianti. "What's happening here? The
lady's got no glass." He looked around. "Now where
is that waitress when you most need her?" "How often do we get to see Larry pretending he's a gentleman?" asked Fox. Cindy leaned under the table. "You can get up now, Dalton. Everyone saw what a wonderful actor you are." Larry brought a water glass and poured Virginia the last of the Chianti. Cindy asked a passing waitress for another bottle and a basket of bread. Dalton adjusted himself in his chair. The waitress brought the bread and wine. Cindy paid and, after Virginia finished her first, poured glasses all around. In the front of the café, whose plate glass window overlooked the sidewalk, a gaunt man seated himself next to a microphone. He had close-cropped iron-gray hair, a straggly moustache and the makings of a beard. He rubbed the top of his head, pulled at his moustache, fiddled with his guitar strings and began to play. He leaned into the microphone and sang in a smoke-roughened voice: Oh Shenandoah, Listening to the man, Virginia felt an indistinct sadness well up in her. It was not an altogether unpleasant feeling, and she wondered if it portended something about her future. "That song makes me think of home," said Larry. "It makes everyone think of home," said Cindy. "Home," said Fox, "is the
place where, when you have to go there, Fox paused and then continued in an even, low-pitched voice: "I should have called it They stared at him in dead silence. "What?" he asked querulously. "You think in Harlem, they don't teach Robert Frost?" "Of course not," said Cindy. "Don't be a dope." "Don't you mean dope fiend?" asked Fox. "Don't be a double dope," said Cindy. "I just had never heard you recite poetry before, and I've known you for a while - to say the least." She leaned close to him, made a kissing sound and blew the kiss towards his ear. "Knew as in the Biblical..." said Dalton. "None of your business," interrupted Cindy. Fox smiled and put an arm around her. "I'm an actor," he said. "I have trouble memorizing lines. I do poetry to help with my memory. Satisfied, baby?" "I will be when you recite poetry for me." "Soon, baby, real soon." Fox turned to Virginia. His gold tooth seemed to wink at her. "Do you have trouble memorizing lines?" he asked. "The three I had in my one production were not an excruciatingly demanding task." "Start on poetry anyway, " laughed Fox, "because your star is going to rise." He looked at Larry. "Don't we need more wine?" "Indisputably," said Larry and signaled to the nearest waitress. "Speaking of great poets," said Virginia. "Dylan Thomas is coming to New York." "Noooo," said Dalton. "Where did you find that out: the Carmichael Daily Sentinel?" "Here we go again, " said Cindy. The waitress set a bottle of Chianti on the table. Larry and Fox each pulled out a ten. "Mine," said Larry, giving the waitress the ten. He told her to keep the change. The guitar man sang again. This land is your land, this land is my
land "He's doing Under Milk Wood," said Virginia to Dalton, "and stop being an ass." "Hear, hear," said Cindy. "I was just...," began Dalton. Fox rapped his knuckles on the table, which silenced Dalton, and began: And death shall have no dominion.
"You're on a roll, man," said Larry. "We have to go hear him," said Virginia. "Hear, hear," said Dalton and laughed. Larry took out his pipe and extracted a pouch of Balkan Sobranie from a side pocket. He stuffed the bowl full, tamped down the tobacco with his pinky and struck a match. As he inhaled, he said: "Balkan Sobranie, the thinking man's tobacco." He put a hand on Virginia's arm and said, almost in her ear: "Don't you love the aroma?" "It's delicious," she said. Cindy touched the scar on Fox's cheek. "What's all this stuff about death?" she asked. "You're not planning on leaving us, are you?" "Death and life," said Fox, "life and death. Two halves of a whole. I'll choose life - for a while." "Glad to hear it," said Cindy, stroking the back of his neck. "Enough with the romance," said Larry, "Listen, up. I've got news." "What?" they asked in perfect unison. "I found a place to put on my new play." "A church basement?" asked Cindy. "Nope: a theatre - not a big one, but a theatre nonetheless." When they left the café, Larry told Virginia he would walk her home. Entering Washington Square, he took her hand. They kissed in front of the fountain - a long, slow kiss. She put her arms around his neck. They kissed again. "That was a bit of a surprise," she said. "I've been meaning to do it for a while." "You took your own sweet time." Taking her hand, he set off again. Like a diamond necklace, lights sparkled in the buildings all around the square. Floodlights lit up the arch. A hint of cool air brushed their cheeks. He squeezed her hand. "About my play, I'd like you take the part of Cheetah." "Audition for, don't you mean?" she asked, fighting the tremor in her voice. "No - take" "But isn't Cheetah the lead?" "You're perfect for it." She took his arm and leaned against his shoulder. "Thank you," she breathed hoarsely. A faint sour smell - urine perhaps or garlic soup - permeated the stairwell in her building. Larry tried holding his breath, but that lasted for only two floors. A tall, thin man with three strings of multi-colored beads around his neck passed them. "What's happening, doll?" he asked in a sibilant voice and continued down without waiting for an answer. On the fourth floor, she pushed open a door with a small, square window and led him into a hallway. A single, naked bulb cast a dim light on sickly beige walls. She unlocked two locks, the upper one a dead bolt. Once inside, she re-did the locks and slipped a chain in place. "Are you locking me in or them out?" he asked. "Both" He sat on a sofa with faded rose-colored upholstery. Behind him was the sleeping alcove. A rocking chair, a carved heart in the upper cross-piece, sat next to the sofa. A couple of theatrical posters hung on the walls. Opposite a small, round table and two unsteady chairs, an archway led to the galley kitchen. "It's not much," she said, going into the kitchen. "Depends on what you're used to," he said. He fingered the rip in the sofa. He heard the angry hissing of a steam kettle. She came out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs. "No wine?" "Not if I intend to stay awake." She hesitated. "Is tea okay?" "Just fine. You're probably right. We did polish off three bottles of Marco's cheapest Chianti." She sat on the sofa. He took a swallow of tea. "Good," he said. He put his mug on the floor, took hers and set it down as well. "They'll keep," he said. He took both her hands. "You're very beautiful." She smiled and slid into his arms. "When do we start rehearsals?" she asked. "In about six weeks. First of November or thereabouts. A few things need sorting out." They kissed, leaning back against the sofa. He pulled her sweater over her head, and she undid the clasp of her bra. A week later, he brought by a copy of the
script. The next morning, after he left, she paced back and forth,
reading aloud. She came to the last page: SKYE: What else is left? CHEETAH: Resistance. Heroism. Fighting. Dying. Going down with our knuckles torn and bloody, our ribs caved in, our teeth jagged and broken but with our heads held high and our lips open, pouring out scorn and defiance. They may think they've won, but hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands will take our place, spitting in their cruel, mocking faces. The fight will continue until their rotten, evil state explodes, and the pieces whirl off into outer space, never to be seen again. "The End," she whispered, tears in her eyes. Wanting to be well-prepared for rehearsals, she began memorizing her lines. It was a long part. She was on stage for most of the play, which would run without an intermission. Larry took to coming over once or twice a week. When she wasn't working, she fixed him supper. Other nights, he brought a bottle of Chianti, a hard-crusted loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. He helped her with her lines and, occasionally, blocked part of a scene. Always, as they neared the end of the play, he roughed up her hair until it fell in mad swirls around her face. "You're a tough, beat-up revolutionary. Sorry, my love, but you're going to look like Medusa or the Wicked Witch of the West." "I don't mind. It will shock the knickers off my parents - if they bother to come." "How could they not? The play is going to be dynamite." After rehearsing, they drank some wine, ate a bit of bread and cheese and made love. One night, he begged off rehearsing, drank a quick glass of wine and hurriedly began taking her clothes off. "You're in a rush tonight," she laughed. "Hot to trot or do you have another date later on?" "Been thinking about you all day." Both down to underclothes, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. "The same," she giggled and pulled him down on top of her. Afterwards, smelling of sex, she set the wine and food on the rickety table next to the bed and settled her naked body next to his. "Lines," she said. "No, talk - then lines." "Okay - what about?" "What is Carmichael like? Possible setting for a play?" "Only if you're considering a soap opera?" "That scintillating?" he said. "It's the end of the world. No, it's beyond the end of the world. It's no man's land. Nothing happens. It went to sleep before Rip van Winkle and has yet to wake up. My best friend ,an intelligent woman, tricked the local football hero into getting her pregnant and is now content to raise his children. Getting the idea?" "Sounds like a hot bed of lubricity." "Whatever that means," she said. "It's what you were tonight: very wet." "Don't be crude." "You love it." "Sometimes." She ran her palm around his hairless chest and lightly stroked his stomach. He reached for the glass of wine, took a sip and held it to her lips. A few drops ran down her chin and fell to the sheet leaving a ruby stain. "Oh my gosh, a virgin," he said with a low laugh. "Not anymore," she said. "Now lines." She got out of bed and took a step towards the sofa where she had left the script. She stopped and faced him. "On the other hand," she said thoughtfully. "It's pretty as a picture: steep, wooded hills on one side of town, a lush valley on the other with a fast-running river and dairy farms. But who wants to live in a picture?" He scooted to the edge of the bed, extended his arms around her buttocks and pulled her to him. He kissed her belly button. "Certainly not you," he said. Occasionally, they joined the others at the café on MacDougal Street - either late in the evening or on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. One night as they headed home, she asked him: "Why don't we go out to dinner sometime? Just the two of us. Nothing fancy. Just romantic with candles stuck in wine bottles." It had rained through the afternoon and early evening. Puddles glistened under street lamps. He stopped under one and kissed her. "We could be a poster for a Bogart movie," he said. "The romantic dinner?" "After the production" She sat transfixed through the performance of "Under Milk Wood", unable to take her eyes from the famous poet's pudgy face although afterwards she commented to Larry that Thomas looked ill. "You would too if you drank like he does." "We don't do badly with Marco's Chianti." "He'd drink all five of us under the table, never mind under milk wood," Larry said and laughed at his own joke. "I just hope he's okay," said Virginia. "He looked like death warmed over." "Ah, he's probably got a cast iron stomach," said Larry. "The Welsh are a tough lot." "How would you know?" He shrugged. "They have to be. They're all miners or sheep herders." "Or poets. Or actors." On Sunday, November First, he told her that rehearsals would begin the following Friday at eight in the evening. She spent the week in a state of high excitement. She went over and over her lines, certain that no one else would come to the first rehearsal with their part practically memorized. She told her parents that this was her big break. They agreed to come down for the opening. Irma had to decline because of the new baby. "I'll come for the first anniversary," she said, "or when you get to Broadway, whichever comes first." "Don't count your chickens," said Virginia, but a tiny thrill radiated through her body. She didn't mind that Larry didn't come by all week. He must be swamped, she thought. Friday was cold and clear. She worked lunch, explaining to her boss that she would need to miss most dinner shifts for a while. He grumbled, but she was a hard worker and popular with the clients. That evening, stars were visible above the glittering New York skyline. She looked up at the Arch. "Wish me luck," she murmured. The theatre was west of Seventh Avenue, in a rundown building in the crook of an alley that ran south and then east. The front door creaked. A musty smell hung in the darkened entry and settled like dust in her nostrils. She took a step forward and looked around. A faint light slipped from under a curtain. She heard voices on the other side. She made out the dim outline of the box office. Posters, possibly of previous productions, hung on the walls. Moving cautiously, she reached out a hand and touched the curtain. It felt like a heavy velvet cloak. She ran her hand horizontally and came to a break in the material. She parted it and tentatively stepped through. She was behind staggered rows of bleachers, some of which dropped away while others rose above her head. She could see the lit stage through the bleachers. A woman and two men were on the stage. With his back to her, Larry was giving instructions to the other two. "Let's try it again," he said. Two aisles led down through the bleachers. She started down the left aisle and stopped as the woman read from her script: "Resistance. Heroism. Fighting. Dying. Going down with our knuckles torn and bloody..." "No, no, no," Larry interrupted. "You're angry but also desperate. You have to get Skye to continue the fight. You want the audience..." "Larry," Virginia called out in a voice louder than she intended. Larry turned to see her hurrying down the aisle. His lips parted in a sickly smile but then tightened into a hard, compressed line. Virginia reached the edge of the stage. "She's doing my part," said Virginia. "I meant to...," said Larry. He ran his hand through his hair. "Warren, Lavender, take a short break." "Lavender?" asked Virginia. The two actors strolled off stage. "Why is this ... Lavender doing my part?" Virginia demanded. "Because..." "And why are you almost at the end?" she interrupted. "When did you start the rehearsal?" "An hour or so ago. I wanted to work on some stuff with Warren and Lavender. I meant to tell you." "Meant to tell me that you were going to start early or that you had given my part to ... Lavender?" "There never seemed to be a good moment." He reached for her hand. She stepped back with a jerk. "Okay," he said. "I should have said something. But Lavender..." Virginia shook her head as if clearing it. "Don't let her name fool you. She's better as Cheetah than you. And she's had a lot of experience." "The kind of experience you look for in a leading lady?" "Don't be a damn fool. There's still a part for you. I'd like you to play Eva." She thought for an instant. "My God," she sputtered, "Eva has three lines." "Four" "You bastard" She crossed quickly and raised her hand to slap him but stopped with it in mid-air. Slowly, she lowered her hand. A confident smirk spread across his face. "Take it," he said. "Four is better than you've done so far." Her shoulders drooped. She turned around and, head lowered, started up the aisle. As she walked, she gradually lifted her head until she was looking straight ahead of her. It took her the next few days to contact
her landlord, quit her job, arrange for some things to be shipped
home and to say good-bye to a handful of friends. On Tuesday
morning, she boarded a bus for Carmichael. Her parents had said
they would meet her at Babcock's Pharmacy, where the bus stopped.
She had bought a paper and, settling in her seat, read that Dylan
Thomas had died the day before. Geoffrey Craig has written fiction, drama and poetry. His work has appeared in The Battered Suitcase, the Litchfield Literary Review, the New Works Review, Tertulia Magazine, Foliate Oak, Word Catalyst Magazine and the Wilderness House Literary Review. In 2008, The Center for Performing Arts in Rhinebeck, NY produced his full-length play, "The Medal". The Little Theater on Broad Street in Danielson, CT produced his play, "Moving-in Day", in their November 2009 one-act festival. His play, "The Uniform", made it to the final round of the 2008 Tennessee Williams Literary Festival One-Act Play Contest. Geoffrey has a BA in English, an MBA and an MA in history. He served in the Peace Corps in Peru, worked as a consultant to small businesses and had a twenty-seven year career as a banker prior to turning to full-time writing.
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