Reign, p.34
Reign, page 34
"What about you?" Ann said. "Are you scared?"
Terri looked at her mother levelly. "Shitless," she said. "But I want a career."
~ * ~
I want something else too, she thought. Evan. She had nearly died herself when she heard about his attack, and had to restrain herself from jumping in her car and driving to Kirkland to see if he was all right.
He had stuck with her, no matter how she tried to drive him out of her head. After the night they had spent together, she had kept him at arm's length, refusing to go out with him again, going out of her way to avoid him, being unresponsive when he spoke to her, leading him and apparently her mother to think that they were indeed "on the outs."
She had told herself that the only reason she had slept with him in the first place was to annoy her mother and make her relationship with Dennis all the more complex. But there had been more to it than that. Evan was not at all what she had expected. Instead of being a celebrity brat, he had been kind and sweet and thoughtful. In bed he had been more interested in her feelings than his own, and though she had tried to tough it out, to pretend that all she wanted to do was fuck, by the time she went to sleep she knew that they had been making love. She was embarrassed when they woke up and he had his arm around her. She was not used to being cuddled, being held, and although she liked it, that was not what she was there for. She had disengaged herself and dressed before he was even awake. She had refused his offer of breakfast, and had left with barely another word.
But she did not leave so easily. His behavior toward her stayed with her, his initial shyness, then his tenderness. Still, she tried to get him out of her thoughts, her memory, telling herself that her concern for his well-being derived only from compassion. But she knew better. She had never before known love, and now that it had come to her, she feared it even as she desired it.
She hoped he would go to New York. She had almost lost him on the haunted stage of the Venetian Theatre, and she did not want to lose him again.
“. . . are you going up?"
Her mother's words intruded upon her thoughts. "I'm sorry?"
"When are you going? To New York?"
"I don't know. Sometime next week, I guess. After the funeral. Marvella says I can stay at her place. It's just a few blocks away from the costume shop.”
“Do you . . . would you want to go up with us?"
"Us?"
"Dennis and Evan and me. They won't be here until three. You'd have time to pack."
Terri shook her head, remembering Dennis in the costume room. "No. Not with Dennis."
"Terri," her mother said, taking her hand. Terri looked down at her hand and her mother's in surprise. They had not touched for a long time. "I'm going to tell you something. And when I do, I just want you to remember that I've never lied to you before."
Ann told her then, an extraordinary story about a double of Dennis Hamilton, an imposter who had been responsible for the deaths, a man who Ann had seen with her own eyes while Dennis was in the same room. "If you were seduced," Ann closed, "that was the man who did it. Not Dennis." She let go of Terri's hand. "Do you believe me?"
Slowly she nodded. "If for no other reason than that no one would tell that involved and crazy a lie." She sat down on the bed. "You know, when I talked to him the next day . . . he didn't seem to know a thing about it. I thought he was just acting, but maybe he wasn't."
"No. He wasn't. He was terribly upset about it."
"But why didn't he tell someone? Why didn't he tell the police right away?"
"He didn't know at first. The police know now. They're treating it like a celebrity stalker case. And they're right. Someone's trying to destroy Dennis. By harming the people around him."
"Then Sid . . . and Donna?"
Ann nodded. "This . . . person killed Donna. Even though the evidence points to Sid."
It was too much to fathom. "My God. My God."
"Come with us," Ann said, a hand on Terri's shoulder. "I don't want you to be alone. You can stay with me at Dennis's suite until after Monday."
She felt unmoored, drifting on a sea of confusion and unreality, but her mother's hand was solid and real. "All right," she said. "All right. I'll go with you."
~ * ~
Dennis and Evan drove into the Deems's drive just after three o'clock in the spacious Lincoln they had rented for the trip, and were surprised to find both Ann and Terri waiting with their luggage. Terri smiled stiffly at both men, as if afraid the expression might crack her face. While Evan helped her take her luggage to the car, Dennis looked questioningly at Ann.
"I told her," she said.
"About the Emperor?"
"Just about a double. She knows it wasn't you who . . . that night."
He nodded. "Evan knows too. But he knows everything. He's coming along," he said with parental pride. "To help."
"That's good," Ann said. "Things are getting better."
Still, they spoke little in the car. Ann sat up front with Dennis, and Terri and Evan were on either side of the wide back seat. Mostly they discussed A Private Empire. "It'll be a race," Dennis said, "to get it ready in time. You and Marvella will have quite a job on your hands, Terri. The Empire costumes were disbanded after the last show, so you'll be starting from scratch. Except for my costumes."
"I, uh, don't know," Terri said. "That might be a problem."
"A problem?"
"Your dress uniform? The red one? It kept getting misplaced," Terri explained. "Marvella would find it on one rack, then another, and now . . . we can't find it at all."
They stopped for dinner at a cafeteria on the New Jersey Turnpike. No one recognized Dennis. They spent a half hour backed up at the Lincoln Tunnel, and finally arrived at Dennis's East 85th Street apartment building just before nine o'clock. Dennis had not been there since before Robin died, but John Steinberg, with Dennis's approval, had had Robin's clothes and most of her personal possessions put in storage until her will was administered.
When Dennis walked into the foyer of the apartment, the others behind him, he was struck as never before with Robin's presence. The apartment had been as much hers as his, and he was reminded of her wherever his glance turned. There was the vase with the pussy willows she had bought in Paris, the Picasso etching she had given him for his birthday four years ago. She was everywhere. Her clothes may have been gone, but Robin, poor seduced Robin, whose only sin was loving him too well, was still there, an inescapable and ineffable spirit of the place. He could not help but feel that bringing Ann there was a betrayal.
Still, he ushered in his guests, and asked Evan, whose own room was still filled with his boyhood things, to show Terri to Sid's room. He took Ann to a small guest suite. "You may stay here until Terri leaves, if you'd rather," he said, taking her hand.
"That would probably be best," she said, nodding. "It won't be long. Besides, we've got all the time in the world."
He smiled and kissed her, then went to the spacious and memory-haunted bedroom he had shared with Robin, and lay awake for a long time. Robin's sweet and suffocating presence was part of it, but it was also excitement that would not let him sleep.
He was getting ready, his little army was behind him, no one had deserted. John, Curt, Marvella, Ann, Terri, even Evan, thank God, even his son. And most of them knew, if not the specifics of the creature they would help him fight, at least that there was a creature worth fighting, worth destroying for what he had done to so many they all loved.
When Dennis slept, he did so without dreaming. But when he awoke, and his eyes opened to the bedroom wall with its airy bamboo bookcase next to the small O'Keefe watercolor, his sleep-drugged mind assumed that it was years before, before everything bad had happened, and he turned toward where Robin would naturally have been, to hold her and kiss her good morning.
He cried softly when she was not there, when he had to remember all the things that had come after their last embrace in that bed. Even the thought of Ann did not stop his tears, and when the last of them had been wiped away, he whispered to the Emperor, "There, you bastard. I can still cry. I can still feel, can't I?"
It was Sunday, and after a breakfast made by Evan and Terri, he sent them and Ann outside and into the park to observe the signs of approaching spring, while he took down the battered set of sides of A Private Empire, and began to review his lines.
They were as familiar to him as his own name, his address, his social security number, and were nearly as dull. God, he thought, how can I make this alive again? I thought I was done with this, done with it because, let's face it, it didn't mean much to me anymore, because I felt my performances slipping . . .
And they were, weren't they? Slipping away to that bastard, to the Emperor. Slipping away from me because I had made him.
No. Get it back. Read it. Aloud.
He stood, struck the immaturely imperious pose that had caused millions to chuckle, and began.
"God! This is your servant, Prince Karl Frederick Augustus, soon to be Emperor Karl Frederick Augustus. And still, of course, your servant. I suspect that, of Europe's other monarchs, very few — if any — are praying at this moment. Therefore, since kings rule by divine right, as the more superstitious of us are apt to believe, I ask you to shut your ears to the peasantry and give me your undivided attention. It will not take long. Please.'"
Call on God indeed, thought Dennis. It will take at least God for me to bring life to that line. How many times have I said it? Hundreds certainly. Thousands undoubtedly.
He had never figured out how many performances of A Private Empire he had done, but the weight of them over the years sat heavily on him now, an infinite accumulation of words, songs, gestures. He tossed down the sides and sat down at the piano, picking out the introduction to "The Awful Thing About a King," his first musical number, a humorous patter song in which the soon-to-be emperor sings about his concerns, not over ruling a country, but taking a bride.
It was the first time he had sung in many months, and his voice sounded, he thought, weak. The low notes were tentative in tone, the higher ones unsure of pitch. His facility as well had suffered greatly from the lack of practice. Perhaps Dex Colangelo could help him as he had helped him before. Yes. Of course he could. The voice was rusty, that was all. With work, with practice, it would come back as strong as it ever was. And so would the acting. Everything would come back. Everything.
Everything except Robin. And Donna. And Whitney, and Tommy, and Harry Ruhl.
"Oh, you bastard," he whispered, bringing his hands down on the keyboard to produce a brash and angry cluster of notes. "I will beat you, you bastard."
~ * ~
At nine-thirty the next morning Dennis went to the building on Broadway and 54th where John Steinberg still retained an office for use when he was in the city. Steinberg's expression was weary, there were dark pouches beneath his eyes, and his suit was unaccustomedly rumpled. The first thing he said when he saw Dennis was, "Did you bring Ann along?"
"Not right now. But she's here in the city. Why?"
"Because I need her. I am up to my bulbous ass in work, Dennis, and, although I've accomplished a great deal by making phone calls all weekend and thereby annoying a great many agents, I have still more to do."
"Call her," Dennis said. "She's at my place."
"Excellent. Now, I suppose you'd like to know where we stand." He leaned back in his leather chair, steepled his fingers, and smiled. "We begin rehearsals at the Minskoff in two days."
"Wednesday?" Dennis said, amazed.
"Wednesday. It is indeed remarkable what an unlimited budget can do. I posted the bond with Equity Friday afternoon, the principals are all cast except for the villainous Kronstein. The way things worked out, they're all people who have done the show with us before, either here or in one of the road companies. And Dex and Quentin are putting the chorus together. They got half of them over the weekend."
"Who's playing Lise?"
"Kelly Sears. Pleased?"
"Delighted. I always thought she was the best of them. But no Kronstein.”
“No. Sam Reynolds is on tour with Me and My Girl, and Harry Barnes is about to open in the new Lloyd Webber show at the Kennedy Center."
"What about Andy Sims?" Dennis said.
Steinberg frowned. "Andy died. Three weeks ago. AIDS."
"God. I didn't even know he was sick."
"He kept it quiet. And we've had our own crosses to bear."
"So what will we do about a Kronstein? Audition?"
"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. The agents know that he has to bear a striking resemblance to you. You wouldn't happen to have a twin I don't know about, would you? . . . What is it?"
"Nothing."
"You went pale for a moment," Steinberg said.
"I'm fine, fine." Dennis cleared his throat. "How did you get a studio at the Minskoff on such short notice?"
"Well, I've given you the good news, now it's time for the bad. There was, as I'm sure you realize, no space available. Not at the Minskoff, not at Bennett's, nowhere. There was, however, a show rehearsing that was, shall we say, in financial straits. So I made the producers a proposition. In exchange for their delaying their show for three and a half weeks, which is our required rehearsal time here in the city, we would help to finance their show to the tune of . . . well, perhaps I should give you the figure later. It's rather depressing, particularly when you realize their show is a musical version of The Divine Comedy. Overreaching, in my opinion. They welcomed the hiatus, in fact. I believe they want to give the book a bit of a polish. So we have both studio rooms they were using — one for chorus rehearsals, the other for principals."
"I didn't think you could do it so quickly, John. You're wonderful."
"I am indeed. And now it's your turn to be wonderful. Starting Wednesday.”
“How did people react," Dennis asked slowly, "when you asked them? I mean, was there any hesitance because of what's happened? All the tabloid stories and everything?"
Steinberg shook his head. "Not a bit. Everyone seemed very happy to be doing the show again, and not just because of what we're paying them. Now my job is to fill the house. But even if I do, it's a losing proposition. This is costing you a fortune, Dennis. Please note that I didn't say a small fortune. I mean a regular sized, Swiss bank account type fortune. No less."
"It doesn't matter." Dennis thought of the funeral then. "Are you still going to Whitney's funeral?" Steinberg nodded. "Did you send flowers from us?"
"No, a contribution to a children's hospital in lieu. A generous one. I did hear, however, from Marvella's daughter's lawyer on Saturday. He's thinking of bringing a wrongful death suit against us. Apparently because of our lack of security."
"That's the least of my worries," Dennis said.
"What's the greatest of your worries, Dennis?" Steinberg said.
Dennis sat looking into his friend's face. "Too many to enumerate, John," he finally said.
~ * ~
They found their Kronstein, the Emperor's bastard half-brother, at the next day's auditions. His name was Wallace Drummond, although he preferred to be called Drummy. At his agent's urging he had flown up from Florida, where he was playing Curly in a dinner theatre production of Oklahoma, and sang Kronstein's big number, "Take What Is Mine," in a fine baritone voice. Dex approved of him vocally, and he read well. Quentin felt his dancing was "less than terpsichorean perfection," but since Kronstein did not have to dance, other than a waltz with Maria, his mistress and the Emperor's intended bride, he had no real problem. "He's a mover-weller," Quentin said. "I can get him into shape."
Drummy's appearance was his main selling point. Although he was slightly older than Dennis, he was approximately the same height and build, and with his hair dyed red and makeup covering the crow's feet, the resemblance would be close enough on stage. And when the false beard and moustache were put on in the final scene, when Kronstein tries to announce to the populace the Emperor's betrothal to the evil Maria, the expected success of the subterfuge would be believable enough. It was, after all, a show.
Terri moved out of Dennis's apartment and into Marvella's flat at the Dakota on Tuesday evening, and that night Ann slept in Dennis's bedroom. The windows overlooked Central Park, and when they woke in the morning, Dennis pushed a button by the bed and the curtains opened silently on smooth tracks, revealing a bright, clear morning.
"It's beautiful," Ann said. "An omen for the first day of rehearsal?"
"Maybe," Dennis said, holding her tight, afraid to get up, afraid to go to the studio and try and perform and direct. "Maybe." He had never believed in omens before, but there were other things that he had not believed in either, and he knew now that they were real. Perhaps, he thought, he should believe in good omens too.
Rehearsals began at ten o'clock. The chorus and dancers were in the larger studio A, the principals in B. The studio was much as Dennis remembered it, large and white, ballet bars running down the wall of windows that looked across at the buildings in the next street. On the opposite wall was secured an unbroken expanse of mirrors. Several formica-covered pedestal tables sat here and there, as did twenty or so folding chairs. Curt had the lines of the stage floor laid down with masking tape, and tape numbers ran across what represented the front of the stage, with 0 at stage center, and 1 through 8 on either side of center.
The part of Act I, Scene 1 with Rolf and Inga had been scheduled for blocking from ten to eleven. Dennis guided the actor and actress through the scene, using the stage directions from the old prompt book that had served them through the revivals and several tours. Curt remained by his side, deciphering some of the directions that had been penciled and red-penciled into near obscurity. When they reached the song, Dex played, and Rolf and Inga, who had both performed their roles before, sang the song, using the actions they vaguely remembered from their past performances.
When the song was over, Bill Miley, the actor playing Rolf, shook his head. "Dennis," he said, "we did some comic business in the second verse that never got into the prompt book. Do you remember what it was, something about her sitting on my lap, and my hand's there, and she jumped or something?"
