An Idol for Others (15 page)

David proved as good as his word. Little more than a week had passed when he was engaged as director for one of the little theater groups. It was the first of many. He spent the winter traveling to the farthest corners of the city, casting his spell on clerks, secretaries, and insurance salesmen to produce what Clara referred to, disrespectfully, as his church sociables. As the long gray months stretched out before him, he couldn’t always pretend to himself that life was as thrilling as he had dreamed it would be. He was pushing 20, and he was still dabbling in amateur theatricals. His faith in his destiny dimmed. How would people who counted find out what he had to offer? Walter agonized over whether he was following the right course, but David insisted that he was gaining more valuable experience than he could in some menial backstage job on Broadway, no matter how professional.

“You’re a genius, old pal,” David assured him during one of his spells of discouragement. “We all know that now. You’re bound to get impatient. Let me be your trainer for another year or so; then you can give with the fireworks.”

His insistence that Clara live with him proved academic. He was too busy. He couldn’t expect her to wait for him in the little apartment till midnight or later. She frequently went to bed with him during the day when he had some spare time; on special occasions she spent the night. Her clothes were there as a symbol of a shared life. It had worked out as she had predicted. The Washburns remained a closed book. He couldn’t make a very strong case for getting married, even though he wanted to if only because marrying Clara Washburn would be more exciting than anything else he was doing.

Light dawned just before Easter. David had been dropping small hints, but Walter assumed that they had been intended to keep his spirits up. As it turned out, David had been working up to a dramatic effect.

The summer theater was to be reorganized. David would devote his time to production and administration. Walter was offered the job as director at $60 a week. Not only a big professional break, but riches as well. Even with the offer singing in his ears, Walter was able to retain sufficient sangfroid to bargain. It wouldn’t be a theater of his own, but he wanted to make it as nearly his as circumstances permitted.

“If I’m the director, I’ll be totally in charge of casting. Right?” he demanded.

David tossed his gold head. “I told Steelman if we gave you an inch, you’d end up in China. Right. With my approval.”

They looked at each other and laughed. “Fine,” Walter agreed. “You’re a pushover. I also want a say in the play we do.”

David vibrated with delight. “What else? Do you want to hand-print the programs? You know the policy. You can give me a list of what you have in mind.”

What was left of the winter flashed past in an exciting flurry of planning and casting and selecting plays. Clara enrolled as an apprentice again to satisfy her family that she had a good reason for returning to East Cove, but she was firm in her decision to do nothing but assist Walter. She and David had swapped houses, on the grounds that the Peabody cottage was more suitable for a pair. Memories briefly troubled Walter, but he knew that the ghost was a dim pale spirit, saddening but almost forgotten. Walter was too busy for ghosts.

Walter sat out on the edge of the lawn of the Peabody cottage and studied the envelope with a lingering trace of incredulity. It was addressed to him as Director, East Cove Summer Theatre. Accurate, but still unbelievable. He enjoyed so much looking at the address that he postponed opening the letter. Clara joined him with their predinner drinks and sat beside him.

“Who’s it from?” she asked.

“I don’t recognize the handwriting. It looks personal. I doubt if it’s a million-dollar contract, probably one of my church-sociable crowd.”

The second production of the season was already in rehearsal, but nobody had yet approached him about a job for the fall. If he were a genius, what were they all waiting for? He tore the letter open and looked at the bottom of the single sheet within it. It was signed Johnny Bainbridge. He remembered the name but couldn’t put a face to it. Johnny had been a classmate at Rutgers, and they had seen a lot of each other in their freshman year. He had been passionate about politics and wanted to be a writer. He had talked about going to Spain to join the Lincoln Brigade. When Walter didn’t see him around at the start of their sophomore year, he assumed he had gone and gave him no further thought.

The letter was terse. Johnny Bainbridge wanted to come see him. He didn’t say why, only that “I have something you might be able to give me some advice about.” It could be a disease. Something to do with the theater? He had grown accustomed in the last few months to his contemporaries coming to him for advice; word was spreading in the tiny confines of the theater district that he was on the way up and might be a valuable contact. He couldn’t imagine how Johnny could have heard of him. He shrugged and handed the letter to Clara.

“Who is Johnny Bainbridge?” she asked when she had read it. She listened to Walter’s sketchy memories of his former friend. “He wanted to be a writer? He must’ve written a play.”

“I can’t imagine Johnny doing anything so frivolous.” They laughed and chatted about the proposed visit.

They were finally living together, openly and on a 24-hour basis. It felt more daring than Walter had realized it would, not at all the way it had been with Debby, who had been as obscure as he. There were Washburn connections all around them. The Peabodys must know. Walter was certain word would eventually reach Clara’s parents. He lived in expectation of a fine old blowup. It wasn’t quite the way he would have chosen to make his entrance into the family, but he supposed it would precipitate their marriage. Clara would be 21 in a matter of weeks; then the Washburns would be powerless to make any real trouble. After that, he had only to wait nine years until the terms of some relative’s will would make his wife a rich woman. He expected to be so rich himself by then that it would make no difference.

He wrote to Johnny to explain that his only free time was after the performance, suggesting that he come out for the night. Having somebody stay with them would be like inviting a witness to their irregular situation. At this rate they would soon feel so married that they might forget the detail of a ceremony. Johnny replied, announcing his arrival for the following afternoon.

Walter met him at the station between rehearsal and performance. He hoped he would recognize him. He did, but only after a double take during which he tried to digest the fact that a classmate of his could look so old and worn. He was as slight as he remembered, all skin and bones, and his plain features looked ravaged. Four years were immediately erased as they shook hands and a relationship was re-created in which Johnny was the leader. Johnny cared about things, not necessarily things that Walter cared about; but his concern carried conviction and aroused curiosity. It was a quality that had made him conspicuous among his callow aimless contemporaries. Walter had been drawn and was drawn again by what he felt as hard, unbending integrity. His own effusive welcome seemed false and theatrical, and he began to tone down his manner to suit his audience.

“Tell me all about yourself,” Walter said when he had started up the car and they were on their way home. “How in the world did you manage to find me?”

“Professor Collins told me you were out here. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, but you were the only person I could think of who would know something about the theater.”

“I’d never have guessed you were interested. Are you thinking of writing for the theater?”

“I might. What I want to talk to you about is a play I’ve translated from the French. It was a success in Paris just before the war started. It was written by a friend of mine. We hoped to get it done here, but I don’t know how to go about it.”

Walter was proud to be able to display considerable professional knowledge in discussing the problem. He asked about rights. He explained technicalities of production and told him what he could expect of various producers.

“Of course, the author’s a Communist,” Johnny pointed out. “So am I. We wouldn’t be interested in anybody who’s just looking for a commercial success.”

Walter felt vistas opening that made his life seem humdrum. Johnny was a Communist. He had seen war. He was a strikingly dramatic figure. “Have you brought the play with you?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes. You don’t sound as if you have much time, but if you could glance through it, you might be able to tell me if it has a chance. I’m completely out of touch with everything here. I just got back a month ago. It wasn’t easy.”

“I’ll find time to read it. I don’t have to stay till the end of the show tonight. I’ll get Clara to read it too.” He explained who Clara was and about their life together. He was ahead of Johnny there. He parked the car in the front of the cottage, delighted to produce this evidence of his unconventional past. Clara sometimes talked as if he hadn’t existed before he met her.

They found her sitting outside on the edge of the lawn. Walter performed introductions and explained the purpose of Johnny’s visit. Clara rose decisively, as tall as Johnny and more splendidly regal than ever besides his worn, gaunt figure.

“You two have drinks. You must have a lot to talk about. I’ll start the play right now. I should be able to read most of it before we eat.”

Johnny gave Clara the play, and he and Walter sat out on the lawn with their drinks. Walter pressed him to tell about his experiences and Johnny did so–Spain, wounds, hospitals, the suspense story of getting out of Europe. Clara appeared at the screen door in the gathering dusk, tears glittering in her eyes.

“It’s tremendous,” she said in a voice that throbbed uncharacteristically with emotion. She looked at Walter. “You’ve go to do it.”

Walter laughed. “I’m glad that’s settled. Let’s go.”

“I haven’t finished the last act, but I’m sure it can’t go wrong. It’s beautiful.” She came out and joined them. “This Michel Leclos. Who is he? What else has he done?”

“He’s published quite a lot of poetry. He had another play that’s interesting and very well-written, but he’s not satisfied with it. He was working on a new one when I last saw him. God knows where he is now. He’s probably gone underground.”

“When you say you’re a Communist, do you mean you have a party card?” Walter asked.

“How else can you be a Communist?” Johnny looked at him coolly.

“Is there anything communistic about the play?” Clara asked. “It didn’t seem so to me. It’s so moving.”

“Michel’s an artist. He doesn’t believe in the Russian theory of social realism, but the implications are there.”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t talk any more about it till I’ve read it,” Walter said.

“You’re right,” Clara agreed. “You’re going to be mad about it.”

They ate one of Clara’s haphazard meals and talked some more about Johnny’s European years. Clara treated him with more deference than Walter had known was in her. Later the three drove to the theater, and Walter and Clara performed several chores while Johnny watched the play from the rear of the theater. After an hour or so, they returned to the cottage, and Walter took the play up to the bedroom to read.

He was impressed from the opening pages. It wasn’t a tract, as he had feared. It was dramatic, moving, original. It was sufficiently experimental in form to allow him great freedom as a director. He knew immediately that he could turn it into an exciting production, but he was uncertain of its chances for success. This didn’t bother him, but he knew it would matter to any prospective producer. And if a producer were willing to take a chance on the play, would he also be willing to entrust it to an untested director? It was highly unlikely. He finished it and went down to join the others, afire with ambition to do it and unhappily aware that there was little hope he would be allowed to.

“It’s good,” he announced, putting the script on his desk as if it were already his. He turned to expectant faces. “You’ve done a hell of a job, Johnny. It reads beautifully. I’d give anything to do it. It’s a director’s dream. That’s the trouble. I don’t think a straight commercial producer would touch it. If you move on to the serious producers who’re willing to gamble on something good, I’d be out.”

“You’ve got to do it,” Clara asserted. “It’s the chance of a lifetime. Take an option on it and worry about a producer later.”

Walter laughed. “Even if we pretend I have the money, it wouldn’t be fair to Johnny. He wants his play done.”

“He wants it done right,” Clara insisted. “Nobody could do it like you could.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Johnny said. “The producer’s the guy who has the money. Right?”

“Or gets it from somebody else.”

“And you think a big producer might want to do it?”

“It’s a possibility. You certainly ought to try them.”

“No, he shouldn’t,” Clara protested. “Johnny doesn’t want his play ruined.”

“What’s your idea?” Johnny asked her.

“I want Walter to take an option on it. He has to. That means he’ll have the rights to it for–six months would be fair. We wouldn’t let anybody do it unless they hire him to direct it.”

“Why wouldn’t it be better for me to find a producer with no strings attached?”

“It won’t make any difference to you. We’d pay you, naturally.”

“I haven’t any money, Clarry.” Walter pointed out.

“I have $500. That’s as much as anybody else would pay.”

“Five hundred dollars would come in very handy,” Johnny said. “I’m broke.”

“There you are. It might take months before you found somebody else who’d take it.”

Walter watched them striking a bargain, exhilarated and incredulous. Living with an heiress might pay off, after all. Clara was marvelous. “Why didn’t you tell me you had $500?” he said. “I might’ve retired.”

“I wouldn’t spend it for just anything.”

“You know perfectly well what’s going to happen, Clarry. If we find a producer, he’ll refuse to hire somebody who’s never done a show on Broadway.”

“If producers go on saying that, I don’t see how you ever expect to get started.”