A Lotus Grows in the Mud (7 page)

W
hat does the future have in store for you, Goldie Hawn? I can’t help thinking, as I lie on a four-poster bed in an old colonial guesthouse in Williamsburg, Virginia.

Outside, I can hear the sound of my mom and dad’s car pulling away up the street. They are going home, leaving me to start my first professional job. I am seventeen years old and truly alone for the first time. Staring up at the flowery wallpaper, I am in a town I do not know, a long way from home. I have more questions than I have answers.

“What will happen to me here?” I ask aloud. “Is
this
the beginning of my path to the future?” Excited as I am to be joining the summer stock theater at the Lake Matoaka Amphitheater at the College of William and Mary, I imagine the distance my parents are putting between us as they begin their six-hour drive and I feel a flicker of panic.

I get up and look around at my surroundings. My fingers brush the unfamiliar antique dresser and the strange hurricane lamps. Needing the bathroom, I open a door, only to discover a closet. Tiptoeing downstairs, I find the old lady who owns the house playing solitaire in the living room.

“Excuse me,” I ask shyly, “could you tell me where my bathroom is?”

“You have to share the one on the landing, dear,” she replies, hardly looking up. “Make sure you lock the door behind you.”

I’m sharing? With strangers? It all feels so odd.

Scurrying back upstairs, I use the bathroom and wash my face. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for my first cast meeting at five o’clock, the reason
I hurried from Takoma Park without even attending my high school graduation ceremony. Peering into the mirror, I think, Gee, I never got to say good-bye to my classmates. Well, I don’t know if they ever really cared anyway.

Choosing an outfit, I run down the stairs and find my way through the streets of this picture-postcard colonial town to the college. The rest of the cast are milling around under huge oak trees just outside the amphitheater. My fellow performers comprise a few young hopefuls like me, but mostly they are professional dancers from New York City or classically trained actors in their mid-thirties from the Catholic university and local theaters. All far superior to me.

With relief, I spot the only person I know: Frank Cataldo, the choreographer who auditioned me in Washington. I go up to say hello.

“How nice to see you again, Goldie,” he says, greeting me warmly. “Here, let me show you around.”

He introduces me to some dancers from New York, who are friendly but distant. I happily link up with some other dancers I know from Washington, D.C. He takes me to meet Howard Scammon, the director—a large-bellied, ebullient, theatrical type of the old school. All he has to do is put a crown on his head and he could be one of Shakespeare’s kings.

Compared to these gods and goddesses, I am just a gawky, wide-eyed yearling—the baby, fresh from high school in my bell-bottom jeans and midriff top, my belly button exposed.

“This is Willy Hicks,” He tells me, as he pulls me up in front of a stranger. “Willy has been coming to summer stock for over ten years.” Twenty-nine years old and a teacher at the Catholic university, Willy is short and stocky but has an interesting face, and it is instantly clear to me that everyone regards him as the kingpin.

“Nice to meet you,” he tells me, extending his hand. His eyes are big and brown and sit deeply in their sockets. His face creases into a smile.

“And you,” I reply, feeling suddenly more awkward. In my mind, I’m laughing and thinking, This guy is the cat’s meow!

There is little time to get to know each other before we start rehearsals for our main show,
The Common Glory,
an historical drama on the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I link up with a girl
called Donna, who will become a professional ballet dancer when the summer is over, and who is my new best friend.

As soon as the regular pupils have left for the summer, we move into the Ludwell Apartments. This place feels like a palace to me—gee, my very first apartment, with my very first roommate. I am no longer the odd one out—just one of the girls in the dorm, swapping clothes and makeup and having fun like one big party. I am part of a traveling show.

I quickly find my niche. As the youngest and definitely the wackiest member, dressed like a jazz dancer and endlessly full of mischief, I trade on my personality and adopt the role they expect of me: the giggly girl; the silly kid who doesn’t know much but is good fun to have around. I like my new position; it suits me, and it doesn’t put any pressure on me to compete, socially or intellectually.

“Oh, little Goldie,” people usually say affectionately when they see me, “how lovely that you’re here.” They look me up and down, an innocent with a funny face and funny hair, and they laugh. “Oh, she’s so cute,” I hear someone say, and I know no one is taking me even remotely seriously.

All I have to do, it seems, is giggle and grin, wiggle and shimmy, always dressed in the snazziest outfits, and I get by. I’ve developed a ridiculous crush on Willy Hicks. One night at a party in our dorm, when we’ve all had too much vodka to drink, he grabs my face and kisses it.

I am blossoming into a young woman. My hormones are raging, and I think I am in love. I am surrounded by my new friends, in this beautiful place by the lake, and all is at peace with my world.

The Common Glory
is such a great show to do. Each night, waiting backstage, I hear Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
start up as everyone is getting ready and my heart soars. This is all I ever wanted—to be a dancer, part of the chorus. I feel such happiness that I cannot bear to contemplate the end of summer and the end of this joy.

I see on the notice board that Howard Scammon is auditioning for
Romeo and Juliet,
along with the play’s director, Donald Smith.

Romeo and Juliet
? I say to myself. Hmm, interesting. I have this strange feeling that I might just be able to play Juliet. Leaning over to Donna, I whisper, “I’d like to have a go at that.”

She looks across at me and laughs. “Well, good luck, honey!” she says. I can see she’s thinking that there are at least twelve other girls, all professional actresses, who would play Juliet far better than me.

Taking a copy of the play nevertheless, I read and reread it in the quiet of my room until I have Juliet’s part learned by heart. Despite being a C student my whole life, the task presents no problem to me. The language of Shakespeare is so beautiful; it is like a song with its cadence and rhythms. I especially love the potion speech and memorize that to perfection, reciting it endlessly in front of my bedroom window, which looks out onto the college’s sweeping lawns.

On the morning of the audition, I dress in my usual white shoes, pedal pushers hanging from my hips and a skimpy top, and stroll down to the open-air stage where the auditions are being held.

“Hi, Goldie!” pipe up some of the girls who share my dormitory. A few of the others, who are sitting around on the grass waiting their turn, wave and smile their hellos too. Willy Hicks, who is to play Friar Lawrence, nods his head in my direction. As usual, I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks at me, and I look at him, and then I look away and he looks away, and we flirt with our eyes like that for a blissful few minutes.

“I’ve come to read for the part of Juliet,” I tell the stage manager, the tremor in my voice belying my apparent confidence. Nobody says anything, but I see some of the girls laughing. One boy I know gives me the thumbs-up and whistles.

“You’ll be the fifth on,” the assistant director tells me, scribbling my name onto his clipboard. “Wait to be called.”

I stand to one side and watch with interest as those before me read for the role. They are all classically trained actors, each reading different scenes, and each one better than the last. Every time they complete their audition, their friends and fellow performers give them a rousing reception.

“Goldie Hawn,” the assistant director calls too quickly for me to prepare, and I clear my throat and step forward. He offers me a script, but I refuse. I know my lines so well I don’t need one.

Moving to the center of the stage, I can see and hear my friends and fellow performers wishing me well.

“Good luck, little Goldie!” one whispers, grinning.

“Break a leg!”

Everyone has big beaming smiles on their faces, and all of them are being troupers for me. They seem to be enjoying the fact that I am willing to try out for this role. Like me, they believe it highly unlikely that I’ll get it, but they applaud me for trying. I am grateful for their support.

Waiting for a lull, I take a deep breath and open my mouth to speak. The lines I know deep in my heart, recited over and over in my bedroom, fall from my lips word-perfect.

“How if, when I am laid into the tomb, / I wake before the time that Romeo / Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point! / Shall I not be, then, stifled in the vault, / To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, / And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?…”

Focusing hard, I try to give the best performance I possibly can. Ignoring a jet growling overhead and a car backfiring on a nearby street, I carry on. Glancing up, I can’t help but notice that the grins have been replaced with serious expressions. Trying not to think about what that might mean, I pick my way through the highly charged potion speech and reach the catastrophic climax.

When it is over, there is nothing but stony silence all around me. No one speaks. No one claps. There is a pause in time, as if an angel has flown overhead. Composing myself, I try to gauge the reaction of the director and producer. Did I go too far? Are they embarrassed for me?

As I look up, I see Willy Hicks beginning a slow handclap that the others gradually pick up. I find it difficult to figure out the astounded looks on people’s faces. I always knew I could do it, and the fact that they apparently didn’t until I stood up and opened my mouth confuses me. Falling back into the role that I feel most comfortable in, I laugh and giggle my way off the stage, slipping through the crowd and hurrying back to my dorm.

The following morning, I am sleeping late when Donna comes running into my bedroom. “Wake up! Wake up! They’ve just posted the list for
Romeo and Juliet
!” she shrieks, her whole body jumping up and down with excitement.

“What?” I say sleepily.

“You got the part!” she cries. “You got Juliet!”

“I got what?”

“Goldie, you’re our Juliet!”

Throwing on some jeans and a T-shirt and running barefoot across the campus, I push my way through the cast gathered around the notice board, each one hoping to see his or her own name. Darting in and out between their shoulders, I can finally read the notice. There they are, the words I never expected to see.

Romeo Lee
________
Smith

Juliet
________
Goldie Hawn

My friends congratulate me, shock written on their faces.

N
ow it is the opening night—a sultry Virginia August evening. I am alone in my tiny dressing room, powdering my face, readying myself for this awesome experience I feel like I’ve spent my whole life preparing for.

I smooth down my long-sleeved green silk dress with its little train and try to calm myself by playing the music for the ballet
Romeo and Juliet
by Tchaikovsky. It is one of my father’s favorite pieces, and I imagine him standing in the corner of the room playing the violin parts just for me.

Leaving my dressing room, I wander backstage and peep behind the curtain. Beyond, I can see three thousand people waiting to see us, the Williamsburg Shakespearean Players. They are using their programs as makeshift fans in the steamy heat, while the cicadas sing in the background. Oh, good, there are Mom and Dad. Oh, and Patti and her new husband. The sweeping lawn at the front of the stage is dotted with little children sitting on the grass. Oh no! Is that a good idea? The last thing I want is cartwheels in the middle of my potion speech.

The play opens, and I begin the slow mental countdown to the part where I first appear. First there is the bloody fight between Capulets and
Montagues on the streets of Verona. My pulse thumping in my ears, I watch from the wings as the players battle it out. Oh my God, how am I going to remember all my lines?

My young costar Lee Smith, in the guise of Romeo, takes the stage for his set piece with his friend Benvolio. They are followed by the actress who plays my nurse and another who plays my mother.

Then, in scene III, I’m on. I step lightly onto the stage, speaking the words, “How now? Who calls?” Oh my God, thank God I remembered my first lines. Now I’m home free.

I feel completely at ease. My nerves drip away. I become Juliet. There is no longer any separation between us. Our words flow in perfect juxtaposition, and I feel like I’m singing.

And then something strange happens. I am sitting in an Elizabethan chair, deeply involved in a scene with the nurse, who is going on and on as Shakespeare intended. It is my role, as the fourteen-year-old Juliet, to be exasperated with her and beg her to stop. So I put my elbow on the arm of the chair and my chin in my hand and roll my eyes petulantly. Sighing, I say, “And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.”