Acts of Love (53 page)

“You're sorry?
You're an actor, a professional; we gave you this position in good faith; you've sat here through weeks of rehearsals and tryouts, and now you say you're sorry? You don't do that in this business. You have a job to do and you're damn well going to do it.” She stopped. “I shouldn't have said that. Let's start again. All actors worry that they might not be able to handle some role at one time or another. When that happens, they study the play to understand it so well that it becomes a part of them, and they ask others to help them. I'm here to help you. You're going to play Helen and I predict you'll make a name for yourself—”

“I'll make a fool of myself, and ruin your play.”

“You won't do either. I'll make sure of that. I'll tell you what. I'll come to your house tonight after the party and we'll read through the play together. I don't want you stewing over this all night; we'll get a jump on it and you'll feel much better tomorrow. You've got to get some confidence in yourself, Lucy, or you really won't be able to play this part. It's just a question of confidence. Believe me.”

Lucinda looked at her with the eyes of a frightened child and Jessica's heart sank.
Is it too late to call a management company and find someone else? Of course it is. And word would get out that things are worse than the worst of the rumors.

“I think you're a little bit in shock, Lucy; give yourself time to get used to this. What time shall I come over tonight?”

“Oh, don't do that. It makes me feel like you're afraid to let me out of your sight. I do want to please you, Jessica, I mean, I don't want to disappoint you because I think you're wonderful—I've loved watching you direct all the others, and I kept wishing we could work together—”

“We will. Starting tomorrow. You won't disappoint me, Lucy; you'll make me proud of you.”

“You really think so? You really believe that?”

“Absolutely. You wait and see how well we work together.”

“Oh, God, I hope so. It's just that, you know, I'm so scared. And ashamed. Because it's awful, isn't it, to be so scared?”

“Scared is okay. Terrified would be a problem.” She kissed Lucinda's pale cheek. “Read the play again tonight. And keep telling yourself you're going to do just fine.”

But she is terrified. And she won't even be adequate if she doesn't get some confidence. So that's my job: building up her confidence while rehearsing the whole play with her. Do I think she can do it? We don't ask that question. She has to do it. She will do it. With luck and an incredible amount of work, she'll be all right. No better than that, but at least we'll still have a play. Oh, damn, why did this have to happen, when everything was going so well?

“Will you drive with me to the party?” Edward asked later, after the second curtain call, when Jessica went backstage to congratulate everyone. Hermione was talking to the wardrobe director about duplicating Angela's wardrobe in a smaller size; Angela was on the telephone. “I've stayed away, just as you asked me to,” he said, “but now we could have some time together.”

“I'm not going to the party, Edward. I have a lot to think about and I'm going straight home.”

“Then I insist on driving you.”

“No, you're going to the party to celebrate with everyone else. Hermione will have an announcement to make, and you must be there to hear it. You were wonderful tonight, Edward. I hope you know how impressive you are.”

“If you say so.”

“Oh—” She cut off an exclamation of annoyance and impatience. “I do say so. I'll see you tomorrow.”

At home, she thought of writing to Luke, to ask his advice about working with a terrified understudy, but as soon as she thought of him she remembered Claudia. She had to call him. Even if Claudia had not been serious, even if it had been nothing more than dramatics, she had to tell him. And if she waited, she would have no time; the next week would be for Lucinda, and no one else.

She did not bother checking times; she was tired of it. I have to talk to him, she thought; if I wake him up, that's too bad.

“Luke Cameron,” he said, answering on the first ring, and Jessica felt again the jolt of pleasure at the sound of his voice, and a longing to be next to him, close to him, in his arms.

“Luke, it's Jessica. I hope I didn't wake you; I couldn't bother figuring out the time.”

“Seven-thirty Monday morning. Are you calling because of Claudia? No, you couldn't be; you have no way of knowing.”

She caught her breath. “Knowing what?”

“That she's dead. Sometime last night, we don't know exactly when.”

“Oh, no. Oh, Luke, how terrible. I really didn't think she would  . . . I meant to call you  . . . Oh, dear God. How did she do it?”

“We don't know if it was deliberate or not. What did you mean, you didn't think she would . . . what?”

“It may not have been suicide?”

“It isn't clear. She had enough drugs and alcohol in her to kill two or three people, but she was consumed by drugs and alcohol; they were her life. And her death. She'd never talked about suicide—”

“Yes, she did, Luke; she called me. We talked for—”

“She called you?
When? Why?”

“Yesterday afternoon. To tell me to stay away from you.”

“Good God. As if she could have the slightest— Is that all she wanted, or did she want to talk?”

“She wanted to talk, so I did, because I didn't know what you would want me to do—I thought you'd want me to try to protect her, but I didn't do a very good job, did I? Oh, Luke, I'm so sorry. It's so terrible, so unbelievably awful to feel that life has
nothing
—how can anyone feel that way? And I wasn't kind to her; she made me angry and I showed it.”

“She was good at that; she forced people to be cruel to her. And we were.” His voice was shaking. “It is awful; you're right. To be so desolate  . . . Would you tell me what you told her?”

“That I wasn't coming to New York. For some reason she was convinced that I was. I told her that you and I aren't together; that we're friends. She kept calling you her husband and said you were the only one who cared about her. I said she needed help, that she had a lot to live for but she needed help to find a way to give shape to her days and meaning to her life.”

He gave a short, bitter laugh. “You and I gave her the same speech. No wonder she didn't believe you.”

“About what?”

“Our not being together. I used those same words—giving shape to her days—every time I lectured her. Oh, Christ, I did lecture her when I should have been helping her, there was so much more I could have done  . . . there's always more that we can do.”

“Not always. Luke, you took care of her for years. And she knew it. She told me you did. She told me you were very close.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, she knew damn well we weren't. She was my welfare project, the one I made time for, the one I threw money at because that was easier than taking her hand and walking her through some solutions that might have worked out. I let her down a hundred ways.”

“So did I. I even laughed  . . . oh, Luke, what a terrible thing I did. I laughed.”

“At what?”

“She said something that was so absurd that I  . . . well, I shouldn't have. I wish I hadn't.”

“Jessica, you are not responsible for Claudia's death.”

“But neither are you. Luke, from what she said, a lot of people let her down. I think that must be a big club: people who have disappointed Claudia. And I did let her down.”

“Maybe. But if you did it was only once. And you owed her nothing.”

“She was a human being. I owed her attention and sympathy.”

They were silent. “You know,” Luke said at last, “she kept accusing me of treating her like a character in a play, and in a way she was right. But she was always asking me to do it, to direct her life. Until finally she found a way to direct it herself. To direct her death.”

“If it was deliberate.”

“If it was.”

“Are you mourning her?” Jessica asked.

“I'm mourning a failed life. She never really gave herself a chance; that's the real tragedy of Claudia. You know, Constance and I talked a lot about the way we lived our lives: as if each of us was in a play with openings and closings, dramatic peaks, brief intimacies, a new plot every few months or years. Not particularly admirable, but that's how we lived and it was enough for us. No, not for Constance. She had more; she had your friendship. And then I found you and knew I wanted more, too: a real life, as messy and unpredictable as it is. Claudia—my God, I can't believe she's gone—Claudia never could face life with all its messiness and unpredictability, and I did nothing to help her learn how. I suppose that's what I'm really mourning: her refusal to grab life and make it hers, her insistence on living her fantasies when so much richness and beauty were all around her. That's a lesson, isn't it? For all of us.”

Jessica was silent. She knew he was waiting for her to say that she wanted a real life, too, one that was more substantial, deeper and more permanent than the one she had now. That she wanted him. But too much was happening; too many emotions were churning inside her. In a strange way, Claudia had brought them closer than ever, but she could not focus on that now.

“Luke, Angela is leaving the play; her husband is having surgery next week and she wants to be with him. I really have to concentrate on our understudy right now.”

“Is she ready?”

“No. And she seems to be in total terror. Can we talk about it for a while?”

“As long as you like. But isn't it getting late there? We can talk tomorrow if you'd rather.”

“I'm not tired. Could you wait a minute while I get some coffee?”

“I'm refilling my cup now. We can pretend we're sitting at the breakfast table. I know, for you it's close to midnight. But since we're pretending anyway . . .”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I can picture a breakfast table.”

When she came back and settled into the couch again, they talked for two hours. “Well, you've got a problem,” Luke said at last. “You can pump her up for a week and she still may be convinced she's not ready. Maybe you ought to try to change the focus a little bit from her to the other three, especially the man  . . . what's his name?”

“Whitbread.”

“Good God, how did he handle that when he was a kid? Well, you might think about accommodating Lucinda's weakness—”

“Helen can't be weak.”

“No, but maybe you can mask it. Try to think about what the others have internalized. If you take it scene by scene . . .”

Jessica listened, absorbing and memorizing everything he said. She pictured his face and his smile, the way his eyebrows rose in amusement, the gestures he made with his large hands. She brought his deep voice into her, making it part of her. When she offered her own thoughts, he listened in silence, never breaking in, commenting only when she had finished, often praising her, always making her feel that he thought of them on the same plane: two directors, two professionals.

“It has a chance, if you build her up enough, and put more focus on the other parts,” he said at last. “The trouble is, you don't have much time. Maybe you ought to think about hypnotizing her; make her think this is the best thing that's ever happened to her.”

“They didn't teach hypnosis at the Actors' Studio. I'll have to work on her without it.”

“But that's the goal. If she gets intrigued, she'll work like hell and cope with her fear. So you have to do a selling job with her, rehearse with her, and work with the others to help them carry at least some of the scenes. It's going to be a rough week.”

“To put it mildly. Thank you, Luke. I needed the help and the pep talk.”

“They're both available, whenever you want.”

“I'm sorry about Claudia. I know it's hard for you in so many ways. I wish I could have been more helpful.”

“We always wish that when something goes badly. I feel sadness about Claudia, but not much more. Maybe that's the true tragedy of her life: her impact was so shallow that no one feels a sense of real loss. Now
there's
something to mourn.”

“A terrible thing,” Jessica murmured. She shivered, as if feeling the loneliness of it.

“My love, you should go to sleep.”

“Yes. Thank you, for everything. Good night, Luke.”

“Good night, dear heart. Sleep well. Let me know how Lucinda does.”

“I will. Luke—”

“Yes?”

Come to Sydney; come for my opening night. Could you come just as my friend?

“Jessica?”

“Nothing. Good night. I'll write to you.” She hung up before she could say anything else. She could not ask him to come to her.

He had not asked her about her plans after the run of
Journeys End,
and in fact she was not sure what she would answer if he did. She had known for weeks that she would not return to her reclusive life on Lopez. Whether her play was a success or a failure, she would find a way to stay in the theater, probably in Sydney, almost certainly alone. Someday she might feel ready to join her life to someone else's, but for now she still had too much to learn about herself, as a director, perhaps as a teacher at a university or an acting studio, perhaps as a writer about the theater. She had to forget the memories that haunted her—forget them, not simply keep pushing them away—and make more friends and do more work, much more work, until at last she could say to herself that she had made yet another new life on her own and was self-sufficient in it.

“Oh, bullshit,” said Hermione the next day at lunch in the wharf cafe when Jessica told her about her call to Luke. “Since when are you so dumb that you think you or anyone else can go very long without needing other people? Riding through the world on a white horse, mowing people down, doing whatever you damn please and get out of my way because I'm just fine and I don't want any help, not even that traffic cop over there keeping other horses from smashing into me,
no help at all.”