Rehearsal for Murder (Maggie Ryan) (18 page)

Nick felt like a grasshopper’s uncle.

Oblivious to people passing on the sidewalk, he trudged on, wrapped in confused shame. Who’s who and what’s what, Gladstone’s rantipoling wife used to ask when things were bewildering. What was Maggie’s problem? Where had that lightning bitterness come from? For that matter, where had his own come from? It was easy enough to say that his friend had died, his job—no, more than a job, his current obsession—was lost. Easy to say anyone would feel glum. But why lash out at Maggie? She’d offered support. Not exactly comfort; there was no comfort at a time like this. But she’d come. And he’d attacked her for it.

Love versus duty. At the rate he was going he’d end up with neither. No conflict because nothing worthwhile would remain in his life.

Somehow he’d lost touch with her. It wasn’t just grief at Ramona’s death. Nor the bitterness of losing the exhilarating work—that happened all too often in his bumpy profession. If there was anything he’d learned to cope with, it was being out of work. No, the problem was newer—and more profound—than that.

The problem was Sarah.

Her arrival had turned his life jagged: new peaks of unexpected joy, new chasms of frustration. He and Maggie had both wanted her; they both adored her. And they’d both been muddling along pretty well, he’d thought, sharing the sleeplessness and dirty laundry with good-humored grousing, building on the sturdy bond that had linked and enriched them both for years. They enjoyed Sarah, enjoyed each other’s enjoyment. Watching Maggie nurse her, the two of them floating in that state of euphoric communion, he was filled with powerful new emotions. Love, pride, and more. He’d thought that Maggie shared those feelings.

But she’d called herself a moo-cow.

So it was more complicated than he’d thought, for her too.

Moo-cow. What had he missed? They’d always shared a quick instinctive comprehension, reading each other with ease even when no one else could follow. Like the Dr. Rank scene: little games that symbolized a deeper oneness. Sarah had curtailed all those things. Games. Talk. Music. Sex.

God, was that his problem? Sulking because he missed his nookie?

Gladstone had wrestled with that problem too. An energetic, lusty man, he’d struggled to maintain lofty moral standards, as Victorian as Victoria herself. But his beloved rantipoling wife had borne eight children in a constant cycle of pregnancy, nursing, tending children in their illnesses. The relished marriage bed had soon created its own restraints. Gladstone’s answer to the frustration had been to enjoy the children, to work harder, to preach to prostitutes, to become prime minister of the world’s most powerful nation. The People’s William, they called him. The Grand Old Man.

And Nick’s answer? He’d lost his job. Attacked his wife. What a neat guy. The Grand Old Prick.

His unguided feet had brought him back to the rehearsal building. He should check to see if Derek had posted a note about the meeting with Ramona’s partner. He opened the door and plodded up the stairs.

Working up a part, you looked carefully at every word your character said, at every word he reacted to, at every word said about him, for clues to the deeper currents that motivated him. There had been words, all right. Meddler, he’d called her. Well, okay, they were too busy now to waste worries on someone else’s child, but that wasn’t the real problem. Maggie’s curiosity and lively sense of responsibility had always been part of the joy of living with her. Calling her meddler didn’t mean that he wanted a change, just that he was irritated. No news there. The kind of quibble that could usually be settled quickly, rationally.

Madonna, though—there was a word to unpack. He’d called her madonna too. What had he meant? Beautiful, yes. Nurturing. Comforting.

And asexual, of course. With her baby a unit, whole and holy.

No need for little Joseph, who hovered anxiously in the background, wearing his sainthood like the afterthought it was.

But he wasn’t Joseph! No sirree. Not Nick the red-blooded. Hell, the Army had made a man of him long since. And the theatre too, for that matter. Three beer commercials, right? And a pickup-truck spot. On televisions all over the nation, Nick’s flickering image was an emblem of masculinity. Any day now they’d be asking him to carry Scarlett O’Hara up those stairs. Or maybe be the next Tarzan. Beating his hairy chest. Snacking on raw tiger. Uprooting trees.

Attacking his wife.

Damn.

Madonna, he’d sneered. Because she was so involved with Sarah that she’d forgotten him? Or because something in him was reluctant to defile one so sacred as a mother?

Mm. Better leave that one for now, Nick old man.

But her other words had been pretty weighty too. Moo-cow, she’d said. Ex-mistress. He didn’t like that “ex.” What the hell was happening to them?

For minutes he’d been staring at something, unseeing. He focused on it: Derek’s note, scotch-taped to the locked door of the loft. Four fifteen, it said. Ramona’s partner, Ken Martin, would bring final paychecks. He glanced at his watch. A little over five hours.

Nick turned to the phone and called his downstairs neighbor.

“You want me to put your blasted dog out again?” she demanded. Julia was nearly seventy, feisty and bracing as a splash of astringent. She tried hard to hide her fondness for Maggie and Nick and Sarah and even the blasted dog.

“No. I need advice, Julia.”

She picked up the seriousness in his voice instantly. “Maggie told me Ramona Ricci died. I’m so sorry, Nick. Your job too.”

“Yeah. But this is a different problem. I think it’s different. Julia, when you had your babies, your marriage didn’t disintegrate.”

“The wind’s blowing that way, is it?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Well, did it?”

“Not exactly. But I disintegrated, and so did Vic. Temporarily. Took us months to notice what was happening to the other one.”

“Yeah.”

“Silly to have honeymoons after weddings and not after babies, you know. Just as much happens to you. ’Course, it’s hard to get away from the blasted baby. Nursing and all that. And even if you find an hour, home’s no good. Too much work to be done. Distracting.”

“Right,” he agreed glumly. “So there’s no answer?”

“Sure there’s an answer. First, you’re both exhausted and you will be for a while. So don’t dream up any fancy theories about problems that can be explained by being bone-tired.”

“Yeah, I see.”

“For the rest, talking and hugging is the answer, as usual. The difficulty is finding time for it. You have to schedule it. A little honeymoon, in small weekly doses. Vic and I used to trade time with my cousin. Do you have anyone you can trade with?”

“We don’t have many friends with kids. But I’ll find someone.”

“Good. Now, for the immediate problem. Do you have any money?”

“Some. Final paycheck today.”

“You know I don’t babysit,” warned the fiercely independent Julia.

“Hey, I’m not that much of a clod. But I had to ask someone who’d understand. We’ll find someone to trade with.”

“You know, though,” said Julia, who admired Dorothy Parker, “I’ve always dreamed of staying in the Algonquin. Even if it means playing nanny a few hours. One time only. Sunday afternoon would do.”

“Julia, you’re such a hustler!”

She chuckled and hung up. Nick made his arrangements and then sat down on the steps to study hi
s
Back Stag
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. He started a list of casting directors he could visit before four, and was debating which one to try first when he heard voices.

“Take it easy!” That was Daphne. “Look, the light’s off, see? It’s over, honey.”

“Oh, God! What’ll I do?” Voice breaking, Jaymie ran up a few steps, staring at the darkened transom of the rehearsal loft. Then she noticed Nick.

“Hi,” he said.

“Are the others coming? Will we start again?” asked Jaymie, bright-eyed.

“No.” He gestured at Derek’s note. “Final paychecks.”

“Oh, God.” Jaymie ran up the remaining distance lightly, read it, and sagged onto the steps. Daphne hurried to her and was pushed away.

“Can I help?” Nick asked her uneasily.

“No.” Daphne glanced sadly at Jaymie, then descended a few steps to sit near Nick. “God, I don’t have time for this crock! Gotta dress for the hearing, meet the kids—and suddenly Miss Chicago here freaks out. She’s coked up. Suddenly got the idea there might be a rehearsal after all. Came charging over. She feels awful.”

“Yeah. We all feel rotten.”

“Not as rotten as she feels.” Daphne lowered her voice, adjusting her African print skirt over her knees. “A week ago she heard that her mom had to go into a nursing home.”

“God!”

“They’re real close. Her mother sent her to Juilliard, you know, gave her lessons with Madame, everything. But Mrs. Price told Jaymie not to come see her now. Told her to work on this role, it was the big chance they’d both been waiting for. But it must be serious, going into a home.”

“A home!” Jaymie had overheard. “A home, they call it! What you do is, you give them all your worldly goods, and in exchange they stick you in a cubbyhole on some long gray corridor!”

“And care,” said Daphne. “They have good nurses, she said.”

“Yeah. Good nurses. Oh, God, why did she die?”

“Did she—oh, you mean Ramona,” said Nick.

“Yeah! Yeah, Ramona! Look, I was doing okay. My mom wanted me to succeed! She backed me up, paid for my apartment here, everything, just so I could—” Blindly, Jaymie yanked a handkerchief from her big tan shoulder bag but didn’t use it, just gazed at it musingly as she remembered. “When I was little she gave me lessons, took me to contests. I won them too. Cook County Junior Princess. Singing on the radio. Dancing in th
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Nutcracke
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, the Mouse King, when I was very small. But Daddy left anyway. And then we couldn’t afford Loreen any more, and she left too. Mom found a high school where I could get training. Said we’d show Daddy. Got me into Daphne’s class, and the Juilliard program. Every time—” She pressed the handkerchief to her nose. “Oh, God, why do they have to fire us? After all Mom did!”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said.

“Yeah. Even though it turned out to be so long before I got a chance. She always wanted to be a star herself. But Dad picked her out of a chorus line and he was too rich to pass up, she said. But she always missed it terribly. After he left she tried to go back, but by then she was in her thirties. She was so happy when I decided to act.”

“My mom was horrified,” said Nick.

“God, mine too!” agreed Daphne, looking surreptitiously at her watch. “Look, Jaymie, I have to run along now, to meet—”

“No! Daphne, please! Daddy left and Loreen and Mom—I can’t talk to her now, don’t you see?” The drug had worn off, and Nick could see how ravaged Jaymie felt as she tugged at her handkerchief, dark bangs drooping over sad eyes. “I can’t tell her it’s over. Not now. I can’t let her down now. What can I do?”

“Lie,” suggested Daphne unkindly, standing up; but a glance at Jaymie softened her voice. “Honey, I’ll talk to you later, okay? I have to rush to the studio to change, and then back to meet the kids at Anna Maria’s so we can plot strategy for the hearing. Don’t you see?”

Jaymie came down the steps. “I’ll go with you!”

“No way, honey!” Daphne held up a firm palm to fend off Jaymie’s bedraggled, overwrought approach. “We’ll talk later, okay? But today is for Callie and Mellie. We’re going to go into that hearing looking like Saint Coretta Scott King in three assorted sizes. Blow their little social-worker minds. And you see, a rich white girl kind of spoils the image.”

Jaymie whispered, “All right.” But tears were welling up again.

Exasperated, Daphne checked her watch again. “Okay, tell you what, you pay for my taxi and I’ll help you come down now. But just for a few minutes. Then I’ve got to go.”

Jaymie nodded mutely and Daphne sat back down, pulling her a little roughly down onto the step beside her. “Now, look at Nick,” she coaxed. “He’s checkin
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for casting calls. That’s what you should be doing too.”

“Is that what you’ll do, Daphne?” Jaymie was a little calmer.

“Nope. What I’ll do is go back to work for Madame,” declared Daphne firmly. “Should have stayed there to begin with. That’s why I’m in trouble with the goddamn social workers now, you know. Quitting a steady job. They came sniffing around to see if they could get the kids away. ’Course, I knew they would, and if it had been anyone but Ramona—”

“You’d worked with Ramona before, right?” asked Nick.

“Oh, we go way back together,” said Daphne with a humorless smile. “I was in the chorus o
f
Devi
l
. Quite a coup for a black girl in those days, but they probably figured the honkies would expect to see us dancing in hell. Anyway, one night Ramona popped a toe and thought she couldn’t go back on. I poked it back in place for her and she finished the show, even the last dance. Must have appealed to her professionalism, I guess, because after that there was no end to the favors she was ready to do for me. Though she accused me of being a voodoo queen and claimed she’d never miss a show if I was around.” She shrugged a slim dark shoulder and added bitterly, “Well, shows you how much use I am as a good-luck charm!”