Reign (12 page)

"Halloween, Harry. That's the time,
y'know
."

"Time for what?" Harry asked.

"Mad Mary, what else? Scare the shit right out of you if you see her. Dressed all in white up there in the balcony, her arms a-
wavin
', her long white hair
blowin
' out behind her even when there ain't a breath of wind . . .”

"She's . . . she's worse at Halloween?"

Abe nodded solemnly. "I seen her once years ago. The afternoon of Halloween day. I was
dustin
' the front rail of the mezzanine, and I hear this
moanin
' sound and turn around and there she is!" Abe jabbed a finger toward the balcony and Harry jerked his head around to look.

"Where!"

"I mean there she
was
, dummy. She was
standin
' right at the top of the balcony steps, her long white gown and hair
flutterin
', her arms
reachin
' toward me, and before I knew what was
happenin
' she was
swoopin
' down on me fast as hell,
comin
' right at me. I started to jump back, but I was right on the edge of the rail, and then . . ."

"What?
What?
"

Abe thrust out his lower lip and shook his head slowly. "She went right through me."

"
Through
you?"

"Her face came right up to mine, and I was
starin
' into her yellow eyes, and she went
through
me and disappeared. She was tryin' to scare me into
fallin
' off the mezzanine, Harry. They say she can actually scare ya to death, so I guess I'm lucky to be alive." A slow smile settled on Abe's wrinkled face. "You be careful this afternoon."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"When you're
cleanin
' up there alone."

"Me? Up there alone? On Halloween? Aw, Abe!"

"Harry, don't you be no pussy boy now."

"I
ain't
, Abe, but dammit —"

"I gotta clean the pool this afternoon, Steinberg told me to."

"But why can't I help you?"

"'Cause you gotta do the
balcony
, boy. You just be brave, and —"

"
Abe
," Donna said. Harry, already spooked, jumped at the sound, while Abe turned slowly, regarding her with the eyes of a recalcitrant boy caught cheating but not caring.
Donna's
voice had been angrier than she had meant it to be, and for a moment she thought she would call his name again, soften it. But no, she decided. The son of a bitch deserved that kind of harshness. "I'd like to speak to you alone, please."

She walked down the stage steps and up the aisle, not looking back to see if Abe would follow her. When she got to the inner lobby she stopped and turned. He was right behind her. "Why do you keep doing that?" she asked him.

"What?"

"Teasing Harry that way. It's very cruel. Mr. Steinberg's spoken to you about this before, hasn't he?"

"Yes ma'am, he has. And I'll tell you the same thing I told him. I like Harry a lot. He's dumb as a post and he's real lucky to have this job, but he's a good boy and does what he's told. Now I admit I tease him a little bit now and then, but Jesus Christ, what have I got to talk to him about? I mean you try
workin
' with a retard all day and see what happens."

"Abe, I don't think that —"

"It's like a cat, Miss Franklin. You tease 'em. You dangle a string or give their tail a little tug, it doesn't do 'em no harm, it's fun for you and it gets their juices
flowin
' a little, so where's the harm? Sure I tease Harry, just like I tease
Crissie
sometimes, but it doesn't mean I still don't love the old cat." Abe crossed his arms and gave an impatient puff. "Now if you got any complaints about my
work
. . .” He left it unfinished.

"No, Abe," Donna said. "No complaints. I'd just like to see you treat Harry a little more kindly, that's all."

Abe shrugged. "Okay then. You don't want me to tease him so much, I won't tease him so much. That make you happy?"

"Yes. It would."

Donna had seen no point in further discussion, and had walked to her office, imagining Abe muttering imprecations behind her. He was a bastard. There was, she thought, no "teasing" in him, only cruelty, pure and simple. One day he would go too far when Dennis was around, and then . . .

And then what? What would Dennis do?

The man had changed. It had been so slow and gradual that no one had noticed at first. But now more and more decisions were being made by John Steinberg. Oh, it wasn't as if John hadn't always plotted Dennis's career and finances, but Dennis had always wanted to be kept aware of what was going on. He had used to be omnipresent in their New York or Los Angeles offices, or wherever John and Donna established their temporary offices on the road, but now, in spite of his enthusiasm for the New American Musical Theatre Project, a long held dream of his, he seemed to show only a mild interest in the details of his life and his millions, and it bothered Donna, just as it bothered John.

He had been shorter with her than usual lately, and it was unlike John Steinberg. Donna had been with Steinberg since she was a twenty-year-old business school graduate who landed a minor secretarial position with his investment firm. Though not distinguishing herself by her brilliance, she proved to be an extremely hard worker, and soon her reputation drifted even as high as Steinberg's ethereal office. He had her promoted to his personal staff, and, when he gave up his firm to become Dennis Hamilton's manager, chose Donna to be his assistant.

The work had taken over her life, and her devotion to Steinberg was boundless. She had never known her father, who died when she was two, and so welcomed Steinberg's avuncular manner. He had always treated her in the most gentlemanly way, and it was not until she worked for him for four years that she learned he was gay. His relationships were few, however, and grew more infrequent as the years passed. Now there were no partners at all that she knew of, and she would know.

But this morning John had been unusually bitchy, indeed had actually barked at her when she came into the office on the second floor. He apologized immediately, but still his uncustomary sharpness had startled her, and only added to the sense of disquiet that her showdown with Abe
Kipp
had caused.

The woman who applied for the production assistant's job was like a breath of fresh air in contrast to
Donna's
previous confrontations of the morning.
Perhaps it was because she was a woman, or perhaps her ebullient enthusiasm for theatre and
, Donna thought,
life in general was so evident
. Whatever the reason, her presence was sufficiently disarming for Donna to stow her usual Cerberus-like attitude when it came to interviewing prospective employees. Even before she examined the woman's resume, Donna had decided that she would take her in to see John, the next step toward the ultimate goal of employment.

Fortunately the resume was adequate if not outstanding, and, after all, what was there for the production assistant to do? A lot of paperwork — filling out the multitudinous forms that Actors' Equity required for the performers and stage managers who were members, state and federal tax forms, form letters to everyone involved in the productions, and more. It wouldn't take a genius, just someone who had some clerical background and could work well with people, and this applicant seemed to fill the bill.

"You know," Donna said, "there's just one thing that puzzles me. You've done so much volunteer work, I'm curious as to why you suddenly want a fulltime job, especially one that pays just a little above the minimum wage."

The woman smiled and looked down at her lap, then up again. "The volunteer work alone isn't enough to fill my time anymore, and this theatre project seems like a worthwhile thing. The money really isn't a factor. It's not that I need it, so it really doesn't matter what I make. Actually, minimum wage would be fine. I'll probably contribute it anyway."

The statement
, Donna thought,
was sincere in its artlessness
. She heard no pride or self-infatuation in it. "That's very generous of you."

The woman shrugged, making her honey-blonde hair bounce healthily. "It's not generosity, I just don't need it . . . you see," she finished rather lamely, a bit embarrassed, Donna supposed, by her wealth.

"Still . . .” Donna aligned the
résumé
and references with a sharp rap on the desk top. "I don't see any reason why you couldn't handle the position. Frankly, I think you'd be excellent. So what I'll do now is introduce you to Mr. Steinberg, Mr. Hamilton's manager."

The woman licked her lips nervously. "You mean you, uh, haven't had any other applicants?"

"Actually, we had three in yesterday. Two of them balked at the salary, and the third didn't have the . . . how shall I put it?" Donna laughed. "She was tastelessly dressed, huge as a cow and reeked of curry."

"Well," said the woman with a wry smile, "I'm glad I used my Scope this morning."

"Come on," Donna said, rising. "Let's go see John. I'm sure he'll love you."

She led the way into Steinberg's office. John was sitting, as usual, behind his desk. His habitual frown vanished as he saw the woman come in behind Donna.
So
, Donna thought,
he's not invulnerable to feminine charms after all
. "John," she said, "I'd like you to meet a very qualified applicant for production assistant."

Steinberg rose and came around the side of the desk. "Delighted to meet you, Miss . . ."

"Mrs." Donna corrected. "Mrs. Deems. Ann Deems."

~ * ~

It was unlike Ann Deems to think about money, but earlier that morning, as she stood in the parking lot of the Kirkland Community Building and looked at the massive edifice before her, she had found it impossible not to. She had always felt comfortably well-off, indeed at times even wealthy. Her husband had earned well over a quarter of a million dollars a year from his law practice, and his insurance policies had left her with well over a million dollars, even after Terri's trust fund was established and the taxes and attorneys had supped their fill. Adding to it the money previously inherited from her father, Ann knew she would never have to work a day in her life to live in what most people would consider luxury.

Yet here she stood, ready to go inside this palatial building that Dennis Hamilton had purchased and apply for a no doubt poorly paying job. Her
résumé
, such as it was, was tucked inside a three hundred dollar leather portfolio, as were recommendations from the presidents of the charities and hospitals for which she had done volunteer work for the past two decades.

Ironically, she had Terri to thank for showing her the advertisement. It had been in
Backstage
, and read:

WANTED: Clerical production assistant for New American Musical Theatre Project. Secretarial skills required. Apply Venetian Theatre, Kirkland Community Building, Kirkland, PA 17571.

"A little something to do in your copious free time," Terri had said offhandedly. "If you think you can keep from attacking the mogul who runs the joint."

Ann had ignored the sarcasm, and had tossed the
Backstage
onto the coffee table of the den, trying to forget both the ad and Dennis Hamilton. But the sparse words in the tabloid haunted her for the rest of the day, and the following morning she called her colleagues in philanthropy and asked for references, which they were happy to provide, for Ann was unlike most of the society women who offered one or two hours a week to the local hospital or library or children's home. Her interest was heartfelt, and she gave not only of her money but her time. She had never worked less than twenty hours a week at her different charities, and her involvement was deep and often emotionally searing.

For three years she had been a lay counselor at a juvenile hospice, working with dying children for several hours three days a week, playing with them, listening to their fears and concerns, and comforting them as best she could. It was harrowing and rewarding work, and in no time she had earned the respect of both administrators and nurses by not only her emotional involvement, but by her willingness to do even such menial chores as cleaning up the younger children's toilet mishaps.

Besides the hospice, Ann had also volunteered her time to the YWCA, the local Blind Association, and several retirement communities, and had done secretarial work for a farmland conversation group, an act that did nothing to endear her to several of her friends, some of whose husbands happened to be developers.

When she asked herself why, after so many years of volunteer work, she should be considering taking a paying job, she told herself that it was not because the New American Musical Theatre Project had anything to do with Dennis Hamilton. Rather it was because she believed that the goals of the project were worthy. She and Eddie had made innumerable trips into Manhattan to see shows (she preferred plays, while Eddie had liked musicals), and she knew full well that American musical theatre was in the doldrums, if not in its death throes. The good musicals all seemed to be British, and although Ann thought most of the classic American works such as Rodgers and Hammerstein and Lerner and Loewe were often sloppily sentimental, she knew too that they had produced great songs and lasting stories, and she was damned if she could think of a single tune from, say,
Sundays in the Park With George
, as innovative as it was.