were lucky, it began again. Often it did. Slowly at first, you roused yourself. Another script, another cast of players. It was pale compared with the last one, a distraction merely, something to pass the time, to help you through the half-life you were living, the twilight world you inhabited. Everything in it was gross and thick — the words, the sets, and the leading man, a great oaf with bad breath who trod on your feet.
And then quite suddenly it started all over again. Perhaps at one rehearsal, unexpectedly, the magic started to happen. You left the theatre in a dazzle of joy, knowing that it was going to be even better than it was last time, the best it had ever been. Life had returned as surely as the sap rising in the trees in springtime, as the incoming tide of the ocean, proving that it would do so forever. The oaf turned out to be a prince. But it had been touch and go for a while, and you’d died before you were born again.
But if it didn’t start over again — if the parts dried up and the offers never came — then you entered the valley of the shadow of death. Perhaps you would end up sitting with other old women sewing beads on costumes and exchanging gossip about who was with whom, who was drinking or on drugs, who was on the way up to movies or on the way down to television commercials. There were always jobs for superannuated actresses. They could star in advertisements for medicine to cure hemorrhoids and vaginal dryness — giving such credence to the indecencies of old age that they became permanently associated with them. And if you couldn’t face that you could retire from the stage altogether. You could be a receptionist in a dentist’s office or a hostess in a restaurant.
All that stands between me and those horrors is this part as Mazo de la Roche, thought Harriet as she made her way to the theatre in driving rain, on foot because she had turned in the rent-a-wreck the day before. It was bad for the farmers at this time of year. Bad for everyone, she thought as she turned her collar up and ducked her head against the downpour.
There was the usual mob in the foyer, people clustered around the coffee machine, grabbing donuts, catching up on the gossip. She filled a Styrofoam cup at the machine and leaned against the wall studying the competition. Jane Merritt stood out with her impressive height and red hair, the local girl who had made good — gone to RADA, returned to Stratford, done film — a star! There’d been a great high school teacher in this town, and he’d fostered a whole group of star-struck youngsters who became actors. They hung together now, screeching like the latest arrivals at a family reunion. But why was Jane Merritt here? Had something fallen apart for her too?
Then someone jogged Harriet’s elbow so sharply that the hot coffee jumped out of its cup.
“Harriet! Great haircut!” (True, the Calgary haircut had been a sound investment.)
“Brandi! I thought you were down east.”
Well at least she had one ally, one friend. They’d teamed up numerous times and never had a bad word for each other. Hermia and Helena, Gwendolyn and Cicely. Even Goneril and Reagan once. With Brandi it was always casting against type. Because she was fair and petite she got traditional female roles, though in fact she was rough, tough, and foul-mouthed. Recently she’d got work with a movie outfit in the maritimes.
“I was. Couldn’t stand the fucking sea, though. It was full of body parts from that air crash.”
“It didn’t work out for you down there?” Harriet said.
“Yeah. Good pay. Terrific, in fact, but I need to be here. The old man’s about to croak. Fucking lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. What about you? What brought you back to this asshole of nowhere?”
“I want this part badly, but I don’t suppose I’ve much of a chance.” She nodded towards Jane Merritt, who was surrounded by a group of admirers.
“Old ginger bush! She isn’t really interested, just here to see the folks and stir up the fan club. She’s waiting on two movie offers and she’ll cut out of this if she gets one. Let’s tank up before it starts.”
Harriet sat next to Brandi, needing coffee but afraid to drink so much that she’d have to pee every five minutes, waiting for her turn, watching the others, two men going first. Brandi whispered a joke about a brain transplant patient wanting to know why women’s brains were half price.
“It’s not their fault,” Harriet whispered back. “It’s the play, it’s still raw in places.” She felt sorry for the men, lads really, trying to make something of the pedestrian script.
| DON: | Can you tell me what she was like when you first met her thirty years ago? |
| SPEAKS: | She was well into middle age by then. |
| DON: | But didn’t you get a sense of her early life? |
| SPEAKS: | The facts are well known. Caroline was an orphan, taken in by Mazo’s family. They grew up from childhood together. Lived in the family home until Mazo’s parents died. I’ll tell you one thing… |
| DON: | Yes? |
| SPEAKS: | They were well-connected. Came from one of the best families in that part of the world. |
| DON: | But I understand they grew up on the bare bones of privation. |
| SPEAKS: | I didn’t say they had material wealth. I said they came from a good family. Good breeding. There’s a difference. Perhaps you have to be a New Englander to understand the distinction. |
| DON: | Are you sure? I mean about the family? |
| SPEAKS: | I’m a pretty fair judge in these matters. And my wife would confirm my judgement. They came to Boston once, and she threw a party for them. Invited all her friends, some of the very oldest New England families. She told me the gals were perfectly at ease. And that was my own observation when I visited their house. |
| DON: | Oh yes? |
| SPEAKS: | Well, the way they handled the servants for one thing. They had a large staff. But thoroughly unobtrusive. They brooked no insubordination or familiarity. And they treated them like old retainers who’d been in the family for generations. |
| DON: | They did? |
| SPEAKS: | Called up one time in a great state. They’d had to dismiss the chauffeur and wanted to make sure he was well taken care of. Anyone else would have thrown him out on his heels. But not them. Placed him with a friend of mine, as a matter of fact. |
| DON: | What had he done? |
| SPEAKS: | I never knew, exactly. Some minor infraction. Probably called one of them by her first name. But that’s what I mean — the personal concern. And yet the rectitude. That’s a sure sign of breeding. |
| DON: | Is it? |
| SPEAKS: | And the house, too. Good old furniture. Good paintings. Good art. Nothing showy, nothing vulgar. No hint of the nouveau riche, of antique dealers or decorators. Solid taste. Absolutely unerring taste. You don’t learn that kind of thing, Donaldson. And it doesn’t happen overnight. It’s bred into one. Over several generations. |
There was a general stirring and buzz and movement to the coffee machine at the end of the scene.
“What the fuck!” said Brandi to Harriet as she came back from the bathroom. “Do we need work this badly?”
“It’ll