  Thursday! Peggy woke up with a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach and for a moment wondered why. Then she remembered—opening night! “Oh!” she groaned and turned over, feeling the butterflies come and go somewhere in the region of her chest. “Oh,” she moaned again and turned over on her back. “Good morning!” There was a knock at her door, and Rita entered bearing a steaming cup of coffee. The cup rattled a bit in the saucer as she put it down, spilling coffee over the sides. “You, too?” Peggy asked, sitting upright. “Naturally!” Rita held her arm out, showing Peggy her trembling hand. “That’s nothing!” Peggy scoffed. “Look at this!” They compared hands, and indeed, Peggy’s was much the shakier. “Well, you haven’t been up as long as I have,” Rita said. “Wait awhile.” “I know. It’ll get better, and by noon I’ll feel fine, and by dinnertime I’ll wish I’d never thought of being an actress in the first place. Oh dear!” Peggy steadied herself with a sip of coffee. “I wonder how Alison feels.” “I’d better wake her up, too,” Rita said and went out for more coffee. In a moment she was back, and Alison, beautifully sleepy-eyed, joined them in Peggy’s room. “Why, oh, why did I ever decide to be an actress in the first place?” Alison muttered over her coffee. Peggy and Rita went off into gales of laughter while Alison looked at them indignantly. “It isn’t funny,” she said. “I don’t feel funny in the least.” “We know!” Peggy laughed. “It’s just exactly what I said a minute ago—I mean what I said I would be saying about eight o’clock tonight!” “Well, but you don’t have to carry the show,” Alison said, still glum. “I’ll blow up, I know I will—or I’ll trip over the stairs coming down—I’ll probably fall flat on my face on my first entrance. Oh, I wish it were over! Heavens, my hair! I’ve got to wash and set my hair!” She gulped down the last of her coffee and fled to the shower. Peggy and Rita watched her go with real compassion—they knew exactly how she felt! Chuck Crosby knew what he was about when he called the cast together for a morning reading of next week’s play, Angel Street. By the time the cast had finished, they had forgotten their anxiety about opening night. It helped to be reminded that Dear Ruth was not the only play of the season. There would be other opening nights, too. But this was the big one—everyone felt that as the day wore on and nervousness slowly returned. The company gathered together at a large table for an early dinner at Mrs. Brady’s. They seldom ate en masse like this, but tonight they did, almost huddled together for support. “It feels like the last meal!” Danny mourned as he stirred his soup listlessly. “I can’t even stand the thought of food!” Alison declared, looking at her bowl with distaste. Even Chris was nervous. Peggy couldn’t help giggling as she watched him break cracker after cracker into his soup until it looked like a snowbank. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing. Rita plowed into her food, grimly determined to put something into her stomach, and urged Peggy to do the same. “Never mind how you feel about it—you’ll have more energy.” “I can’t,” Peggy said, still giggling. “I just can’t. There’s something absolutely ridiculous about food at a time like this! Imagine—tomato soup and Dear Ruth—they just don’t mix!” She started laughing again, and everyone looked at her accusingly. “I can’t help it.” She giggled helplessly. “I always do this—it’s just nerves. It’ll stop in a while!” She took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but then another thought sent her off again. “What do you imagine your husband is having for dinner tonight?” she asked Rita. “I can just see him up at the theater, decorating the set and eating lilacs dipped in crackerjack!” “Oh, Peggy, please stop!” Danny protested as he choked on a mouthful of soup. “Stop talking and eat.” “Please!” everyone echoed, and Peggy subsided, trying to force down some food. It was worse, though, than nervous giggles. The palms of her hands were first icy and then hot, her stomach felt as if a thousand birds were migrating through, and the very thought of walking on stage gave her a shiver from head to toe. “Well, the worst is over!” Rita said with relief as they finished dinner and left, with Mrs. Brady’s good wishes following them. And she was right. Somehow the food, the sparkling night air, the familiar feeling of the auditorium, and the good smell of grease paint in their dressing rooms relaxed everyone. This was their job—it was opening night. In half an hour when they walked on stage, they would be fine—and everybody knew it. “It’s funny how the anticipation is always worse than the fact,” Rita mused as she started to put on her make-up. “And that dinner is the most dreadful thing of all. It’ll never be that bad again.” “Aren’t you nervous?” Mary Hopkins asked innocently from her table. The girls all shared one large dressing room, and the men another. “What a question!” Peggy laughed. “Aren’t you?” “Well, a little,” Mary replied. “Not much.” “That’s because you’re not a professional,” Alison said. “If you ever become one—just watch. You’re not nervous at first, but the more you work, the more nervous you get.” “I think that’s because in the beginning we all think we’re just wonderful,” Peggy said, “but after a while, we realize how much we have still to learn.” “Zip me up, please?” Alison asked Peggy. She looked perfectly beautiful, Peggy thought, in her pretty two-piece dress, and marvelous make-up. Alison sat down again and took a little black candle out of her make-up kit. She lit it and tilted it over a small tin cup. “Is that some kind of a ritual?” Peggy asked in amazement. “What on earth are you doing, Alison?” “Eyelashes,” Alison replied, dipping a brush in the cup and carefully lifting it to her eyes. “I always do this last.” “Eyelashes!” Peggy exclaimed—and looked into the little cup. It held black wax melted by the flame, which thickened when Alison applied it, making her lashes look thick and long. “I don’t like to wear false lashes,” Alison explained, “and this works just as well if not better.” “If you’ll put a little white at the outer corner of your eyelid, Peggy,” Rita offered, “it will give you a young effect—and a dot of red in the inner corner helps, too.” Peggy tried it and it worked. “No line under your eyes,” Rita said. “That makes you look older, and you have to shave off about five years since Miriam is supposed to be about fourteen. Now, bring your rouge up a little closer to your eyes and not so far out on your cheek—you want to have a round effect. There!” Rita looked at Peggy appraisingly. “What do you think?” Peggy looked at herself and was pleased. She would appear about fourteen on stage, she thought. She hadn’t been quite satisfied with her make-up at dress rehearsal. She put on her little navy-blue jumper and white blouse, brushed on her powder and was done. “Telegrams!” a voice outside the door announced. “Are you decent?” “We are, come in,” Rita said, and Richard came through with a stack of yellow envelopes, handing them to the girls. “I have to get out front,” Richard said, “but I know you’ll be terrific. Break a leg!” “Break a leg!” Mary gasped as he left. “Why—what a thing to say!” “It means good luck,” Peggy explained as she put her telegrams in front of her mirror. “Theater people always say that, or something like it—it’s an old superstition.” “I see. Why don’t you open your telegrams?” Mary asked. “Oh, we never do,” Alison answered. “Not until after the show.” “That’s in case any of them are bad news,” Rita explained. “But they’re just good-luck wires, aren’t they?” “Of course,” Peggy laughed, “but it’s another old superstition—like whistling in the dressing room!” “Fifteen minutes!” Gus called, rapping a tattoo on the door. “Where’s the music?” Chuck asked, coming by. “Get that turntable going, Gus—and better check the door buzzer again.” He came into the room. “Alison, don’t worry about the orange juice—if you’re shaky about drinking it tonight, let it go. Peggy, let’s see your make-up. Good! That’s much better! Now listen—I know it’s opening night and I know it means a lot—to all of us. And I know we’re all excited and nervous—but I know you’re going to be just fine! “Remember—pace it! Keep it moving! It’s a terrific comedy and it ought to carry you along. It will, if you just keep it moving. I’ll be watching, but I don’t think you’ll see me until after the show unless there’s someone I can’t hear. Mary, watch that. I couldn’t hear you in the last row last night.” He paused a moment. “What else? Guess that’s it. Break a leg, everyone!” As Chuck left, the girls heard the music begin, and Gus came by, calling, “Five minutes!” There was a sudden silence in the dressing room as everyone felt the mounting tension. It was a different excitement, though, from their morning nerves. Peggy began to yawn while Rita took very deep breaths and Alison did a bending exercise. All these things helped their systems adjust to the impending effort. Peggy felt that she had to move. Movement always helped and it was time, anyway. She walked backstage and took her place in the wings. “Peggy,” a voice whispered behind her, “have a lot of fun.” “Thanks, Michael,” Peggy replied shakily. “Do you know what kind of a house we have?” “I think it’s pretty good—there’s a peephole in the curtain if you want to look.” “No, not tonight—” “Have fun, Dad,” Michael said to his father as Howard Miller took his place beside Peggy. “How do you feel, Peggy?” Mr. Miller asked. “Nervous!” Peggy smiled. “Break a leg, Dad.” “House lights!” they heard Gus call to Michael, who was at the lightboard. “Music! Spots!” Peggy took a deep breath and adjusted the little beret she wore for her entrance. Suddenly her knees felt like water. “What’s my first line?” she thought frantically. “I don’t remember what I’m supposed to say—” “Curtain!” Gus said, and the heavy drapes swept back. There was dead silence for a moment, and then Peggy heard a gasp from the audience followed by a wave of applause for the set. It was evident they hadn’t expected anything so charming and good. “Morning, Mis’ Wilkins.” Mary Hopkins entered with her first line. “Good morning, Dora,” Rita said, her voice clear and steady. Five more lines before Peggy’s entrance. She was desperately trying to remember her first line.... “... and that’s the last box of Kleenex,” Mary said. That was it—Peggy’s cue. Almost in a trance she made her entrance. “Good morning, Dora,” she said, the words coming from somewhere—and the minute she spoke, bathed in the bright lights of the familiar, homey set, everything connected, everything fell into place. Peggy began to act easily, feeling out the audience, trying to sense its mood. It was a curious, rather tight house in the beginning. She felt the spectators were silently saying, “Show me!” Mr. Miller and Alison got nice hands on their entrances, but nothing seemed to “zip” yet—the audience still seemed too polite. Peggy watched from the wings when Chris made his entrance—and then it happened. That magical moment when a play suddenly comes to life. Chris entered with exuberance and power, carrying the audience right along with him, and the play began to move. It did have pace and rhythm, just as Chuck had said. The whole cast could feel it and the audience began to laugh. At the end of the first act there was a resounding wave of applause. Chuck couldn’t wait out front as he had said he would. He came running backstage with a huge grin. “It’s great,” he cried, slapping everybody on the back. “It’s great—just great! Keep it up—keep it moving—it’s great!” Vocabulary had apparently deserted Chuck Crosby, and his praise made the actors very happy. They knew how he felt out there, watching his actors, as nervous as they were, and probably praying that they would come through. Directing was a big responsibility. There were six curtain calls! Richard presented Alison Lord with a big bouquet of flowers from the Chamber of Commerce—a nice gesture for a special opening, and by the way the applause went on and on, the cast knew that this audience didn’t want to leave. A sure indication that they had really had a wonderful time! Gus finally turned on the music, the curtains closed on the company, and opening night of Dear Ruth was over. Almost over. There was to be a party later in the dining room of the Kenabeek Inn, and now there were congratulations and backstage visitors, and the exhilaration that always follows a good show. As she rubbed cold cream on her face in the dressing room, Peggy finally read her telegrams. BREAK A LEG LITTLE ONE, from her big brother, David, now off in San Francisco on an assignment for his news service. BEST WISHES FOR A GRAND OPENING STOP WE KNOW YOU AND THE COMPANY WILL BE WONDERFUL, from Mother and Dad. A wire from May Berriman and all the girls in New York; and another from Randy Brewster, THINKING ABOUT A VERY SPECIAL ACTRESS. The telegrams brought family and friends backstage as if they were right here, congratulating her now. Peggy looked at Rita, remembering the way they had felt in the morning. “Did I ever say I didn’t want to be an actress?” she asked, and they laughed, comparing absolutely steady hands this time. |
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