  “No, not that way, Greta,” Mal called from his seat in the orchestra. “Don’t sit down as if you knew the chair was there and as if you knew exactly what kind of a chair it was. I want you to give the impression of being unsure of yourself and your surroundings. Before you sit, look behind you quickly—maybe even touch the top of the chair—then sit down.” “But, Mal,” Greta said, coming to the apron of the stage to talk to him, “I’ve already used this chair earlier in the act, and I should be familiar with it by now. If I do it this way, isn’t it just going to look like an awkward piece of acting?” “No,” Mal said. “When you used it before, it was when you were in a different personality mood, remember? This little difference will help to establish the change in your personality. It’s a small thing, and the audience may not even be aware of it consciously, but it’ll help to form the impression I want them to get. Try it, anyway, and I’ll see how it looks from out front.” Greta agreed, and returned to the wings to pick up her entrance cue again. This time, when she entered, it was as if she had not been on stage before at all. She crossed unsurely to stage center to exchange a few lines with Alan Douglas and, when she was asked to sit down, turned a little, as Mal had told her, reached out a tentative hand to touch the back of the chair—but withdrew it before she touched it, and then swiftly sat down. “Like that?” she asked Mal. “Just like that,” he answered with satisfaction. “That chair bit is the give-away, and it’s perfect. I like your not quite touching it. Keep it in! Now let’s take it from there, Alan.” Peggy waited in the wings for her own entrance cue. This time she was to come on aggressively, as the pampered ex-child movie star, to play against Greta’s shy confusion. In their previous exchange, Peggy had been quiet, well-mannered, even subservient in her character of plain-Jane secretary, for Greta had been acting the crisp, assured businesswoman. Waiting, she watched with fascination how the play was taking shape. This evening was the first time they had been allowed to run through the entire play from beginning to end. The first time they had tried it, everyone could see how much work needed to be done, how shaky the whole structure was. But this time, the second of the evening, Mal had already done much to establish character and to direct movement on stage, and the production was gradually achieving a vitality of its own. It was late, and everyone was tired, but they had all decided to finish their second run-through of the evening anyway, feeling that they would gain more from doing it all at once. At the rate they were going, it would be after one o’clock before they were through, and two o’clock before most of them were in their beds. Peggy heard her cue lines coming up, and she got ready. At the right moment, she entered the stage with a kind of athletic bound, swinging an imaginary tennis racket. She tossed the “racket” (she would have one in the play) at the “couch” (a row of three chairs, at present) and perched on the edge of a table. “My travel agent said that this place was different,” she said contemptuously, “and I guess it is, if different means dead.” “Don’t take it quite so heavy, Peggy,” Mal called out. “You shouldn’t be so much disgusted with the place as you are, really, with yourself. You know that no matter how good it really might be, it wouldn’t suit you, because nothing ever does. Make the expression more regretful than contemptuous. And for the same reason, tone down your entrance a little.” Peggy nodded to show her understanding, and went back to the wings again. The scene, when played, would last only about five minutes, but Mal was hard to please and would let nothing pass. By the time it was over, the rehearsal of it had taken forty minutes and Peggy was glad to make her exit and sit down on a box near the switchboard where she could watch the next scene. This one would go smoothly, she knew. It was the scene they had worked on for the audition at Sir Brian Alwyne’s, and although they had not worked out their stage movements as yet, the cast already had developed pace and rhythm. Paula’s entrance, bewildered, awkward and eager to please, was perfect. She was as graceful and appealing as a doe. One by one, the other actors came on, each in turn trying to find some point of contact with her, each trying to please her. And as each failed, he went off, to return again in another mood or personality. The pace quickened. Paula’s confusion grew greater. The tension she projected was communicated to everyone present, those on stage and those in the wings or in the orchestra seats watching, as it would be to the audience. The second act was approaching its emotional crisis, uninterrupted by Mal, who sat as if entranced, on the edge of his seat. Finally, at precisely the right moment, when it could go on not one moment more without shattering, the tension broke in a flood of emotion. Paula dropped to her knees in tears, then sank in a heap on the floor, sobbing. The scene was over. The actors turned expectantly to Mal, waiting for his comments, his praise. But Paula did not rise, and she was not sobbing any longer. Peggy realized in a flash that this was not like some of the previous rehearsals where Paula had been unable to stop the flood of stage tears that she had so skillfully built up to. This was different. She rushed out on stage to where Paula lay huddled in a pool of light, and knelt by her side to shake her gently, but Paula did not move. Peggy turned her over and motioned the rest of the cast to move back. Paula lay pale and limp beneath the floodlights. She was breathing in quick uneven gasps. “She’s fainted,” Peggy announced. “Somebody call a doctor!” But Paula’s eyes flickered open, and she said in a weak voice, “No. Just take me home, please, Peggy. I’m ... I’m sorry. But I’ll be all right. I just want to go home now.” She closed her eyes again. “What do you think?” Peggy asked Mal, who by this time had reached her side. “Shall I take her home, or call a doctor?” “I think you can get her home before we could persuade a doctor to come down to this half-deserted neighborhood,” Mal said. “Why don’t you take her home and make her comfortable? We’ll get a cab, and I’ll go with you to carry her in case she faints again. Meanwhile, Randy can call a doctor and have him go directly to Paula’s apartment.” “No,” Paula protested, “I don’t need a doctor. I’ll be all right once I’m home. There’s nothing really wrong with....” She tried to sit up, and with the effort fainted once more. “Come on,” Mal said. “Get your coat, Peggy. Alan! Will you go out after a cab, please? Randy, call the doctor right away! Everybody else, go on home. Rehearsals are over for tonight. See you all tomorrow, same time.” This time Paula did not come out of her faint until they were nearly at her house. She made no attempt to talk, or even to protest when Mal carried her from the taxi. When they had her upstairs, lying on the daybed, Mal turned to leave. “I don’t think I’d better stay,” he said, “but the doctor ought to be here any minute. You’ll stay with her, won’t you, Peggy, until you find out from him what’s wrong?” “Of course,” Peggy said. “And if it’s not too late, I’ll call you when I leave. Otherwise, I’ll let you know in the morning. Good night, Mal, and thanks for your help.” “Yes, thank you, Mal,” Paula said weakly, with a small smile. Then, once again, she closed her eyes. It had not taken the doctor long to diagnose Paula’s condition. Peggy had gone out to fill the prescription, and was now busy preparing it. It was some chicken soup, toast and tea, to be followed in the morning with a light breakfast, then a good, hearty lunch. “I can’t understand why you didn’t tell me about it,” Peggy said. “You know I would have loaned you some money. It’s just ridiculous for anyone to go hungry when she has friends! You can’t imagine how shocked I was when the doctor said that you were suffering from malnutrition, and that you didn’t seem to have eaten anything for at least two days! Maybe I’ve led too sheltered a life, but I never even heard of anyone starving—not in this country, anyway.” “It can happen anywhere, I guess,” Paula said, with a sad smile. “But why?” Peggy cried. “Why didn’t you let me help you?” “I would have, Peggy, if it had been just a sudden thing, but it wasn’t. It was a continuing thing. I guess if I had had enough to eat during the last month, I wouldn’t have keeled over from going for two days without anything. I’ve been living on canned beans and bread and other cheap food for over a month now, and to ask for help would have meant asking for regular help—every week. And I didn’t want to take advantage of anyone that way.” “But, Paula, that’s so silly!” Peggy protested. “How long did you think you would be able to go on without proper food?” “I was just trying to hold out until tomorrow, when my pay check comes in from Randy and Mal. Then I could have had something to eat.” “Do you mean to say,” Peggy asked in astonishment, “that you’ve been trying to live on just the rehearsal salary? Why, that’s hardly enough to pay the rent in a place like this, much less to eat!” “I know,” Paula said. “I’ve been finding that out. But we go into full pay for rehearsal next week, and I thought I could hold out until then. I guess I was wrong, wasn’t I?” “But what about your job at the department store?” Peggy asked. “Oh. I—I lied about that, Peggy. I was laid off right after the Christmas season, and I haven’t been working since then. I had some money put aside, but it was almost gone when I got the part in the play. Then I thought I could live on the rehearsal money until we went into full pay. By the time I found I couldn’t, I was too weak to take a full-time job.” “But you could have moved to some less expensive place, couldn’t you?” Peggy asked. “This little apartment must cost a lot of money.” “It does,” Paula admitted, “but I like it here, and I didn’t want to give it up. I thought that I could manage. I’m sorry now. I’ve caused everybody so much trouble.” “That’s the least of our worries,” Peggy said, filling up Paula’s bowl with a second helping of chicken soup. “The question now is how you’re going to get along for the next week until the full pay comes in. And also how you’re going to live here, even on that.” “Oh, I’ll get by, Peggy. I know I will. Besides, I have such faith in the play. I know it will be a hit, and if it is, our salaries will go up above the minimum. Randy told me how much I could expect to earn as the lead, if we have a success, and it’s plenty for me to live on.” “But until then,” Peggy said, “you’re going to need more cash. Isn’t there somebody you can go to for help? How about your family?” “Oh, no!” Paula said. “My family ... I haven’t any family. I mean, I’m an orphan. My parents are dead, and I haven’t anyone else. I’ve been supporting myself for a long time, and I’m used to it.” “Well, then,” Peggy said firmly, “I’m going to have to be your family, and you’ll have to accept help from me. I would say that you’ll need about fifty dollars a week to add to what you earn—at least until we get to be a hit, if we do. And since you haven’t anybody else, you’ll have to let me get it for you.” “Oh, no, I can’t let you do that, Peggy!” Paula protested. “I know that you haven’t got that kind of money, and besides, I ... I don’t want any help. I can take care of myself. I want to take care of myself!” Peggy sat down on the edge of the bed and took Paula’s hand. “I can understand the way you feel,” she said, “but that’s a foolish kind of pride. Everybody wants to think they’re taking care of themselves, but really nobody does. Before your parents died, they took care of you. They fed you and clothed you and taught you to walk and talk. If somebody hadn’t taken care of you then, you wouldn’t have lived to want to take care of yourself. As we grow up, we take care of ourselves more and more, but we’re never completely on our own. Everybody needs someone else. That’s what friends are for. And you’ve got to let me be your friend.” Paula’s eyes filled with tears. “I suppose you’re right, Peggy. It is just foolish pride, and you’re so good to talk to me this way and to want to help me. But ... what I said before. I know you can’t afford it!” “Of course I can’t,” Peggy said. “But I’ve got friends—and many of them are your friends, too, and I intend to ask them. I’m going to talk to all the members of the cast who have jobs, and to the girls who live at the Gramercy Arms, and we’ll get up a group to help you out. That way it won’t cost anyone more than three or four dollars a week, which we won’t miss too much.” “Oh, Peggy, that’s so good of you,” Paula said, “but I feel so ashamed to take your money!” “Think how ashamed we’d feel,” Peggy said, “if we weren’t able to help you. And besides, we’re not doing it just for you. We’re doing it for the play. We need you in the play. There’s nobody else who can do the Alison part the way you can ... and even if there were, it would be too late now for a cast substitution. No, it’s your part, and it’s our play, and we have to keep you in good condition to do it. It’s a difficult enough role to play even if you’re well-fed, and I just don’t believe you can do it if you’re half-starved. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it except ‘yes.’” Paula’s smile was stronger now, between spoonfuls of soup. She looked up, her eyes still wet, and softly said, “Yes. Thanks.” “Good. That’s settled,” Peggy said. “Now, would you like some tea and toast? The doctor said not to give you more than this to eat tonight, no matter how hungry you said you felt. No. No butter. He said dry toast, but I suppose you can dunk it in the tea, if you like.” While Paula was eating the last scrap of tea and toast, and protesting that she felt a good deal more like eating a steak, Peggy got some pajamas for her from a bureau drawer, and a robe and some slippers from the closet. Then, since Paula was still weak, she helped her change into them, made up the daybed, and tucked her in bed. “You look a lot better now,” Peggy said. “The best thing for you to do is get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. You’ll find eggs and butter and coffee and orange juice in the kitchen, so you can make breakfast for yourself, but after eating, go back to bed and rest. That’s doctor’s orders. I’ll come up here at noontime, and we can go out for a good lunch together.” Cutting Paula’s thanks short with a wave of her hand, Peggy said a quick good night and left. It was past her bedtime, too. |
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