Lawless (73 page)

Actually, she didn’t mind going alone and causing comment. She knew most people thought she was a prostitute, but she didn’t care a snap about that. Respectability was the last thing professional actors and actresses worried about.

Of course there was some risk when a girl sat down by herself amidst some of the riffraff in playhouse galleries. But so far, by keeping a parasol with a sharp ferrule handy, she’d avoided serious trouble. Her acting ability helped, too. On one occasion when she’d been accosted by a heavy-handed lout, she’d scowled at him and ordered him to leave her alone—threatening a long and loud scream for the police if he didn’t. Her threat had been convincing; he left her alone.

She had to keep her wits about her during those excursions. And she was disgusted and frightened by the expressions of some men who let their eyes rove over her face and her body. But the rewards were more than worth the unpleasantries. Already this year she’d seen Junius B. Booth, Junior’s wife Agnes in
Sardanapulus,
Adelaide Neilson charming the audience in
Twelfth Night,
and the team of Ned Harrigan and Tony Hart displaying their wonderful sense of comedy timing. She’d studied the technique of major performers such as the gorgeous Helana Modjeska and the handsome George Rignold, and even that of the pert little child actress, Bijou Fernandez.

This evening Margaret seemed particularly upset by thoughts of Gideon. She seized Eleanor’s arm.

“You’re positive you don’t plan to see your father?”

“Why would I, Mama? He left us. He hasn’t written, and he’s only come to the house that one time—”

Margaret’s mouth curved in a curious smile. “When you very properly refused to speak with him. You haven’t changed your mind?”

“You just heard me say I hadn’t.”

“Swear it.”

“Mama—”

“Swear it, Eleanor. I insist.”

A pain spread in her midsection as she said, “I swear.” Dear God, what a wretched game. But she knew the alternative—severe agitation on Margaret’s part, even screaming or weeping. Twice through that kind of harrowing experience had taught Eleanor to humor her mother’s demands for promises like the one she’d just extracted.

Margaret’s smile disappeared as she crept to the front door. She peered through one of the narrow windowpanes flanking it, and it nearly broke Eleanor’s heart to hear her say, “Oh, good. They’re not in the Park yet. Perhaps they won’t come tonight. Perhaps they’ll leave me alone, and I can get some sleep.”

Eleanor wanted to cry,
There’s no one there.
She didn’t because she knew Margaret wouldn’t believe her. Would, in fact, turn on her with wild assertions that Eleanor just couldn’t see the men who came back almost every evening as soon as the sun went down.

“Good night, Mama,” Eleanor called as she started toward the kitchen. Margaret didn’t acknowledge her, muttering monosyllables while she continued to peer through the glass.

Eleanor dashed down the back steps and in a moment was on her way to Hutter Hall in the calash. The July evening was hot. The wind quickly dried the tears of frustration that formed in her eyes.

I wish I didn’t worry about Will or feel sorry for Mama. I wish I could just pack a valise and run away from that God-awful place. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it there. Lying to Mama. Not able to do anything to help her, or Will either.

If I stay there, it will be the end of me. I have to get out of that house or I’ll die.

When she reached Hutter Hall, all the members were in confusion, arranging and rearranging chairs and dithering even more than actors usually did.

All but one, that is: Leo Goldman.

Leo was tolerated by the other members of the Booth Association, but none of them really liked him. Most of the boys secretly envied his good looks and voice.

The female guests all chased Leo—with one notable exception. She was the only one in whom he was interested.

“Eleanor, may I speak to you?” He’d intercepted her the moment she walked in, and was keeping pace as she went to hang up her bonnet.

She didn’t know what to make of Leo—or her reactions to him. She liked his cheerful and confident manner. And she positively turned to jelly when he read certain passages of dialogue or dramatic verse in that beautiful baritone. Since that first evening in the cloak room they’d gradually become more friendly. She’d never seen him anywhere except meetings, however, and that was a barrier he was constantly struggling to overcome.

Occasionally she was tempted to help him. But then fear and good sense always intervened—as they did now, behind her tart smile.

“You don’t usually ask permission. Why should this week be any different?”

He took her hand and drew her into the cloak room. Quickly she pulled her hand away, fearful of how she felt. Too warm. Too eager for him to squeeze her fingers between his larger, stronger ones.

Love hurts you. Affection hurts you.
Why was she so often in danger of forgetting that?

She knew. Leo was fearfully handsome, with those coal black eyes and that imp’s grin.

And tonight he was as determined as ever. “How long are you going to hold out on me, Eleanor? By working extra at the Academy, I’ve saved enough to buy two gallery seats at any playhouse in town. When are you going to say yes and let me take you to a show? I’ll go any afternoon you want. Any Saturday—”

She used the first argument that came to mind:

“You keep telling me that, Leo. But Saturday’s your Sabbath.”

“As far as religion goes, my father’s given up on me,” he said with a shrug. “My mother, too. They lost hope when I sneaked out of Hebrew school to sell papers. I’ll never be able to read the Talmud, or keep all the six hundred thirteen commandments a pious man like my father tries to store in his head or, worse, observe. Why, if Hester Street went up in flames tonight, I’m afraid my father would first concern himself with the Orthodox way to fight fires—if there is any—and only think of the family later. Don’t worry about my Sabbath. I figured out a long time ago that I couldn’t be an actor if I began by asking to miss Saturday matinees. If I’m to be a good actor, I’ll have to be a bad Jew for a while and hope I’ll be forgiven.”

He glanced quickly at the ceiling, miming supplication with clasped hands. Eleanor laughed.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to think of you—”

“Think that I have all this money for tickets and carfare, and that I’ll perish of misery if you don’t say yes and go to the theater.”

“You won’t perish.” She tried another excuse. “Besides, I don’t think my mother would allow it.”

“Pshaw, Eleanor. You tell everybody around here that you do as you please.”

Her cheeks pinked; she’d been caught.

He stepped closer, his forearm accidentally brushing the tip of her breast as she turned away. The sensation melted her for a moment, then terrified her. In a sympathetic voice, Leo said, “I can guess one thing that might be worrying you. If you let me take you out, I promise I’ll be polite. I know you don’t like boys to touch you.”

The startling statement made her whirl back to him.

“How do you know that?”.

Her voice was so loud, one of the members passing the cloak room paused to glance in. Leo scowled at him and he went on.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad. But I’ve seen how you react when you’re performing a scene and the script says you’re supposed to touch a boy, or let him touch you. You hesitate for a minute before you go ahead. Maybe none of the rest of them notice, but I do.”

He grinned to relieve her embarrassment. “That’s because I watch you twice as hard as anyone else. Let me take you to a matinee and I promise you won’t have to worry about me getting fresh.”

Again he stepped close. “You just
have
to say yes, Eleanor. I can’t eat anymore, I can’t sleep. I’m about to lose my job because of you—”

“Oh, Leo, no—”

“It’s true. I can’t keep the Academy’s lobby swept or the refreshment booth spicked up because I’m so busy wondering when you’ll give in.”

“You mean if.”

“When. I know you want me to take you out.”

“Oh, you do? Of all the conceited, big-headed—”

“Now, now,” he interrupted. “You know it’s true.” He looked straight into her dark eyes. “I see it and you can’t hide it no matter how hard you try. So you might as well quit resisting me, and name the date. I’ve told you before, Miss Kent—Leo Goldman of Hester Street didn’t come to America to wallow around being a failure. I intend to get everything I want. A famous name in the theater. Lots of money. And you.”

He was still smiling in a mischievous way. But those dark eyes bored into her, seeing emotions she wanted to conceal.

Everything he said about her feelings was true! She wanted to say yes to him—

Suddenly cold, sharp images came stabbing into her mind.

Images of the ruined birthday.

Of the Christmas Eve when she’d peered through the steamy window on the Yorkville veranda.

Of the night she’d broken the Rogers group, and crouched on the stairway afterward.

“Well, Leo”—her face took on a stiff look that marred her beauty—“I’m afraid you won’t get everything you want. Not this year. I won’t go to the theater with you.”

“That’s crazy. I can tell you like me.”

Exactly why I have to refuse you.

“Damn it, Eleanor, you’ve got to give me a better explanation than—”

“Say, what
is
this, a private rehearsal?” Quite unnoticed, Charlie Whittaker had poked his head into the cloak room.

For the first time, Eleanor heard a hubbub in the hall. She was furious when Charlie raked her up and down, hunting for signs of mussed clothing. Then, with an annoyed look at Leo, he went on. “If you can tear yourselves away from whatever intimate little things you’re
doing,
our guest has arrived—my God, Goldman, what’s the matter?”

Eleanor was afraid poor, soft Charlie was about to be felled by one of Leo’s fists. But Leo kept his hands at his sides—for the moment, anyway—and shoved his face close to the other boy’s.

“Get this straight. If you ever say another word to suggest Eleanor isn’t a lady—or that she’d permit herself to behave in an unladylike way—I’ll knock you from here to the East River.” Giving Charlie a push, he stalked out.

Charlie pursed his lips. Planted his fists on his hips. “Ooo, that arrogant little
sheeny.
I rue the
day
he browbeat his way into this organization.”

But he didn’t say it loudly.

C
HARLIE WHITTAKER TOOK
the platform to introduce the visitor. He hooked his thumbs under the lapels of his frock coat and drummed his fingers on the outside as he spoke. Eleanor sat in the third row. Leo was in the row ahead, on the extreme right. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced beneath his chin. He was scowling.

The incident in the cloak room had unsettled Eleanor. She did like Leo, but she knew that if she admitted it, she was courting disaster. She was in such a state, she barely heard the first part of the introduction.

A freckled Irish boy named Shad Conway was seated next to her. When he let out a barely audible groan, she realized Charlie was still droning on.

“—and so we are indeed fortunate to have with us the proprietor and featured player of Bascom’s Original Ideal Uncle Tom Combination.”

Shoot, Eleanor thought as she took her first good look at the man Charlie was introducing. She might as well have stayed home. The visitor wasn’t anyone famous, just a Tommer.

Still, she was curious as to why any professional, even a lowly Tom show actor, would seek out a group of young amateurs.

Charlie shot his hands high above his head. “—an actor who has traveled the length and breadth of the American continent in pursuit of his art, and now graces our humble stage with his august presence.”

On Eleanor’s left, the Conway boy whispered, “Jaysus, Charlie, calm down. It isn’t the Second Coming.”

Eleanor giggled behind her hand. A year ago, such a remark would have stunned her speechless. Now she took it entirely in stride; one of the first discoveries she’d made at the Association was that very few things were sacred to actors.

“And so, devoted fellow worshipers of Thespis, it is my high privilege and signal honor to present the celebrated and distinguished actor-manager, Mr. Jefferson—J.—
Bascom!”

The membership of the Booth Association and a half dozen female guests stood and applauded. Leo’s clapping was perfunctory. As everyone sat down, he shot a wounded look at Eleanor. His mouth set as if to say he’d overcome her resistance yet.

The visitor took the platform. Eleanor gave the actor close scrutiny. Mr. Jefferson Bascom had a hooked nose, a large mustache, and wrinkled skin. He wasn’t unhandsome, but his best years were behind him. He was sixty if he was a day.

She took note of the lack of any gray in his shoulder-length black hair. A wig, she decided. That was a clue to his character. She could think of several vain members of the Association who were always primping or displaying themselves in faddish clothes. Were all actors obsessed by their own images, like that man in the legend, Narcissus? She didn’t think Leo was. He just knew what the Almighty had given him, and was determined to use it to advantage.

Shad Conway leaned close and touched her arm. She went rigid. Shad whispered, “Want to bet Jefferson J. Bascom’s a false name? Little too close to Joe Jefferson to be anything else.”

She nodded and edged sideways on her chair, away from Shad, while Mr. Bascom focused attention on himself by glancing from face to face. His gaze lingered on Eleanor’s a bit longer than necessary. She was thankful the shoulders of two members in the row ahead blocked Bascom’s line of sight when he tried to peer at the curve of her full bosom.

The actor spoke in what she had to admit was a mellifluous voice—almost as rich as Leo’s. “My young friends, thank you indeed for allowing me to visit your meeting. I am humbly grateful for that most flattering introduction by Mr.—ah—”