Reign (4 page)

Cissy
cast a dry look at Robin. "And Dennis has put up with this guy for twenty years?"

Steinberg leaned forward and kissed
Cissy
on the cheek. "He pays for my economic savvy, dear, not my spiritual philosophies."

"Thank God," said Robin.

Any further conversation was halted by the little black girl who pushed herself between Steinberg and Robin. "Hello, Aunt Robin. Hi, Uncle John." She looked up at them with bright eyes. Her hair was corn-rowed to perfection, and she wore a spotless yellow dress with red stitching.

"Hey, sweet pea," Steinberg said, hoisting her aloft. "My God, Whitney, you're getting heavier every day. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I was, but I wanted to come to the party so much that Sid brought me down. Just for a while, he said. I haven't seen Grandma yet." The girl looked around cautiously. "Is she here?"

"She's somewhere," Robin said. "And you'd better hope you spot her first, young lady."

Cissy
cleared her throat. "I don't think we've been introduced, John."

"Sorry.
Cissy
, this is Whitney Johnson,
Marvella's
granddaughter, and Whitney —"

"I
know
who
you
are," the girl interrupted. "You're Mona, and you're on
Mona and Me
. I watch it every week. My grandma made costumes for you once, didn't she?"

Cissy
laughed, and shook the girl's hand. "She sure did. A long time ago. But Mona is just a character I play. My real name's
Cissy
."

Whitney nodded sagely. "I knew that, but I forgot. It says it at the start of the show. In the
credits
." She seemed proud to know the term.

"So are you visiting with your grandma down here?"

"I'm living with her for a while. My mom and dad are breaking up."

"Well now," Steinberg said gently, "you don't know that for sure. They might get back together."

"Grandma says fat chance." The girl gave an exaggerated sigh. "Grandma's nearly always right."

"What are you doing up?" came a voice from behind Steinberg. They all turned to see
Marvella
Johnson, all one hundred and sixty pounds of her, glowering in pretended ferocity at her granddaughter. "Didn't I say no party?"

"Sid brought me down," said Whitney, still in Steinberg's arms.

"Maybe I'll have to
whup
Sid and you both then."

The girl smiled. "You won't
whup
me, Grandma."

Marvella's
huge chuckle sounded like tin cans rattling in a silo. "No, I guess I won't.
C'mere
, you stinker." She took the girl easily from Steinberg's arms and hugged her. "All right, a half hour. And at eleven o'clock I take your little bones back upstairs." She stifled a yawn. "And maybe I'll go with you. I'm not used to these late nights."

"You still a morning person,
Marvella
?"
Cissy
asked. "God, I remember those eight o'clock costume calls. I honestly believe you meant to kill us."

"Lazy show people."
Marvella
shook her massive head. "Get them up before noon and they're nothing but a pain in the . . .” She glanced at her granddaughter. “. . . in the posterior." She gave the little girl a squeeze. "Come on, honey, let's meet some more stars, what do you say? Excuse us?" She sashayed off into the crowd, bearing her granddaughter in one arm as lightly as a purse.

"She's part of your entourage too?"
Cissy
asked Robin.

"
Mmm
-hmm. Sort of a permanent wardrobe mistress."

"I thought she retired."

"She did," Steinberg said, "but when Dennis came up with this whole idea and asked her to work with us, she jumped at the chance. Her husband died last year, and I think she realized she would have been bored out of her skull just sitting around the city."

"And she's living here
too
?"

Robin nodded. "On the fourth floor. We wanted her on the third with the rest of us, but she wanted to be right next to the wardrobe room. Pretty lonely up there, though."

"Oh, she's not all alone," Steinberg said. "She does have Whitney."

"Just until Janice — that's
Marvella's
daughter — can find a place of her own," said Robin.

"And of course there's always Kitty," Steinberg said dryly.

“Kitty?”

"Our resident pussycat. Or the little bitch, as I like to call her, although her name's Cristina."

"A theatre cat?"
Cissy
said. "Oh, that's cute."

"You haven't seen her," said Robin. "She likes Abe
Kipp
, the head custodian, and that's about it. She tolerates me and absolutely hates Dennis."

"The poor man tried to pet her the first time he saw her," Steinberg said. "Bit him right to the bone."

Cissy
gave a little snort. "Well, now that I know who all is down here, my next question is what do you
do
all day. Watch Kirkland Springs flow to the sea?"

"Kirkland Springs," Steinberg said, "dried up back in the late thirties, along with David Kirk's fortune, right around the time the FDA started getting serious about the patent medicine business. But there's plenty to do nevertheless. This was, after all, a community building. In the basement, we have a lovely pool, a small gymnasium —"

"Don't tell me, John,"
Cissy
said. "
Show
me. If you want my investment, I have to observe the kind of lifestyle that I'll be supporting."

Robin bristled. "The backers will be supporting production costs alone,
Cissy
, that's all. Dennis bought this building, and he'll donate the space.
And
his own time." She smiled. "That said, I'd be glad to show you our underground pleasure palace. Shall we?"

"Why not?" said
Cissy
, mildly drunk. "But could the toady here get me another drink first?"

"The toady," Steinberg said, bowing, "would be honored. Would your highness prefer the usual Ripple on the rocks?"

~ * ~

Dennis Hamilton was bored. He had lost count of how many times he had discussed acting styles with Sybil Creed, but knew that the number guaranteed that neither one of them would at this point proselytize the other. Still, he nodded politely at her as they stood together on the mezzanine lobby, looking down through the marble arches at the guests below. He let her words bounce off him, and concentrated instead on the vista behind her.

The paintings and bas-reliefs clinging to the canvas of the lobby's curved and segmented ceiling were a hodge-podge of mythological and historical themes. Here a Babylonian war chariot raced toward a covey of cherubim, their piggish little mouths open in some hymn to . . . was it Apollo floating there?
Yes
, Dennis thought.
It must be — there was the lyre
. . .

“. . . liar, that's all you are, all anyone is who thinks that way."

He drew his attention back to the gray-haired woman whose black, shining dress seemed to be sprayed on her whip-thin body. "I'm sorry, Sybil? Think what way?"

"There! Concentration! Or the lack of it — that's the problem with all of you technical actors. Staring at the goddamned ceiling when you should be listening and
martialing
your resources."

"But it's a beautiful ceiling."

"Oh God, Dennis, how like you. It's the coward's way out, changing the subject like that."

"Now I'm a coward instead of a liar?"

"You've been both in your performances throughout your whole life."

"The critics seem to have liked my performances. And I won't mention the public."

"Why not?" Sybil said. "They're one and the same, aren't they? Both easily fooled. But not me, Dennis. You have
always
been an
outward
actor, never inward. And it is only the inward actor, the one who creates his performance from within, who gives a
true
performance."

"Using your own past experiences isn't
creating
, Sybil, it's
interpreting
. To me, real creativity is forming a character out of whole cloth." He shrugged. "And anyway, it doesn't matter whether a performance is
true
or not, as you put it. What matters is the impact it has on the audience."

"That's fraudulent."

"It's
not
fraudulent. You're an elitist, Sybil — you think that the only valid style of acting is when you use your own memories and responses. But how can you call any actor who touches an audience — who makes them laugh or cry or just, for Christ's sake,
feel
— fraudulent?"

"What else can you call someone who wears a mask? Honest?"

"What do you mean, a mask? That's a
character
, Sybil. The character takes over. That's where the
creative
act comes in."

"But in letting the character take over, you deny the reality of yourself.”

“Oh Christ . . .”

"Are you denying that, Dennis? You've done it all your life, you know, protected yourself from the
truth
about yourself. You're the most consistent mask-wearer I know."

"And what
is
the truth about myself, Sybil?"

"I don't know. Because you're so damned good at protecting it."

"Bullshit."

"Why are you so afraid to allow your real emotions to show through —
your
emotions, not the emotions of a character?"

"Sybil, you've baited me like this ever since I walked out of your acting class twenty years ago because I didn't want to be a tree."

Sybil's nostrils flared, and her mouth became a thin line as she bit off each word. "You would have learned a hell of a lot about acting from trying to be a tree, to use what was inside you to do it —"

"And blow in the wind like the rest of those pretentious little twits? '
Oooh
, I feel the birds nesting in my branches . . .' Wonderful," he finished dryly.

"Jesus, what's this?" said Sidney Harper, coming up to the squabbling pair and placing a hand on Dennis's shoulder. "Our traditional battle royal?"

"Oh, go to hell, Sid," Dennis snapped, then grinned at the man.

"There," Sybil said. The words spilled out, not giving Dennis a chance to interrupt. "There you are, that's precisely what I mean, that grin. You really are angry at Sid. You really mean to tell him to go to hell, and you do, but then you cover up your anger with a false smile."

"It's a real smile," Dennis said, putting his arm around Sid. "I love Sid.”

“
Yassah
," Sid said, nodding crookedly. "
Massah
Dennis love this
po
' ol' white boy,
cuz
Sid, he
wuk
so hand
fo
'
Massah
Dennis."

"Can the crap, Sid." Sybil lit a cigarette, and blew a shaft of smoke in Sid's direction. "You're just as bad as Dennis. You hide what you feel with bullshit. But you were never as good at bullshitting as Dennis, and that's why you got out of acting."

"
Whoo
." Sid shook his head. "Isn't it awfully early in the evening to get so viperous, Sybil?"

"Excuse me," Dennis said, still smiling, "but this conversation's made me dry as hell. I need another drink." He walked away, toward the bar.

~ * ~

Sid set his drink on the wide balcony rail and crossed his well-muscled arms. He had to look up at Sybil, but the disparity in height didn't bother him. Sid could hold his own. "Why do you do that, Sybil?" he asked with a sigh.

"Do what?"

"You know — try and bust his hump like that."

"I couldn't have a few years ago. He would have argued with me for hours, or, more likely, called me a silly bitch. What's wrong with him?"

"Wrong?"

"He's not the same man, Sid. There's a weakness in him. He was always so
imperial
before, you couldn't tell the difference between him and the Emperor. But now . . ." She trailed off with a shrug.

"Yeah, he's changed, but I don't necessarily think it's for the worst," Sid said, leaning on the railing. "I like to think he's just mellowing. Easing out. The show's had a lot to do with it. I think he's been bored the last few years."

"His performances would indicate that."

"Come on, Sybil —"

"You know I'm right, Sid. Most people didn't notice it. The great unwashed who make up his audience, and of course the critics. But there's been a flatness to it.”

“Except . . ." Sid paused.

"What?"

"Well, basically I think you're right. And I think that Dennis realizes it too. But I saw almost every damn performance, and every once in a while, in the past year or so, he gave one that was just electric. A real killer, better than I'd ever seen him, even when it was all fresh and new in the sixties. And afterwards he would be just drained, totally exhausted." Sid's face grew thoughtful. "Sometimes he said . . ."